Page 84 of Second to None

“Thank you.” His smile solidified. “For, you know. Making that clear.”

“I really, really mean it.”

“I know.” A beat stretched between us—my hand still clasping his wrist, his fingers light against my lip. Then he reached into his back pocket and unfolded a sheet of paper, smoothing it out before handing it to me. “Got you something.”

Locations and dates, starting next March in London. I glanced up. “A tour schedule?”

He nodded, clearly waiting for something, so I looked back at the list. UK in March, a gap, then a week in Germany, followed by… another gap. France and Belgium. And another gap. More dates and gaps, then a long break in the summer. Distantly, I caught the buzz of his phone where he’d left it on the table, a reminder that there was still a world out there. It was a foggy background, though, my mind a waterfall, lungs light and airy.

“These dates—they’re packed into short bursts.”

“Yeah.” He held my gaze. “This way, I can be here every other week. And we can look at the summer, see what we want to do with that. Some time in LA maybe? More surfing lessons for Emily, get a room set up for her in the house? Four-poster bed, glitter walls, whatever she wants to do with it.”

“You…” Words, dammit. I knew words. “You planned your tour around that?”

“Replanned.” He looked a tad sheepish. “Or rather, I asked others to replan it. Think I owe some people a very nice bonus.”

God, I love you.

“Oh, and the next few months—that’ll be mostly working on the new album.” He was close enough that I felt his warmth, eyes the radiant blue of a Sardinian summer in the woollen light of an English afternoon. “There’s a studio in Manchester I can use. We could, you know, carpool to work."

“Carpool?” A laugh bubbled up from the soles of my feet, tickled my stomach and widened my chest. “You’re just—Cass.”

“I’m just Cass?” he echoed, a hint of boyish charm shining through as he thumbed at the corner of my grin. I turned my head and kissed his fingers—cheesy as hell. I didn’t care one bit.

“You really thought about this.”

“You asked me to.” He made it sound simple, obvious, when it was anything but.

“I fucking love you,” I said—dropped the tour schedule, got both hands into his hair, and dragged him into a deep, hard kiss. He matched me, fingers framing my jaw, mouth opening under mine.

“That a yes?” he squeezed into the gap between one kiss and the next.

“A million times.” My thoughts had gone liquid, swept away by this stupid, blinding wash of emotions. This was it. Us. Rebuilt from fragments of who we’d been and become. The first time, we’d stumbled our way into something great until it folded like a house of cards. This time, we were choosing our path, eyes wide open.

His phone went off again, like a reality check, and Cass sighed against my lips. “That might be my assistant. Probably not pleased with my last-minute schedule changes.”

I exhaled a breathy laugh, kept my fingers pressed into his hair for another moment to rest our foreheads together. “Time for a raise?”

“Probably. Just give me a sec, all right?” He stole another quick kiss, then peeled himself away to deal with his phone. I picked up the sheet of paper that had drifted to the ground and gave it another look. So, Europe in spring, early summer in the US, then—huh. Hang on a sec. Those venues…

I glanced up, frowning. “Cass—these venues here, they’re smaller than your usual. Like twenty, twenty-five thousand tops?”

He slid me a quick look. “Yeah.”

“Why?”

He took a moment to respond, seemingly intent on whatever message he was typing out. I studied the line of his profile, the way his hair curled against his temple, the shift of muscle as he turned to put the phone back down before he stepped back into my space.

“It’s just, you know…” He trailed off, then picked the thread back up with an air of nonchalance I didn’t buy. “Just in case there’s less interest once people know I’m gay. I’d rather play to a smaller but full house than a half-empty arena.”

“Oh,babe.” I grabbed him around the waist. “They’d be idiots. You’re… You’re so good. I’ve said it a time or two, but you truly are a brilliant musician. I’d sign you in a heartbeat.”

The corner of his mouth edged up. “I think we’ve established that you’re biased.”

“Maybe. But I’m also a professional. Trust me, people will absolutely still want to see you once you’re out.” I shifted back enough to give him a proper look, sudden uncertainty softening my tone. “I mean—if you still want to do that.”

“I do, yeah.” No doubt shaded his voice, his gaze steady. “I don’t want to hide this—us. But if you’d rather keep the attention off Emily, I can wait. I’d rather not, but if that’s what you want…”

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