a finger on my lips. “Don’t say that until you see it. I had it personalized.”
I grinned. “Oh yeah? What does it say? Nixon? Sex God? Yes, oh yes, please, yes?”
“Not exactly.” She arched an eyebrow, and I waited. “It says, ‘Zoe’s.’”
My mouth dropped for a second, and she laughed.
“Just kidding,” she rushed. “I got you two. That one was the joke.”
“Until I wear it in Houston and you’re the one answering the questions,” I teased, meaning every single word. I lifted her by her ass, and she locked her ankles around my waist, Grinch sweater and all. “What does the other one say?”
She set her lips to my neck, and my grip tightened. “‘Still Zoe’s.’”
We didn’t make it to the bedroom.
15
ZOE
I was blissfully, madly, totally in love with Nixon. Every day, it got just a little harder to keep it in, but I wasn’t about to scare him off when he’d come so far. He challenged me every day, worshipped my body every night, then wrote music in the mornings while I worked.
It was the kind of perfect we knew couldn’t last—hiding away in our little slice of heaven—but we held onto it with our fingernails. Nixon had paid millions to keep it—to give me equal footing in this one space we both owned. But even this house couldn’t prevent the calendar from turning, and February came, no matter how hard we both tried to hold it at bay.
He wore the “Zoe’s” guitar strap I’d bought him as a joke instead of the real “Nixon” one that had been his actual present for the Houston concert a few hours ago, and according to the thirty-seven emails in my inbox, the world had noticed. But hey, he was asleep at my side without a welt. Deliciously naked and weltless.
We probably should have let the post-show buzz run through him, but he’d given me that look the second we walked through the door, and I’d jumped him.
Five shows. Six months. He was still sober.
My job was at its contractual end, and we were headed into uncharted territory.
At least, we would be next week when we headed back to Seattle. I couldn’t do my job from here—not to begin with. Plus, the band had a few studio days set aside now that Nixon had handed in three songs for the upcoming album. “Worry and Ruin” was my favorite of the three, followed by “Palm of my Hand.” “Blue Castles” was right up there, though. I loved everything he wrote.
I pulled the sheets up over my breasts and flipped to the next email, then replied with the line we’d agreed to use. Our relationship is private and therefore will not be commented upon. I hadn’t even wanted to go that far, but Nixon had turned that smirk on me and asked if I was embarrassed to publicly admit we were in a relationship. So there, another statement fired off to another person who had zero business asking.
On to the next email. It was an event request for July. I wouldn’t be on the Hush Note team when we got back to Seattle, but that didn’t stop me from glancing ahead at the band’s calendar. They’d be in the middle of the tour but might be able to swing it.
Where would I be in July? I flipped back to my personal calendar and scrolled to summer. I’d no doubt be fighting to split my time between the office in Seattle and wherever I could meet up with Nixon. There was zero chance I’d be able to go three months without seeing him.
I grinned at the little tabbed reminder that popped up on July 12. Nixon: One year sober. I’d definitely have to fly to wherever he was on that day.
Nixon roared, jolting upright, his chest heaving as he fought to catch his breath.
I gasped and my phone hit the bed, throwing us back into darkness. By the time I hit the bedside lamp, Nixon was out of bed and shoving his legs into a pair of shorts.
My heart thundered. This wasn’t the first time, but it had been a few weeks.
Something told me the further we got into spring, the more often they’d come. The closer he’d get to reaching for a sleep-aid that wasn’t my body.
“Nix?”
“I’m okay. Go back to sleep, babe.” He walked out of the bedroom without another glance my way.
I sighed, then slipped a robe on and headed downstairs for what had become a little too routine. He already had