“We’ll never be apart again,” I promise, capturing her chin in my palm and making a mental note never to let go.

  We kiss some more, the PDA totally out of character for me, and yet, I don’t give a shit. She loves me. She’s going to work on us. We are going to be together.

  “I think someone is taking a picture,” she murmurs against my lips, and I subtly turn my head.

  “Let them. I want the world to know that I found you.”

  Because I’ve been looking for so damn long. And finally, that peace I’ve always been hustling to achieve settles into my bones.

  35

  DANE

  We’re lying in bed, my finger lazily tracing circles around Margot’s nipple, when her phone vibrates on the nightstand.

  It’s been five days since I found her in the spot she told me was her thinking place, and like I promised, we haven’t been apart since. In fact, we’ve barely left my hotel room. If I’d known makeup sex was going to be like this, maybe I would have epically fucked up sooner.

  Just kidding … sort of. Margot has been on my cock in so many positions these past couple of days, it’s a miracle neither of us has gotten injured.

  But aside from all the physical exertion, we’ve just lied here and talked. About everything. Her work and the unhappiness she’s felt since she got back to New York. The semi-threat Petra hit her with. Our future, whether we could split our living time between Texas and the city. Where she wants to travel. How many babies we want. Two, according to both of us.

  I’ve already raised a whole human, but that was by myself. While I’ve loved every minute of watching Shiloh grow, it would be incredible to do it alongside a woman I love. Imagining the process of getting Margot pregnant has me hard in two seconds flat.

  “The article is out.” She interrupts my thoughts, thrusting her phone in my face.

  The exposé, as I like to tease Margot when we talk about the piece, is out in the fall issue but online a few days earlier than print. The pictures of me that were taken at the photo studio inside the Dash Mod offices are front and center at the top of the page.

  “You look so hot,” she murmurs, and I squeeze her hip.

  “Who needs that guy when you get this one?” I point to my naked chest cockily.

  “It’s true. People have no idea how surly this one can be, but I want that all to myself.” She bends and bites gently at my nipple, which makes me hiss.

  “Focus. I want to read this.” I swat at her.

  “No you don’t.” Margot seems to hide her face behind her hands.

  “Hey, yes, I do. All right, I’m kind of scared, but I know you. You wrote an amazing piece. Even if it will probably make me cringe, but that’s my problem.”

  “Because you don’t want people to know how nice of a human being you are?” she jokes.

  “Precisely.” I flash her an evil grin.

  Taking Margot’s phone, I prop myself against the pillows and begin to read.

  When you first enter the massive Texas compound Dane—no last name needed because we all know who he is—bought and redeveloped years ago, be careful you don’t come across him unannounced. Because in the experience of this writer, you’ll be met with a scowl so lethal, it’s worse than any weapon.

  “You didn’t.”

  She shrugs, her hair falling over her bare breasts. “I had to tell the truth, didn’t I?”

  We read it together, her lounging in my arms. I’m enraptured, digesting every word, while I feel a restlessness coming from the woman snuggled close to me.

  The article is very music heavy, going into my process and the way I flesh out lyrics. It’s clear that Margot observed me much closer than I thought she was at the moment. Her descriptions of equipment, sound, and pace are expert level, and I marvel at how she understands the way I make songs maybe even better than I do.

  The paragraphs that mention the open mics back in my early days, Shiloh, and my decision to walk away from publicity and fame are tasteful and explain my side of things while not giving away too much. Brady’s sexuality and the story about Vincent aren’t mentioned anywhere, and it’s not surprising, in the least, that Margot kept her promise.

  When I get to the part about Jessica, I hold my breath. This is the entire reason we agreed to do the article in the first place, and I hope it raises awareness. Honestly, I hope it brings more donations to Full Hands than it does people digging around in my personal life, but that’s a lofty goal.

  One of the longest-running rumors about Dane is that of the mother of his child. The gossip surrounding her ranges from the worst assumptions about him to the most devastating assumptions about her. In fact, the real answer is somewhere in the middle, and out of respect for her, it shouldn’t even be speculated on. What can be said is that she gave life to one of the sweetest, wisest, most beautiful souls. And that she suffered from a very common but often non-verbalized mental illness, postpartum depression. Years ago, Dane started anonymously contributing to Full Hands, a nonprofit run by none other than Sophie Truin.

  Margot goes on to write about the debilitating side-effects of postpartum, nowhere in there mentioning Jessica’s whereabouts or recovery, which I’m thankful for. She included all the services available under Full Hands and talks about the wonderful gala we both attended and how dedicated all the staff at the nonprofit and its patrons are to helping women suffering through postpartum.

  Nowhere in there does she mention the fight we had where I backed her into an alleyway and told her that I loved her. But I have fond memories.

  The three-page article is detailed, personal, and does make my skin itch with tightness at how intrusive it is at times. But it’s still respectful of my privacy, and of course, Margot knew the perfect balance. I’m nearing the end and my jaw flexes with emotion.

