Page 10 of New Year's Faye

I groaned, slapping the icepack back on my bump. “And just before the tour too.”

Sam snorted. “As if that’s your main concern.”

Damn him, he knew exactly what worried me—the paparazzi.

News of our whirlwind marriage had spread like wildfire. My phone vibrated every 0.2 seconds with some new notification, no doubt most of them coming from my parents demanding to know what the fuck had happened.

You tell me.

It seemed drunk Faye and drunk Sam had decided that getting married at 4am on New Year’s Day was a great idea.

I’ll note that I was apparently drunk enough to get married, but sober enough to remember to wear my silk bonnet to bed.

Priorities, am I right?

I glanced back at Sam, taking in his profile as he resumed scrolling through his phone, assessing the damage.

He still wore his black dress pants and crisp white shirt from the night before—sans jacket and bow tie and plus a shit-ton of wrinkles. He’d tossed a leather jacket over his ensemble as I’d been hustled into an ambulance by some friendly but starstruck paramedics.

I guess it wasn’t every day they were called to the room of a rockstar to deal with the head injury of his PR manager.

And, apparently, wife.

I gulped.

“Oh look, we’ve made the Chars Times,” Sam chuckled. “Damn. That’s a good picture.”

He held up the phone for my perusal and—sure enough—there we stood in technicoloured fabulousness.

Someone must have snapped the photo at last night’s New Year’s Eve gig. I wore the gorgeous floor length red gown that hugged every one of my curves. The shade of the dress, coupled with a light touch of shimmering blush, had made my dark brown skin glow. Whoever sad dark red and melanin didn’t go together was obviously tripping. Sam looked quite dapper in his black tuxedo, complete with a jaunty bow tie. The picture had to have been taken sometime before midnight as we’d partied,prior to ringing in the new year with the epic gig we’d worked all year to secure.

The words began to swirl on the screen. Swallowing against a sudden bout of nausea, I handed him back his cell. “Read it to me.”

“Samuel Dogg, twenty-eight and lead guitarist of The Wild Ones,”he glanced up and pointed to himself. “That’s me.”

I suppressed a smile. “Noted.”

“Has rung in the new year in surprising fashion. Sources from the Little Chapel in Chars have confirmed that the superstar has married hometown friend and the band’s publicist, Faye Moyo.” He pointed at me. “That’s you.”

A grin tugged at my lips. “I had no idea.”

“Moyo, twenty-seven, has been with the band for five years following her graduation from Ravenburn College with a degree in Marketing and Public Relations.” Sam cocked one eyebrow. “Has it really been five years?”

“If they printed it in the paper, it must be true.”

“It is the first marriage for both Dogg and Moyo, who share a close working relationship.” He frowned. “Itisyour first marriage, right?”

“As far as I’m aware. Though apparently drunk Faye has a kink for wedding rings.”

My eyes dropped to the evidence—a pair of matching wedding bands glinting on our fingers. Mine was a thinner, more delicate ring, a slim band with a twisted design, like two vines intertwined with tiny sapphires and diamonds. The metal shimmered faintly, catching the light in unexpected ways. It was beautiful and unconventional, but tough enough for a girl who spent most of her days on the road with a rock band.

Sam held up his hand, angling his ring under the light, a hint of a grin tugging at his lips His was a thick band of brushedsilver, understated but rugged, with a subtle edge that suited him perfectly.

“Looks like you’ve got good taste, Mrs. Dogg,” he teased, the title sending a tiny thrill down my spine.

I shoved the feeling aside, hiding my uneasy behind my glare. “Don’t push it.”

He returned to the article. “Dogg said of Moyo in a recent interview with Vanity Fair, ‘Faye is the glue that keeps this band together. She’s more than a publicist—though her marketing genius is unparalleled. She’s as much a member of the band as I am.’” He glanced up. “I stand by that.”

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