Page 22 of Rockstar's Accidental Marriage

Luke tosses a bag of chips onto the table. “You okay over there?”

“Fine,” I reply, clearing my throat and forcing a smile. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Luke raises an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “No reason. It just seems like everyone’s walking on eggshells lately.”

I bristle at his observation, but before I can respond, Sam’s voice cuts through the conversation.

“Maybe everyone’s just trying to be nice,” he says, his tone light but with an undercurrent.

I shoot him a quick glance, but he’s still focused on his guitar, his expression unreadable.

“Nice?” Luke echoes, smirking. “You mean like how you two have been acting?”

The rest of the band laughs, the tension in the air momentarily broken, but my stomach twists.

Because Luke’s right. Sam and I have been too nice to each other. Too polite. It’s phony, and everyone can see it. We’re trying too hard to act like we don’t affect each other.

By the time we roll into the next city, I’m grateful for the escape my hotel room offers. For the first time on this tour, I’ve bookedmyself a separate room instead of staying on the bus, and the privacy feels like a luxury.

I drop my bag on the bed and take a deep breath, letting the silence wash over me. No Sam. No band, no forced small talk. Just quiet.

But the relief is short-lived. My gaze lands on the envelope sitting on the desk, the weight of it pulling me back into reality. The divorce papers.

I had a lawyer draw them up a few weeks ago, and they’ve been sitting in my bag ever since. Every time I think about handing them to Sam, something stops me. Fear? Guilt? Or maybe it’s that stupid, lingering hope I can’t quite shake.

But tonight, I’m done waiting. I need to get on with my life.

I grab my phone and send Sam a quick text.

Emily:Can you come to my room in an hour? We need to talk.

His response is almost immediate.

Sam:Sure thing, Boss Lady.

I head to the shower and step under the spray, letting the hot water wash away my tension. I hear a knock as I step out of the shower. Quickly drying off, I slip into my silk robe, the materialcool against my heated skin. Walking to the door, I tie the belt, aware of how the fabric clings to my still-damp body.

“Who is it?” I call.

"Sam." His voice sends an involuntary shiver down my spine, memories of how he used to say my name in darker, more intimate moments flooding back.

I glance at the clock—leave it to Sam to arrive forty-five minutes early.

I open the door with the chain still on. His eyes darken instantly, drinking in my appearance—wet hair leaving droplets that trail down my neck, the way the robe highlights every curve. I watch his gaze follow those water trails, remembering with startling clarity how his tongue once traced that same path. The memory makes heat pool low in my belly, and I see his fingers flex at his sides, his control visibly wavering.

"You're early," I manage, my voice huskier than intended. I clutch the lapels of my robe tighter, but the silk only serves to heighten my awareness of every sensation. “Can you come back in an hour?” I ask hopefully.

“Sorry, no. I’m supposed to meet the guys at the bar later.”

I tighten my lips but step back and undo the chain opening the door, as I try to control my breathing.

Sam leans casually against the doorframe, his gaze lingering a little too long on my damp body and bare legs.

“What’s up, Boss Lady?” he asks, his tone easy, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes—curiosity, wariness, and something else—something that sends a shiver straight down my spine.

“Come in,” I say, stepping aside to let him enter.

Sam's presence fills the room, and his familiar scent makes my head spin. He glances around, and I'm hyper-aware of the bed, memories of tangled sheets and our passionate encounter threatening to overwhelm me. I’m starting to regret asking him to meet me here.

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