Page 85 of Rockstar's Accidental Marriage

I shrug, but the thought has been gnawing at me since I overheard the conversation. “It crossed my mind. Whoever’s behind this might not just be trying to rattle Emily—they could be aiming to create distrust in general. I don’t think we should write this off as a coincidence.”

Cass nods grimly. “You’re not wrong. All those things that went wrong at the last venues. And now this? It’s all adding up.”

“We need to dig deeper,” I say. “Find out who hired this new guy, where he came from, and whether there’s any connection between him and the issues we’ve been having.”

Cass’s expression hardens. “Agreed. I’ll talk to the crew manager in the morning. Quietly. I don’t want to tip anyone off that we’re looking into this.”

“And if it turns out someone’s pulling strings to sabotage us?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

Cass’s mouth tightens into a grim line. “Then we shut it down. Hard.”

Twenty-Seven

Emily

The headlights cut through the darkness as we pull into the gravel drive of the beach house. The familiar sight of the white exterior, with its wraparound porch, should have been comforting. But tonight, there’s a strange tension in the air.

Sam kills the engine and sits there for a moment, his hand gripping the steering wheel, his gaze unfocused, fixed on something internal. His jaw is tight, his silence uncharacteristic.

“You okay?” I ask gently, resting my hand on his arm. “You’ve been quiet since we left the hotel.”

He glances at me, his expression softening just a fraction. “Yeah. Just tired, I guess.”

I don’t buy it. Sam’s the type who could run on fumes for days without slowing down. Something is eating at him, but he’s putting up walls, keeping me out.

“You sure? You’ve been acting distracted,” I press, controlling my voice, careful not to sound accusing.

He reaches over, taking my hand in his. “I’m fine, Em. Promise.”

His tone is reassuring, but his grip on my hand is a little too firm. The knot in my stomach tightens. I want to push further to demand that he tell me what’s wrong, but if I know Sam, he’ll talk when he’s ready and not a second sooner.

We get out of the truck, the sound of the waves crashing against the shore mirroring my inner turmoil. Sam unlocks the door and steps aside to let me pass, his movements unusually stiff. Inside, the house feels welcoming and warm, but the tension lingering between us is impossible to ignore.

“I’m going to grab a drink. You want anything?” he asks, already heading toward the kitchen.

“Just some water,” I reply, watching his retreating form. His shoulders are taut, and his steps are measured.

As I settle onto the couch, I can’t stop my mind from racing. What could be bothering him? Was it something that happened at the performance? Or something else entirely?

Sam returns a moment later, handing me a glass of water before sinking down beside me. He leans back, running a hand through his hair, the faintest sigh escaping his lips.

“Sam,” I start cautiously, “you’d tell me if something was wrong, wouldn’t you?”

His eyes meet mine, and for a split second, I see it—the flicker of whatever he’s holding back. But then it’s gone, replaced by a small, reassuring smile.

“Of course,” he says. “You worry too much, Boss Lady.”

The nickname earns a faint smile from me, but it’s not enough to quell the unease building in my chest. He leans over to kiss my temple, his lips lingering just long enough to distract me. Whatever it is, I’ll have to wait for him to open up.

The house is unusually quiet, and I find a strange comfort in the solitude. Sam had some errands to run, so I have the whole afternoon to myself.

I’ve spent most of it cleaning. Nesting is what the baby books call it. I’ve scrubbed nearly every corner of the house. I even threw away my stale crackers from my morning sickness days. Thankfully, I haven’t felt nauseous in weeks. I grin as Sam’s assistance in helping me avoid being nauseous definitely helped.

I pause in the kitchen, staring at the sparkling countertops with satisfaction, but I’m not done yet. There’s one more space that calls to me—the nursery.

I wander upstairs, stepping into the soft yellow room. The sunlight coming in through the windows illuminates the white crib. My eyes wander over the changes we made in satisfaction. It’s amazing how quickly this room has become my favorite place in the house.

With a small smile, I start reorganizing the baby clothes we’ve already folded and placed in the dresser. I can’t resist smoothing my hand over a tiny shirt printed with the words ‘My daddy is a rockstar,’ I can almost picture Sam holding our baby, his strong hands so gentle, the way they always are when he touches me. The thought sends a wave of warmth through my chest.

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