That was an adjustment, to say the least. I’ve always been an introvert, someone who enjoyed his solitude. I spent many years by myself—or mostly by myself, with the exception of Lana—so to go from that to someone with me almost all hours of the day was hard.
Pulling my phone out of my pocket, I scroll through social media for a few minutes before the front passenger door is swung open, and a beast of a man slides into the seat, practically shaking the whole vehicle.
“’Bout time you show up, dude,” I mumble under my breath, a smirk on my lips as I glance up at the back of his head.
Augustine is my security detail, and he lives in the in-law house behind mine. He’s retired military, buff as all fuck, and not somebody you’d want to mess with. He’s also wicked hot. “Fuck you, Bradley.” His voice is deep and gruff.
“Now, boys, let’s get along,” Adam mutters as he takes off down my driveway.
We all chuckle.
Augustine and I actually get along great. He has a dry sense of humor and he’s not afraid to give me shit, and vice versa. I struggled with his presence at first, especially in my house, but I’ve come to realize how essential he is. He and his whole crew do wonders at keeping the wild fans away any time we go anywhere. And those people can get fucking rowdy sometimes.
We make it to the label’s office right on time, and the meeting only takes about an hour. I’m heading back into the studio in the coming weeks to work on my next album. And while I’m pumped to get back to recording music, I’m also majorly slacking because I only have a couple of songs written.
I was supposed to write on tour, but that didn’t fucking happen. So, now I have to buckle down and get shit on paper before I’m back in the studio. My manager doesn’t know this, though. According to him, I’m all set. He’d fucking flip if he knew the truth.
As far as managers go, Fitz—orFitzgerald, if we’re government naming him, because his parents are a couple of pretentious douchebags who took one look at a newborn baby, and thought, yeah, that’s a perfect name—is one of the good ones. In the music industry, there are horror stories regarding managers and the shit they put their artists through.
Yeah, Fitz can harp on me sometimes, and he’s a hardass, but nine times out of ten, I fucking deserve it. He’s always had my back when it’s mattered the most, and I’ve never felt like he didn’t have my best interests in mind when making decisions.
Walking back to the car, I notice how much hotter it’s gotten since I went into that meeting. My t-shirt is sticking to my back, and there’s a light sheen of sweat lining my forehead and the back of my neck.
Gross.
“Hey, Adam, can you stop at that coffee shop a few blocks down? I want to grab an iced coffee before heading home.”
He nods, eyes on the road as he pulls out into the intersection. “Sure thing, boss.”
Sandy’s Café isn’t too busy, thankfully. This place is my favorite coffee shop in all of Nashville. In fact, bold statement, but I’d even go as far as to say it’s my favorite coffee shop ever. I don’t fucking know what these baristas put in these iced coffees, but it’s like crack. So fucking good. Prior to moving here, I wasn’t even that big of a coffee drinker.
The barista with the flirty eyes and the French braid calls my name, letting me know my drink is ready. I grab it off the counter, my phone buzzing in my hand. Glancing down, it’s a text from Voss.
Voss: I’m coming over tonight. Let’s grill
Me: I’m down. Bring beer. I’m out.
Before I can put my phone away and look up, I run straight into the back of someone, my coffee nearly slipping out of my hand. “Oh, shit,” I sputter, taking a step back and shoving my phone into my pocket before reaching out and grabbing the arm of the stranger I just about took out. “I’m so sorry. I wasn’t paying attention.”
They turn around, and all the air is sucked out of my lungs. I can’t breathe.
There’s no way.
There’s no fucking way.
My hand goes up, clutching my chest as time stands still.
I’m seeing a ghost. That’s the only logical explanation for the sight I’m seeing.
Because there’s no fucking way, the man standing before me in a black leather vest, crisp white tee, and a perfect five o’clock shadow, is who I think he is.
“Segan?” the man who has to be a stranger asks, voice raspy and rough, sounding like he just woke up, exactly as I remember it, with eyes so stormy gray, they’re almost silver. “Holy fuck, is that you?”
I don’t know how long I stand there, staring at him, wide-eyed and gaping. Probably only a few seconds, but it feels like an eternity by the time my mind catches up, eyes narrowing on him. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
Josiah DeMille, someone I never thought I’d see again, lifts his to-go cup in the air. “Getting a cup of Joe, just like you.” He tips his chin toward the contents in my hand.
A sound that’s not quite scoff, but not quite a laugh either slips out of me. “I meant here, in Nashville,” I deadpan.
