Page 69 of From the Embers
She’d been MIA all day, but as they dropped me off at the hotel that night, I had a dozen texts from equally as many people outlining my packed schedule for the next day that started well before the sun would be up.
It was surreal.
Stressful.
Intimidating as fuck.
And I loved every damn minute of it.
Bree was asleep by the time I got back to our room. I was so tired that I didn’t even have the energy to take advantage of her in a hotel bed two thousand miles away from the kids.
“Mmm,” she hummed as I crawled into the sheets behind her. “How’d it go?”
“Crazy. Incredible. Exhausting.” I kissed her shoulder. “And perfect now.”
“Mine too,” she murmured, rolling over, resting her head on my chest, falling right back to sleep.
I didn’t know how she did it.
I’d been in relationships before. Hell, I’d been married.
But it was different with Bree. After a day spent experiencing high after high, living the life I’d dreamed about for the majority of my existence on Earth, coming home to her was still my favorite part.
“Eason! Eason, over here.”
I squeezed Bree’s hand, lifting my other to wave at the line of paparazzi camped out outside Levee’s afterparty. Not one single person had known who I was when I’d woken up that morning, but after a standing ovation from the biggest stars in the world, my name was making the rounds.
And much to Bree’s relief, none of them had called me Easton yet.
The performance had been a huge success and a damn near religious experience for me. When the lights came on, revealing Levee in a floor-length ballgown made to look like pages from a book, the massive train taking up half the stage, and me in designer black jeans and a gray fitted vest, the sleeves of my white button-up rolled up to my elbows, I came alive behind an onyx grand piano.
There was a reason the world called Levee the Princess of Pop. She carried herself with the grace of royalty, poised with power and experience. But behind the scenes, she was down to Earth and so damn kind. For the first twenty minutes after we’d met, she’d asked a dozen questions about my family and then sidled up beside me to scroll through pictures of the kids on my phone.
On stage, our voices blended flawlessly, her personal brand of sultry harmonizing with my style of edgy soul. With “Turning Pages” as popular as it had become, I’d worried about living up to the standards set by Henry Alexander, but if I’d failed in any way, no one was letting on.
“This is wild,” Bree said as a hulking security guard pulled the door open for us, no questions asked.
I folded my hand over hers and shot her a smile. “I know. Out past midnight and we haven’t turned into pumpkins yet. Who knew?”
She laughed as we navigated our way through a virtual who’s who of the music industry.
Bree suddenly froze, pulling me up short. “Oh my God, is that Shawn Hill? Ohhhh, sweet lord it is.”
Chuckling, I leaned into her. “Yes, and after letting your boyfriend hear that moan, we will be staying on this side of the party for the rest of the evening.”
“I’m not suggesting we invite him back to our hotel room for a threesome. But maybe just a picture I can send Jillian. She gave me a list of people I’m required to slip her phone number to this weekend.”
I curled my lip. “And twenty-two-year-old Shawn Hill was on there?”
Bree shrugged. “What can I say? She likes younger men. And now that you’re off the market, she’s on the prowl again.”
“Then we should definitely go over there and warn him.” Draping my arm around her hips, I put my lips to her ear. “Did I happen to mention that you look incredible tonight?”
She beamed up at me. “Maybe a time or seventy-five.”
Bree was always gorgeous; it didn’t matter what she was wearing: sweaty workout clothes, power suits, or just jeans and a tank top. Though a red backless dress with a high slit up one of her legs definitely never hurt. And neither did the low-cut little black dress she’d changed into for the afterparty.
“Well, let’s make it seventy-six.” I smirked. “You look—”
“Eason, you made it,” Levee said, stopping beside us, her hand linked with a man who had thick tattoos running up both of his arms.
“Hey, congrats on Album of the Year.”
She tucked a rogue brown ringlet behind her ear. “Thanks. I still have no idea how ‘Turning Pages’ didn’t get you a nod. Though, after that performance tonight, I’m sure next year’s nominations are going to look a lot different. My phone has been blowing up, everyone trying to figure out who you are and where I’ve been hiding you.”
