Page 8 of Rockstar's Accidental Marriage

Emily jerks away like I’ve burned her, but not before I feel the slight tremor that runs through her body. Her cheeks are flushed, and her breathing is uneven, and I know she’s remembering, too.

The elevator dings, and she bolts, leaving me alone with the drunk and a thousand memories of how right it felt to hold her. Dammit. One touch shouldn’t affect me this much, but everything about Emily Wild gets under my skin.

Three

ONE YEAR LATER:

Emily

Walking into the small conference room, I nod in approval. My brother Cass just purchased a permanent home on the ocean in Jacksonville, Florida—the band’s new headquarters. His house is more like a mansion, very private, and has high security, which every lead-singer rockstar needs to keep away the obnoxious media and star-struck fans.

I smooth down my carefully chosen black pencil skirt as I approach the conference room. This morning, I’d spent an extra hour getting ready, telling myself it was just because it’s my first day as manager. But if I’m honest, the red Louboutins I’m wearing—the ones that make my legs look amazing and add fourinches to my height—are specifically because I know Sam will be here.

Cass is already at the head of the table, flipping through his notes, looking every bit the serious businessman he’s become since he fired his last manager. Well, there’s also the fact that he’s back with Kendrick, his first and only love, and their 12-year-old daughter, Cassidy.

My brother is finally interested in the business side of things, at least for now. Once I prove I can handle things, he’ll probably go back to being totally immersed in his music.

“Emily,” he says, looking up and giving me his signature big-brother grin, the one that makes him impossible to stay mad at. His eyes catch my outfit—the crisp white silk blouse, the designer suit, the killer heels—and he raises an eyebrow. “Dressed to kill for your first day?”

“Just looking professional,” I reply, willing my cheeks not to flush. The shoes click satisfyingly against the hardwood floor as I walk to my seat, and I feel powerful and put together. Ready.

This meeting is important, not just because it’s the Wild Band’s first official one with me as their manager, but because I need to set the tone. I’ve worked my ass off to get here—not just as Cass Wild’s little sister, but as a professional who knows what she’s doing.

Glancing around the table, I notice the others are already here: Nate, who plays the drums, Luke, the keyboard, and Vince, thelead guitarist. The only one missing is—well, of course,he’dbe late.

Sighing, I slide my clipboard onto the table, revealing my checklist and agenda. My perfectly manicured nails tap against the paper as I arrange my items. Cass grins again, this time a little smugly. “God, you’re organized. You’re going to scare the hell out of Sam.”

I straighten my spine, feeling the confidence boost from my power outfit. Good. Let him be scared. Let him see that the woman he married in Vegas isn’t just some girl he can charm with his smirks and nicknames. I’m about to be his manager, and these heels aren’t just for show—they’re war paint.

Yet the very mention of his name makes my spine stiffen and my heart race. Sam Ryder. My accidental husband. An infuriating problem that has haunted me for the past year—a constant reminder of a mistake I’ve desperately tried to forget.

Speak of the devil.

The door swings open, and Sam saunters in, late as usual. My breath catches traitorously in my throat. He’s wearing a black V-neck that shows just enough of his tattoos to be distracting and dark jeans that fit him like a sin. His reddish-brown hair is artfully tousled, and there’s a day’s worth of stubble darkening his jaw—the same stubble that had left my skin burning that night in Vegas. A memory I’ve desperately tried to forget.

“Sorry, traffic,” he states lazily, though we all know he’s lying. His voice carries that slight morning rasp that sends an unwanted shiver down my spine.

Cass chuckles, not fazed. “You practically live in the tour bus, Sam. What traffic?”

Sam just shrugs and flops into the seat directly across from me. Of course, he does. His cologne—a heady mix of sandalwood and something uniquely him—drifts across the table, stirring memories that belong locked away in a Vegas hotel room.

“Cupcake,” he says, his voice low and taunting. His eyes rake over me slowly, taking in my carefully chosen outfit, lingering on my legs where they cross beneath the table. The heat in his gaze makes my skin tingle.

I grip my pen tighter, willing my body not to react. “Could you please stop referring to me as that?”

“Why?” He asks innocently, but there’s nothing innocent about the way he looks at me. “It suits you.”

“Sam,” Cass warns lightly, though he’s grinning too. Great, now my brother’s on his side.

Sam grins at me before turning to Cass. “You gonna start this meeting, Cass, or are we just here so Emily can boss us around?”

I don’t dignify him with a response; instead, I focus on the agenda in front of me. I clear my throat. “All right, let’s get started.”

Cass straightens in his chair, signaling to the others to pay attention. Sam, of course, slouches further, his long legs stretched out under the table, his ankle almost brushing mine.

“The purpose of this meeting,” I say, keeping my tone professional, “is to set expectations for the upcoming tour and ensure we’re all on the same page. I’ve reviewed the numbers from the last tour, and while the revenue was impressive, there’s room for improvement—especially in terms of branding.”

“Branding,” Sam drawls, like it’s a dirty word. “Sounds fun.”

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