Page 15 of Rockstar's Accidental Marriage

He was charming and magnetic in that effortless way of his. I’d had a crush on him before we even met, thanks to the countless stories Cass told me about his best friend. That and because he’s freaking gorgeous. But the moment Sam smiled at me for the first time, it felt like a bolt of lightning hit me.

That night, after a show in Austin, I found myself alone with him in the green room. A small buffet of baked goods was set up for the band. Standing by the buffet, I had just picked up a cupcake to eat. It was white with sprinkles. He was leaning against the door with a lazy grin as he asked me what I thought of the set.

“You were great,” I said, my voice shy but sincere, trying not to stare at his good looks.

His grin widened, and he stepped closer. “You’re not so bad yourself, Cupcake.”

The nickname had made me laugh then, not knowing it would one day feel like a jab.

I don’t remember what we talked about after that. All I remember is the way he looked at me like I was the only person in the world. And then, before I knew what was happening—he kissed me.

It wasn’t a soft, tentative kiss like I’d gotten from high school boys. His kiss wasn't gentle—it was claiming, desperate, like he'd been holding back for too long. His hands were everywhere, setting my skin on fire, and when his palm cupped my breast, electricity shot through my body. I remember the heat of himpressed against me, how perfectly we fit together, and the way his muscles felt under my exploring fingers. His arousal was hard against my stomach, and the knowledge that I affected him so strongly made me dizzy with want.

But then he abruptly pulled away.

The shift was immediate, his warmth replaced by a coldness that felt like a bucket of ice water had been dumped over me. 'We can't do this,' he grumbled, his voice low and firm.

I remember blinking up at him, confused and hurt by his rejection. “Why not?”

He looked away, his jaw tight. “Because you’re Cass’s baby sister. This can’t happen.”

And just like that, he was gone, leaving me alone in the green room, feeling utterly exposed and my confidence shattered by his rejection.

I shake off the memory, setting my water bottle down a little harder than I intended. I’d spent months trying to make sense of that night, blaming myself for being too young or naive—too innocent. But I’m not that foolish girl anymore. I give a soundless laugh. No, now, I’m older but wiser? That’s debatable. The remembrance of that encounter is what made me dare Sam on that unforgettable night in Vegas. So, no. I’m still that foolish girl.

But Sam Ryder doesn’t get to toy with my emotions. Not again.

We’re finally back home the next day, and rehearsal is in full swing. Nate’s drums are set up in one corner, Luke is fiddling with the keyboard, and Cass is fine-tuning the setlist with Vince.

Meanwhile, Sam is sprawled across the couch, long legs stretched out carelessly, his fingers moving expertly over the guitar strings as he plucks out an old Elvis tune, an unreadable look on his face. I try not to stare at those hands or remember how they felt on my skin that fateful night, but my body betrays me with a shiver. He looks up, catching me watching him, and something dark and hungry flashes in his eyes before he looks away.

I straighten, determined to focus on the logistics for tomorrow’s show. But the noise level is suddenly unbearable, and my patience is wearing thin.

“Guys,” I call out, raising my voice to be heard over the racket. “Can we focus, please? We’re running out of time.”

Nate stops drumming long enough to give me a sheepish grin. “Sorry, Boss Lady.”

The nickname, which had grated on my nerves initially, has started to grow on me—except when Sam uses it.

Speaking of, he looks up from his guitar, his grin firmly in place. “Relax, Em. We’ve got this.”

I frown at him. “This isn’t just about you, Sam. We’re a team, remember?”

“Sure,” he says, his tone annoyingly casual. “But the team works better when the manager doesn’t have a stick up her—”

“Sam,” Cass interrupts, his voice sharp. “Enough.”

I glance at my brother, surprised by the edge in his tone. He doesn’t usually step in when Sam and I bicker, but there’s something about his expression that makes me think he’s genuinely annoyed.

Sam raises his hands in mock surrender, but there’s no mistaking the tension in his jaw. As if he already regrets his hurtful words.

“Thank you,” I say, directing my comment to Cass but letting my gaze linger on Sam.

For the rest of the rehearsal, Sam is uncharacteristically quiet, focusing entirely on his guitar. It’s a side of him I don’t see often—dedicated, serious, almost wistful.

It bothers me, and I find myself watching him more than I should, wondering how many other layers he’s been hiding all this time. Kendrick mentioned once that Sam seemed always to be aware of his surroundings–that he’s always accessing things. But I don’t see him that way. To me, he seems to treat everything like one big joke.

Near the end of the day, I retreat to the small kitchenette Cass insisted we have in the office to pour over the next day’s itinerary.

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