Page 86 of One Time Only (One Time Only 1)
The audience hollers. They cheer and roar for nearly a minute.
When the noise settles down, I clear my throat and ask, deadpan, “You like it?”
They whoop.
And then it’s my turn again. “I want to tell you all about the song. I want to tell every last person here about this guy. I wrote it for him.”
I grin, and they howl.
“Want to know why?”
A collective yes resonates.
I flick my gaze to the wings. Dude is still smiling.
My life is awesome.
I pluck a few notes from the chorus, since words need music. “I fell in love for the first time. Has that ever happened to you?” I ask the crowd.
They shriek in response. And kiss—lots of them kiss whoever they came with.
“Yeah, that’s what I’m talking about,” I say with a grin, turning once again to the guy in the wings. “See, I’ve written all these songs, but I didn’t truly get it till a few days ago.” I stop, shaking my head, still amazed that this crazy thing called love is happening to me.
I drag a hand through my hair. “There’s this guy, and, my God, I love him like crazy. Like, he’s the one.” I take a beat, look to my left, and repeat the words that matter most as my chest flutters—fucking flutters—when I look at him. “He’s the one.”
Jackson is more than twenty feet away, but this time when he parts his lips, I can read them.
You are.
I soar. I could probably fly to the moon right now.
I face the crowd. “Do you know what I mean? He’s the one I think about. The one I want. The one I long for. I can’t imagine my life with anyone else. I can only imagine it with him.”
The audience turns into a chorus of awws.
“Ah, hell, this is why I love you guys. You get it. You get me.” I stop, take a breath, and go for broke. “And the guy in the picture? He’s here tonight.”
The screams are intense and electric.
I don’t look at Jackson, just in case.
I keep my eyes on the audience. “The guy in the picture is here. And I swear if he feels the same, if he comes onstage right now, I will smother him in kisses in front of everyone. Because that is what I want for the rest of my life. He is who I want.”
The cheers are electrifying.
I hold my breath, let all the hope I’ve ever felt fill me, and I wait.
But not for long.
Jackson Pearce is a man of action.
He steps out of the wings and strides across the stage, so incomprehensibly sexy in that button-down shirt, rolled up to show his forearms, those pants that hug his legs, and that smile.
For me.
All for me.
And for everyone.
Because here he is, declaring his feelings in return.
This most private man walks to me, and I swing my guitar behind me so it’s slung across my back.
When he reaches me, the first thing he does is press his cheek to mine, brush his lips against my ear, and whisper just for me, “I’m in love with you. That’s why I quit—so I can do this now.”
He clasps my cheeks and kisses me in front of all my fans.
The crowd goes wild, and so does my heart.
It is better than music. Better than poetry. Better than anything I’ve ever had.
This man is my love, and he’s kissing me in front of thousands of fans who are all cheering, clapping, hollering.
And taking pictures.
The guy in the picture is about to go viral, and I couldn’t be happier.
Jackson Pearce is kissing me in public for the first time, and I want the world to know he’s mine.
There’s one surefire way to do that.
When we break the kiss, I sling an arm around him. “This guy is mine. All mine.”
The audience erupts into another round of cheers as he raises a hand, waves to them, then returns to the wings.
I finish the show.
It’s the best show I’ve ever done.
And the best part is walking offstage to the love of my life.36JacksonStone is mobbed when he heads into the wings.
Candi. His manager. His brother. Sage. Ivy. Stagehands. Roadies.
Or, I should say, we are. Everyone wants to touch him, talk to him, congratulate him—and me too.
Guess that’s what happens when one of the world’s most famous rock stars kisses you at his concert in front of all his fans.
Stone gives his guitar to Zane then lifts his palm. “Give me a minute, peeps.”
He pulls me into his dressing room, slams the door, locks it, and lets out a long exhale. A vein in his neck pulses from the exertion of performing. His shoulders rise and fall from what’s pretty much a workout onstage. He stares at me, smiling stupidly.
Pretty sure my smile is of the stupid-in-love variety too.
“Holy shit. Did that just happen?” He shoves a hand through his hair.
