Page 170 of Reverse

“This is fucking reality,” he snaps defensively. “We just got married.”

“I know,” I snap back. “But you’re a fucking rock star, and I’m a reporter, and we don’t live in the samestate.”

He turns off the water, his back to me, and I clasp his shoulders as he lets out a harsh exhale. “I was going to talk to you about all this tomorrow morning.”

“Don’t get upset. I just want to figure this out.”

“I know, I’m not,” he concedes easily while grabbing a towel and glancing over at me. “Tell me what you want, and we’ll go from there.”

“The paper is a legacy I want to uphold. I can’t just abandon that.”

“Is that truly what you want?”

“Yes. Dad’s always given me the option to go my own way, but I love every aspect of it.”

“Then that’s what you’ll have. I don’t expect you to follow me around the globe, Natalie. It will be hard on us to be apart at times, but I’ve grown up in this world and knew what not to do from the get-go. That’s why I made damn sure not to sign a record contract and toownanddistributemy own music. I’ll never be any label’s fucking dog, which grants me luxuries off the leash that a lot of others don’t have. Because I made it that way, I tour whenI want to, and break when I want to. Which means I’m not chained to anything but the tour dates I set myself.”

“Okay.”

Securing a towel around his waist, he takes the towel from my hands and begins gently running the soft fabric over my skin. I revel in his attentiveness as he bends, and I grip his shoulders as he looks up at me.

“Your dreams don’t and won’t come second to mine. I want to be the man that stands beside you or behind you when you need me to. I can and will be there for you when it matters most to you.”

“You’ve thought about this, haven’t you?”

“I have, a lot, and honestly don’t give a damn where I live, as long as my wife is there when I get home.”

“You would move to Texas?”

He turns sharply. “You. Are. My. Wife.”

“I know that, but—”

“No, you don’t.Nothingcomes before you now, not even my career. All I have to do is make music. I lived as a rock star’s son. I don’t have to live that lifestyle to fulfill my dreams. I just have to make music. In fact, I would prefer the opposite. I don’t want to be homesick on the road. I don’t want to spend endless months apart from you. Not even weeks. Not evenafucking week. That’s what I don’t want.”

“You’re serious?”

“Yes,” he says. “And I won’t be sacrificing anything to change zip codes, Natalie.”

“Okay,” I say softly.

“Okay,” he brushes his knuckles down my cheek and presses a slow kiss to my lips. “I’ll fulfill the rest of my obligation to this tour, and we’ll figure out what to do from there.” He swats my ass with a towel. “And I know you think I’m funny about money, but owning my masters and writing my own songs means that every time I sell a song or get airplay, I collect the majority of the money. Because I made it that way, and as the album did what it did, we can have more than one home.”

I wrap my hair turban-style in the towel. “That would be . . . incredible.”

“We could have a spot in Seattle close to my parents and build a home in Texas, close to yours. Fucking anywhere.”

“Anywhere,” I repeat.

“As long as we’re together.”

“Agreed. But I make my own salary and will be contributing. I’m no squatter.”

“Fine,” he says with a shrug, “see, not so impossible.”

“You’re making it seem easy.” I cup his shoulder as he turns to me. “Just promise me, if there’s any part of this you can’t live with, you’ll speak up.”

He lifts a brow. “Have we fucking met? You’re such a pain in the ass. I know we’ll have plenty to fight about.”

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