  Dane and I are both writers. We express our pain and our every thought using the English language. Of course, I know him; I am him. We operate in the same way. His lyrics touch your soul, and for some of us, weave the very fabric of our teenage years. But the man is more than the myth, and he’s more than the folklore spread about him.

  Underneath the gossip and rumors, Dane is a father who loves his daughter. He’s a friend who is fiercely loyal to those who pay him the same loyalty. And he’s an artist, driven by his craft, not because of the fame or money, but because if he didn’t write his songs, then he wouldn’t be living into who he truly is.

  The stoic, mysterious figure we’ve always theorized about is both as complex as we thought and simpler than we assumed. At his core, Dane is just like the rest of us, trying to do better, reach for more, and find love as fierce as he loves.

  I take a beat after reading the last sentence, letting it all digest.

  “Margot, that was …”

  She ducks her chin to her chest in a timid fashion. “Was it okay? Not too invasive? I tried to—”

  “It was perfect.” I take her lips, kissing her fiercely before breaking off just as suddenly. “I trusted you, maybe not the whole time, but I knew after a certain point of spending time together that you wouldn’t steer me wrong. And you didn’t. It was perfect.”

  A whoosh of air leaves her lungs. “Oh, thank God. I was preparing for a fight.”

  My hands run up and down her arms. “You’ll get none from me. Am I freaked out that the whole world knows I secretly love to watch Gilmore Girls with my daughter? Maybe a little. But this feels like another lock being pulled free from where it embedded in my heart.”

  “You said it in your song, not me.” She winks.

  At the exact same time, our phones begin to ding and vibrate with notifications.

  “Uh-oh.” She grimaces. “You may have loved it, but I still need to see what the Internet thinks.”

  “Fuck what they think,” I answer automatically.

  Margot rubs against me like a cat. “Oh, how you’ve influenced me.”

  I nearly flip her onto her back to show her how much I appreciate the care she took with the article when my phone starts blowing up again.

  Checking it, my heart begins to race.

  “There’s more.” I hold the phone out to her so she can read the text from Brady.

  Brady: There are paparazzi photos online of you and Margot in the park. Kissing. Get ready for the media shitstorm.

  “So it begins.” Margot eyes me like I might be on the brink of a freak-out.

  I palm her cheek. “I’m good. Let the shitstorm come. I got you. The rest is for the fucking birds.”

  “So eloquent.” She chuckles, nuzzling my neck. “But I love you, too.”

  That’s damn poetic every time I hear it. I may need her to say it into a mic, remix it, and put it on a track.

  She and I deserve to be immortalized in the universe; that’s how epic our love story is going to be.

  36

  MARGOT

  My belly dips as the plane tilts, Dane’s pilot descending to a lower altitude.

  “We’ll be there in about half an hour. You doing okay?”

  His large hand squeezes mine, and I watch the veins on his skin contract. Why the hell is it so sexy that he has hand veins? I don’t know, but it is, and you’d think my libido had been buried with all the sex we’ve been having.

  But nope. One look at Dane, and I’m ready to join the mile high club. Which, to be clear, we did last month, and it was fantastic.

  “I’m good. Restless, but I always get like that on planes.”

  “Are you excited to come home?” He kisses the back of my hand, lifting our conjoined extremities.

  “Home.” I grin, warmth flooding my chest and belly.

  “Well, at least for the time being.”

  It’s been a month and a half since the article came out to rave reviews. Fans of Dane’s were ecstatic to get an inside look, the music industry was happy about how much coverage the country genre was getting, and Full Hands has gotten a record number of donations in the time since. Of course, Dane is getting interview requests from all over now, and even though I told him and Brady he should politely decline, they just ignore them. Not my brand of public relations, but hey, I guess it’s worked for them for years.

  The buzz is also contributing to the hype for his upcoming album, the one he wrote every single song for while I was living on the compound and never told me about it. I’ve already forced him, perhaps by way of withholding sexual favors, to let me listen to a few tracks, and it’s some of his best work.

  “We’ll figure it out. I mean, it’s not like we won’t be back in New York for Thanksgiving in a few weeks.”

  We all agreed to spend the holiday at my mom’s apartment, Shiloh included. Dane thought she might want to come home to Texas for a week or so, but she’s thriving so beautifully in New York, and I want our entire crew to be together, so …

  I’m spending Thanksgiving with my boyfriend, his daughter, and my mom. What a weird turn of events, but I’m so blissfully happy that I kind of can’t care.

  “And then where to?” he asks, reaching for his venti Starbucks coffee and taking a sip.

  I shrug my shoulders. “Is it so cliché if I say wherever we want?” My heart bounces giddily in my chest.

  “I like the ‘fuck it’ attitude I’ve rubbed off on you,” he murmurs, licking his lips.

  With my future somewhat in my hands, we have some big decisions to make. If you told me three years ago that I’d lose my dad, meet my music idol, fall in love with him, be at a crossroads with my job, and not want to make New York City my home ...

  I would have told you all of that was insane. But it’s my current reality, and nothing has ever felt more normal.

