Page 28 of Rockstar's Accidental Marriage

And then there’s Sam.

We still haven’t talked—Not about what happened that fateful night in my hotel room—Not about the divorce papers or the fact that we crossed a line we can’t uncross. Yet, I’m relieved because the animosity seems to have dissipated from our relationship. Leaving something else behind.

Every time he's near, my body hums with awareness. It's the little things—the way his T-shirt stretches across his shoulders when he plays guitar. Each accidental brush of his hand sends electricity through my body, awakening memories of that night in my hotel room—his taste, his touch, the way he made me feel.

It’s these same things that give us away—how his eyes linger on mine a second too long, the way he hovers just a little closer than necessary when we’re in the same room. It’s maddening. And thrilling.

But we’re never alone. Someone is always around, whether it’s the band or even Cassidy. Every stolen glance, every accidental brush of hands feels like a secret we can’t afford to share.

By the end of the week, the house feels less packed. Luke and Nate have decided to rent a duplex nearby, saying they’re ready to plant roots now that Jacksonville is the band’s home base. Vince, predictably, has opted to stick it out in the tour bus,claiming he’s more comfortable there than anywhere with ‘walls and a mortgage.’

Sam, however, remains undecided.

“You thinking about getting a place?” I ask casually one afternoon as I catch him tuning his guitar on the back patio.

He looks up, his expression unreadable. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?” I press, crossing my arms, trying to get him to open up to me, but he remains stubbornly vague.

He shrugs, his fingers pausing on the strings. “Depends.”

“On what?”

“On many things,” he says, his gaze flicking to mine. For a moment, the weight of his stare makes my breath catch, but then he looks away, resuming his work on the guitar.

I bite my lip, resisting the urge to ask him what he’s really waiting for. Because deep down, I already know.

The days blur together as the band ramps up rehearsals for the Jacksonville Arena show. The energy in the studio is high, the sound of music filling every corner of the space. Even Vince, who’s usually the first to complain about long hours, seems motivated.

But for me, the pace is starting to take its toll.

I’ve always been good at pushing through exhaustion, telling myself I’ll rest when the work is done. But lately, it feels like my body is rebelling. My limbs feel heavy, and no matter how much sleep I get, I wake up feeling drained.

“Are you okay?” Kendrick asks one morning as we sit at the kitchen island, her wedding planner spread out between us.

“I’m fine,” I lie, forcing a smile.

She raises an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. “You’ve been working long hours, Emily. When’s the last time you took a break?”

“I don’t have time for breaks,” I say, flipping through the color swatches she’s laid out. “You’ve got a wedding to plan, and the band has an important show coming up. Everyone’s counting on me.”

“Everyone’s counting on you to be well,” she counters, her tone teasing but serious. “It won’t help anyone if you burn out.”

I wave her off, pretending not to hear her as I focus on the tasks at hand. But the truth is, I feel like I’m already starting to burn out.

Later that afternoon, I’m in the studio, watching the band run through a new song. Cass is in top form, his voice raw andpowerful as he belts out the lyrics. Vince is off to the side, his fingers flying over his guitar strings with a precision that makes it look easy.

I’m so caught up in the music that I don’t notice Sam looking at me until I feel his gaze. When I glance up, our eyes lock, and for a moment, everything else fades away.

It’s just us, caught in a moment we shouldn’t be sharing but can’t seem to avoid.

The spell is broken when Luke cracks a joke, and everyone laughs, including Sam. But as the band launches into the next song, I can still feel the heat of his gaze on me, making my heart race.

That evening, Kendrick corners me in the living room, a knowing glint in her eye.

“Okay, spill,” she says, plopping down beside me on the couch.

“Spill what?” I ask, feigning innocence.

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