Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 87142 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87142 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
We probably should have let the post-show buzz run through him, but he’d given me that look the second we walked through the door, and I’d jumped him.
Five shows. Six months. He was still sober.
My job was at its contractual end, and we were headed into uncharted territory.
At least, we would be next week when we headed back to Seattle. I couldn’t do my job from here—not to begin with. Plus, the band had a few studio days set aside now that Nixon had handed in three songs for the upcoming album. “Worry and Ruin” was my favorite of the three, followed by “Palm of my Hand.” “Blue Castles” was right up there, though. I loved everything he wrote.
I pulled the sheets up over my breasts and flipped to the next email, then replied with the line we’d agreed to use. Our relationship is private and therefore will not be commented upon. I hadn’t even wanted to go that far, but Nixon had turned that smirk on me and asked if I was embarrassed to publicly admit we were in a relationship. So there, another statement fired off to another person who had zero business asking.
On to the next email. It was an event request for July. I wouldn’t be on the Hush Note team when we got back to Seattle, but that didn’t stop me from glancing ahead at the band’s calendar. They’d be in the middle of the tour but might be able to swing it.
Where would I be in July? I flipped back to my personal calendar and scrolled to summer. I’d no doubt be fighting to split my time between the office in Seattle and wherever I could meet up with Nixon. There was zero chance I’d be able to go three months without seeing him.
I grinned at the little tabbed reminder that popped up on July 12. Nixon: One year sober. I’d definitely have to fly to wherever he was on that day.
Nixon roared, jolting upright, his chest heaving as he fought to catch his breath.
I gasped and my phone hit the bed, throwing us back into darkness. By the time I hit the bedside lamp, Nixon was out of bed and shoving his legs into a pair of shorts.
My heart thundered. This wasn’t the first time, but it had been a few weeks.
Something told me the further we got into spring, the more often they’d come. The closer he’d get to reaching for a sleep-aid that wasn’t my body.
“Nix?”
“I’m okay. Go back to sleep, babe.” He walked out of the bedroom without another glance my way.
I sighed, then slipped a robe on and headed downstairs for what had become a little too routine. He already had the teakettle on.
I took out the box as he grabbed the mugs.
Neither of us spoke until the tea was steeping.
“You’re not okay,” I whispered across the island, breaking the silence.
“I’m fine,” he argued, running a hand over the scruff of his beard.
“You just woke up screaming.”
“Won’t be the last time,” he muttered, stirring honey into his tea.
“That’s not fine.”
His jaw ticked as he slid the honey over the granite so I could use it.
I caught it, then added some to my own cup, shaking my head. “I hate this—”
“You don’t have to sleep next to me.”
I drew back, despite the soft tone he’d used. “Let me finish. I hate this for you. What happens in the nightmares?”
Terror flashed across his face before he managed to mask it. “Let it go.”
“If you don’t talk about it, you’ll be a wreck by the summer.” I rounded the island and put the honey back into the cabinet.
“I’ll handle it.”
I leaned against the counter, facing him. “No, we’ll handle it, because that’s what people do when they’re in a relationship. But I won’t be on tour to make you tea, and I can’t help you if you don’t let me in.”
He turned, folding his arms across his chest. “I let you in.”
“No, you don’t. You let me skim the surface, but you never let me in.” I was starting to wonder if he ever would, or if this was as close as he’d let me get.
“I bought you a house!” He backed up a step.
“Nixon.” I groaned, putting my hand on his chest. “Baby, that’s not what I mean.”
“How much more in do you want?” he challenged, pain mixing with leftover fear in his eyes. “I bought you a house. With me. You want my bank account? I’ll get you a card. You want a key to the penthouse? Wait. You already have that. You want your name plastered on my chest in front of a hundred thousand fans—”
“I want you to tell me why you have nightmares!”
“I want you to tell me why you can’t ignore your email for twenty-four goddamned hours! Neither of us sleep, but mine is an issue and yours is what?”