  The magazine kept me on, probably in the hopes that I’ll write a follow-up to my ridiculously well-received article. Actually, there is no probably about that; Petra all but admitted that they want me to write another multi-page spread about how Dane and I fell for each other.

  Maybe I will, and maybe I won’t. At least if I do it for Dash Mod, we get to share our narrative without anyone tainting it. Already, there are articles out there digging into my past, calling me a gold digger, and assuming all kinds of awful shit about our relationship.

  “I think I might need some more of that ‘who gives a crap’ when these outlets start printing up shit on me,” I grumble.

  I know how media works. I know what clickbait is and the strategies employed to make money or get noticed. But it still stings like a bitch when they’re doing it to you.

  “It’s going to get worse before it gets better, I won’t lie. You just gotta look at me, baby. Everything between us is real, it’s true, and none of that shit out there is facts. Just remember that.”

  It’s going to be easier said than done, but it’s a good thing my boyfriend owns a huge compound I can lock myself inside when the attention gets to me.

  One good thing the media and internet sleuths have done since my article came out? Started digging into Vincent. There had been a ton of blind items of celebrity gossip to come out since my interview with Dane, all about how the record label mogul treated his employees and artists alike. One journalist even compiled a list of top artists who had left Victory Records in the last five years, and the number was shocking. Whispers and rumors were all over the place, and it wouldn’t be long, if I had to guess, until someone figured out the truth.

  Considering the NDA he signed and the need to keep his life private, I doubted Dane wanted to spearhead the public takedown of Vincent. But with some carefully placed lines in my article, I don’t think he’d have to. The internet, and then hopefully law enforcement, would do it for us.

  While I won’t be doing more celebrity feature articles for Dash Mod, considering what happened with Dane and me, Petra is keeping me on, transferring me to the travel section. Honestly, it’s a change I welcome. I’m so uncertain of where I want to settle, and since Dane is on board with exploring all options together, the new role at Dash Mod will be a fun challenge.

  Travel journalism definitely won’t be boring. I’m also thinking about pitching a few music articles too, since Dane’s focus aside from his album is finding the best talent for his label. I’m thinking about a feature section for up-and-coming artists, though I’ll have to sell my new editor on it.

  And since my new job isn’t tied to the Manhattan office, I’m being given the flexibility to work from home, which I’m extending to Dane’s home in Texas. It’s giving us the ability to spend more time together, to reside in both places we love, and he’s happy to have an excuse to make Shiloh grab lunch whenever he’s staying with me in the city.

  Not that we don’t see her often. For the past two months, either separately or together, one of us has seen Shiloh every week. She’s kicking ass at Bethson and has been sending me some pieces she’s trying to pitch to the Bethson Press.

  “I’m not running, I’m not scared. If that’s what you were thinking.” I mean every word.

  Never in my life have I been more sure and solid about something than I am about how much I love this man.

  “We already did that bullshit, let’s not repeat it. Isn’t this the happy part? You’ll have to teach me how to do it, because you’ve gotta know that doesn’t come naturally to someone like me.”

  I snort. “What makes you think I know either? I’m still failing half the time. We can learn together.”

  “Oh, priss, I can teach you so many things.”

  There’s my crude, filthy king.

  When he found me in the park, in the spot he remembered was my favorite, I knew. I just knew, in the way that they always tell you it will happen. You know, whoever they are.

  But he sat down beside me on that bench, and I thought to myself, good, I don’t have to wonder or search anymore.

  This broody, growly, intimidating recluse is the love of my life. He’s so far from the man I stared at on posters and in magazines for years, and thank God for that.

  Because only I get to know the true Dane. The world can keep their myths and lore.

  We’ll be in the sunroom, locked up inside the compound, until my urge for adventure pulls him out of the darkness.

  EPILOGUE

  DANE

  Three Years Later

  “If this fucking doctor doesn’t get her ass in here. Does she know who she’s dealing with?”

  Margot chides me as I pace furiously across the room. “Babe, I’m pretty sure she does, and I’m pretty sure she cares more about the human lives she’s trying to bring into the world than your cranky ass. Which, honestly, should make you happy.”

  Glancing over at my wife, who is lying in a reclined position on the sterile table, chocolate-colored hair fanned out around her face, hands rubbing over her swollen belly in affectionate circles, my blood pressure lowers a notch or two.

  “Yeah, I guess that’s fine,” I mutter, still annoyed that we’ve been waiting an hour in this ob-gyn’s office.

  “If I’m not uncomfortable, and believe me, I’m not except for the fact that I have to pee, why do you care?” Her hand, with the massive pearl and diamond ring combo I bought her when I proposed sparkling from her finger, continues its circles over her belly.

  “I don’t like being cooped up. Especially in doctor’s offices.” Something about being contained in this room makes me feel like a rat. “And I want to see our boy.”

  Margot grins. “Me too. Last time he was nearly waving at us from inside my belly. I can’t wait to see if we can get a good 4D picture. Do you think he’ll look like Shiloh? Or maybe my dad?”

  “Or, you know, maybe your husband, but who cares about that?” I smirk. “You know, your dad was a handsome devil. So I’d be okay with that.”