Page 67 of From the Embers
“What are you doing?” I asked. “Who was that?”
“Just a second.” With his head down, he kept pressing buttons on his phone and only then did I notice the small shake of his hands. “Jesus, how do you turn this thing off?”
I took several long strides toward him. “Eason, honey. What’s going on?”
“Just a second. Just a second. Just a second.” His marched over to the couch and peeled back one of the cushions, stashing his phone beneath it. Still not happy yet, he grabbed the other two cushions and stacked them on top of it too.
“Okay,” he said, finally turning back to face me.
“Why are you burying your phone?”
“Because I was really trying to play it cool and don’t want Levee Williams to hear me scream—” He sucked in a deep breath and then yelled at the top of his lungs. “I’m playing at the fucking Grammys!” Rushing forward, he tackled me in a bear hug.
“Holy shit! Are you serious?” I laughed as he spun us in a circle.
“She was supposed to do ‘Turning Pages’ as a duet with Henry Alexander for a special performance, but he’s sick and she needs someone who knows the song and can fill in for him on short notice. My name came up in conversation, and as someone who started as a songwriter herself, she thought it would be perfect. She wants me to perform with her. On the Grammys. In front of everyone who is anyone in the music industry. In two days!”
“Wait. Two days? Like two days, two days?”
“Yep. This Sunday. They’re booking flights for first thing in the morning.” His chest heaved by the time he finished, but he never set me on my feet.
He did, however, kiss me—stealing my breath.
“What are you guys yelling about?” Asher asked, rushing into the room, two miniature-sword-wielding girls hot on his heels.
I had no idea where to even start explaining to them about how huge this was for Eason.
I’d sat outside with him the night the song debuted on the radio. His solemn face as they’d announced Levee’s name. The spark in his eye when he’d found out I’d gone to the radio station and asked them to credit him as the songwriter.
This was his shot after over a decade of dreams. The highest of highs when he’d been signed to a record deal. The crashing low when he’d been dropped. Shamefully, I hadn’t been supportive of Eason during those days, so even though we’d talked about it all at great lengths, I could only assume the heartbreak he’d experienced during that time in his life.
But what I knew firsthand was how hard he worked. How many hours he spent, night after night, at his piano or with a guitar in his hand. Coming home exhausted after a show and waking up only a few hours later so he could be there for me and the kids. The backhanded slap of people slamming doors in his face in his attempts to become an artist, all while those same people asking if he’d written anything new.
It was love and demanding work.
Trials and tribulations.
Hitting rock bottom and still getting back up.
But there was no way I could make the kids understand any of that.
So I went with something they would definitely get. “Eason’s going to be on TV!”
They all started screaming and jumping around with us. Eason lowered me back to my feet, but only so he could scoop all three of the kids up in one giant hug, their little legs swaying as he swung them from side to side.
They say when it rains, it pours. For going on two years, that had been exactly the case for us. Drama and tragedy, one after another. First with Luna, and now with this—it was good to see that joy also came in storms.
And even with as absolutely elated as I was for him, Planner Bree came out in full force. “Oh my God, Eason, what are you going to wear? Come on. You have to start packing. I’ll help.”
He set the kids down and prowled my way. “What do you mean I have to start packing? We have to start packing.”
My back shot straight, and he gathered me in his arms, aiming that sexy smirk down at me.
“You have lost your damn mind if you think I’m going to Los Angeles for the biggest day of my career without you.”
I stared up at him in horror.
This man. This wonderful, gorgeous, talented man—he clearly did not know me at all.
I couldn’t plan a trip to the freaking Grammys by morning.
We had no sitter for the kids. I had no dress. No shoes. My nails were a mess, and my hair was in desperate need of a trim. I had work on Monday. Meetings on my calendar. Asher had school. And honestly, it was worth mentioning again: I had no dress.
