Page 82 of Rockstar's Accidental Marriage

As we wait for the food, the conversation turns to lighter topics—our favorite childhood meals, the worst dinners we’ve ever had, and the quirks of incognito dining.

But as the dishes arrive and we dig in, the conversation takes on a more serious tone.

“You’ve been different lately,” Sam says, his eyes meeting mine across the table.

“Different, how?” I ask, though I feel I already know what he means.

“Quieter. More—I don’t know. Pensive.”

I sigh, setting down my fork. “It’s just... everything feels so uncertain right now. Worrying about the baby and the issues with the band. Sometimes, it feels like I’m barely holding it together.”

“You’re doing more than holding it together, Em.” Sam reaches across the table, his hand covering mine. “Don’t let whoeveris behind the sabotage get to you. And don’t worry–about anything. It isn’t good for the baby,” he murmurs. In a firmer voice, he states. “Have a little faith that everything will work out.”

His words make my throat tighten, and I look down at our hands, his calloused fingers warm and steady against mine.

“You make it sound so easy,” I say softly.

“It’s not,” he admits. “But nothing worth having ever is.”

As the evening winds down, we linger over dessert—sticky mango rice that’s just sweet enough to balance the spice of the meal.

Sam leans back in his seat, a satisfied smile on his face. “I’d say this was a pretty successful date night.”

I nod, feeling a contentment I haven’t felt in a long time. “It was perfect.”

As we leave the restaurant, Sam slips an arm around my waist, pulling me close as we walk to the parking lot. “Almost,” he whispers, “It won’t be perfect until I’ve made love to my wife.”

The heated look in his eyes makes all my girly parts tingle, and my breath catches. Sam notices my response, and his knowing laugh is smug as he leads me to the waiting truck.

Twenty-Six

Sam

Emily and I stand at the door of the beach house, bags in hand, as the morning sun streams in through the windows. The routine is starting to feel all too familiar—saying goodbye to this place, loading up for the next performance. At least this time, it’s only one performance, and then we’ll be home again for a couple of weeks.

“You ready for this?” I ask her as I adjust the strap of my duffel bag.

Emily’s hand lingers on the doorknob, her expression unreadable. “As ready as I’ll ever be,” she murmurs, her voice tinged with reluctance.

I can’t blame her. The beach house has become our haven, a place where we’ve managed to live quietly and simply. Leaving it behind feels like leaving a piece of ourselves.

But the show must go on, and it’s only for one night.

The hotel is a world away from the comfort of our beach house. Sleek, modern, and bustling with activity, it’s a sharp reminder of the lifestyle we’re stepping back into. The band’s accommodations are impressive, with Cass and Kendrick in a luxurious penthouse suite while the rest of us settle into less spacious but still luxurious rooms.

They’ve barely set our bags down when Emily’s phone buzzes with a string of notifications. “That’ll be the crew,” she says, glancing at the screen. “I need to check on the equipment before tonight’s performance.”

“Want me to come with you?” I offer, but she shakes her head.

“I’ve got it,” she says with a small smile. “You just focus on getting into the zone for tonight.”

The venue is alive with the hum of preparation. Crew members scurry back and forth, setting up equipment, testing lights, and running sound checks. I stay near the stage, tuning my bass guitar and trying to go over tonight’s setlist in my head. But instead, images of Emily flash through my mind. Her laugh was soft and genuine as we decorated the nursery together. The way her eyes lit up when she talked about something she was passionate about—whether it was a new idea for the band orwhich furniture would be the perfect fit for the baby’s room. How she chewed on the corner of her lip when she was focused, completely unaware of how much it drove me crazy.

I pluck a string on my bass, the sound low and resonant, but it barely registers. I’m too caught up in the memory of her resting her hand on her belly the first time the baby moved. That awe in her eyes and the wonder in her voice was like witnessing pure magic.

And then there’s the other side of her. The side most people don’t get to see. The Emily, who’s stubborn as hell, who refuses to back down even when she’s dead on her feet. The Emily who quietly carries the weight of everything on her shoulders but still finds the strength to stand tall. She’s strong in ways I’m not sure I’ll ever fully understand, and every day, I find myself falling for her a little more.

I know I should be running through the chords and making sure everything is perfect for tonight’s performance. But instead, as I thrum my guitar I’m thinking about the way she looked at me last night as I claimed her.

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