Page 89 of That Reunited Feeling

“I want to meet them the least. You can’t do that. Don’t do that. Please God, don’t do that to me.”

“Because…?”

“Because I wouldn’t know what to say. I’d be a slack-jawed fool. It’d be so embarrassing. Awful. Oh, God, no. No meeting them. I’m sweating just thinking about it. Feel my armpits. No, don’t feel my armpits. That was a ridiculous thing to say. See.I haven’t even met them, and I’m already panicking enough to offer my armpits for a grope.”

Cute. And hilarious.

My body shakes with laughter as I press a kiss to her overheated forehead. “They’re actually super easy to talk to. But okay. You don’t have to meet anyone you don’t want to.”

Hermann stops the car. “There you go, folks. Amazing lineup. Have a great night.”

“Thanks, Herm. I’ll call you when we’re ready for a pickup.”

We climb out of the car, and Hannah heads toward the main entrance where the hundreds of other concertgoers are converging.

“Oh, no.” I grab her around the waist and pull her in the opposite direction. “We don’t go in that way.”

“What? Why?” Oh, the innocence of that baffled face.

“We go in around the side. We have a box. That I made a big contribution for. So we go in this way.”

“A box?”

“Thebestbox.”

She grins and slaps me on the chest again. “This is too much!”

“Have you forgotten who you’re with?” I tug her tight to my side and kiss the top of her head. “You’re with Tom fucking Dashwood. And don’t you forget it.”

“What the hell’s taking so long?” It’s fifteen minutes since the penultimate band left the stage. Four Thousand Medicines should be up there by now. There’s only so long the spinning spotlights and piped medley of the greatest hits of tonight’s artists can keep everyone happy.

“Oh, who cares,” a giddy Hannah says.

She hasn’t stopped beaming since she saw that sign. And not stopped dancing and singing along to every act so far. The lights catch the glow on her face every time they pass by our deep blue velvet-lined box.

And, to be fair, this place is electric. I’ve been to more gigs and festivals than anyone could ever hope to attend in a whole lifetime, but the thrum of the atmosphere in this circular, six-thousand-seat concert hall for this amazing show of one big name after another knocks them all out of the park.

“Don’t look so stressed.” Hannah throws one arm around my neck and runs a finger down the center of my lips, dragging the lower one down into a pout. “This is the most amazing night ever.” She smushes a big fat kiss on my mouth. “Ever,” she cries, before her arms fly from around my neck and punch the air as she bounces in time to the music.

“Pretty sure their manager’s backstage,” I shout over the crowd, who are singing along with the chorus of the iconic hit currently being pumped out of the speakers. “I’ll text him.”

Whether she heard what I said or not, Hannah nods as she joins in with the audience below and all around us. Even jumping up and down, her voice is beautiful and pitch perfect.

The manager texts me right back. I nudge Hannah and show her the message.

JONAH (10:14 PM)

Waiting for backing singers. Stuck behind an accident on the M25 at Watford. Been there for an hour. Road still not open.

“How far away is that?” she asks, right into my ear.

“About an hour. And who knows when the road will reopen.”

She looks around the hall, at all the people on the floor below and in the tiers of seats around the circle. All of them having the time of their lives. But how long will their patience last?

“They can’t leave everyone waiting an hour,” she says. “They’ll have to come on without them.”

My phone vibrates with another message. I show Hannah.

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