“This is awesome,” Sam breathed, taking a box of Pop-Tarts off the shelf and throwing them at the cart in wonder.

I frowned as I looked down at the box in the cart, settling amongst all of the other foodstuffs Sam had haphazardly thrown in there, like a child whose mother had given him free rein.

I didn’t believe in diets and always saw to it that I had sweets in the house, but even I didn’t go that far. I doubted there was anything that hadn’t been created in a warehouse in the entire cart.

Which was not good news for me. I had nonexistent willpower. As evidenced by my ass.

“They’re Pop-Tarts, Sam,” I said. “I’m sure they have them in LA. Though I’m sure they’re gluten-free, fat-free, fun-free versions.”

He chuckled and then advanced on me, yanking me into his arms and kissing me full. On the mouth. In the middle of a grocery store.

Granted, it was just before eight on a Monday, so just before closing time, which meant it was all but deserted, but still. There were some rouge shoppers lurking around the corner, ready to catch Sam and me in an embrace. Or worse, take a picture of it. I blanched at the thought of someone photographing me in my black jeans and tee. Though they were flattering, and I was wearing wedged heels that elongated my legs, they still showed… me.

“Did you just make a joke, Thumbelina?” he murmured against my mouth.

I forgot about feeling uncomfortable. The concept was rather laughable in Sam’s arms. I was quickly swinging into normal with Sam. Him.

Which was insane. Not because of his fame or his money or his lifestyle.

Because he was Sam.

I was living the dream that even my teenage self couldn’t imagine. Because this wasn’t him, the man my teenage self dreamed up. Granted, I was far too innocent to dream up a man who liked to spank me in the bedroom and order me around. And far too innocent to imagine I’d like it.

To imagine I’d love it.

“I think I did indeed,” I replied, grinning easily.

He grinned wickedly back. “I’m not amazed at the Pop-Tarts, though I do love them. I’m amazed at the grocery shopping part. And actually being able to shop. Usually it’s a spectator sport for me. I don’t even attempt it in LA, which sucks because I love grocery shopping.” He paused, grinning. “That was when I used to do it alone, without a thousand cameras. Now I have no cameras and you. And I’m discovering, like everything else, that I love grocery shopping with you, especially when you make a funny. I’m rubbing off on you, it seems.” He pressed his hard body into mine with an evil hunger twinkling in his pupils. My stomach dipped, even though we’d only just gotten out of bed and he’d only just gotten out of… me.

I was also sad at the reality that such a mundane experience in ordinary life couldn’t exist in Sam’s extraordinary one. Sure, it wasn’t a tragedy by any stretch of the imagination, but it was yet another example of the two different universes we inhabited.

I swallowed heavily. “Sam, we’re in a grocery store,” I reminded him.

“I know,” he agreed, not letting me go, or even looking around the aisle, which was still thankfully empty.

“They frown on this sort of behavior here,” I continued.

He glimpsed around at the deserted aisle. “They?” He raised a brow. “Do you see them too?” he rasped in a faux horror movie whisper.

I rolled my eyes and giggled, then clarified my original meaning. “This.” My eyes darted between us.

“I know this is a conservative town, babe, but I’m not naked, nor are you. And I kissed you with barely any tongue, so we’re good.” He yanked me so I rubbed against his body. “But we will not be if you distract me with your womanly wiles much longer,” he growled.

I giggled. “My womanly wiles?” I repeated. “I’m not sure I have those. And even if I did, I don’t think asking you about Pop-Tarts counts.”

A shadow went over his playful expression. Not completely, but it tarnished it slightly. “You are not to do that,” he ordered. “I know you haven’t heard it enough so you don’t think it’s true, but you’ve looked in the mirror enough so you should at least have an inkling.” His hands ghosted over my hips, grazing my rib cage and moving inward so they brushed my nipples, which hardened immediately despite our public location. Or maybe because of it. I was learning about all sorts of things I didn’t know my conservative self was into.

Or maybe I was just into Sam.

“You are beautiful,” he murmured, his hand moving down my back to grasp my sizeable behind. “And womanly. Perfect, in fact. So much so, you could be talking about broccoli, which is much less sexy than Pop-Tarts, and you’d still be distracting me with your womanly wiles. You breathe and you fuckin’ do it, Gina.”

I blinked at him, and his words, which were floating around me, persuading me to invite them in to replace years of belief in the opposite.

But it wasn’t that easy. And movement out of the corner of my eye had the moment broken.

I couldn’t decide whether I was happy or upset over that fact.

“Sam, there’s someone coming,” I whispered, pulling—or trying to—out of his arms.

He had a firm grip on me. “Yeah, and not the person I want to be, and not in the way I want them to be,” he muttered, his voice rough.

He squeezed me once more with a playful glint in his eye, then let me go. “This isn’t over,” he informed me. Then he glanced to the woman pushing her cart. She smiled at me.

I put my focus on her. “Meredith,” I greeted, once I’d blinked away my sex haze. “Hey.”

“Hey, Gina,” she said warmly. “You seem to have the same idea I do. Shopping in Hampton Springs’ version of the dead of night to avoid the masses.” She winked.

Then she looked to Sam, her eyes betraying nothing but perhaps the smallest glint of recognition, her smile remaining as she looked between us. His hands were still twined around mine, as if he was loath to give up all physical contact.

It felt nice. More than nice that anyone would feel that strongly about me.

But Sam?

It was “melt in a puddle at his Doc Martins” kind of nice.

“Destroy me” kind of nice.

Since I was slack-jawed and in my own head, Meredith kicked in to do the humaning thing I simply hadn’t mastered in my twenty-five years.

She extended her hand. “I’m Meredith,” she said to Sam. “Friend of Gina’s.”

He beamed, letting my hands go, but only to yank me into his side with one arm and extend the other to Meredith. “Sam. More than friend of Gina’s.” He winked at her.

Her eyes glowed. She took him in, took us in. And I didn’t feel uncomfortable under the probing gaze. It was warm and appreciative. Not looking at the rock star and the girl who so didn’t measure up, but looking at the girl and the guy and just being happy for this. For us.

Sam’s head turned to me in shock, then back to Meredith. “And you’re here to witness a rather pivotal moment,” he told her. “This is the very first time that Gina has not disputed being mine in front of an audience.”

I rolled my eyes even as I realized the truth in that statement. It both terrified and comforted me.

Meredith grinned wider. “I’m honored,” she played along with Sam’s insanity.

Sam looked around the aisles. “We should celebrate with cake. Or a fine bottle of champagne.”

Meredith nodded. “All celebrations need cake. Aisle four, I think. But I’m sorry to tell you that the finest bottle of champagne this joint offers is twenty dollars, and I think it’s made in Poughkeepsie,” she deadpanned.

“Haven’t you heard? Poughkeepsie is where the finest champagne is made. France comes in a poor second,” Sam said seriously.

I shook my head, sensing this could go on for a long time if I didn’t do something about it. “As important and riveting as this conversation is, the store is closing soon, and I’m sure you’ve got better things to do than entertain Sam,” I told Meredith.

Sam nodded. “And we’ve got cake to procure. Aisle four, you say?”

Meredith giggled, nodding. I shook my head again.

She reached forward, squeezing my hand, face sobering slightly. “I’m happy for you, Gina,” she murmured. “You deserve this.”

It was such a simple statement filled with such a genuine sentiment that it caught me for a second.

Luckily she didn’t expect me to respond. She glanced up to Sam, letting my hand go. “If you hurt her, I’ll break both your hands, despite what a crime to rock ’n’ roll it would be.”

Sam beamed. “I wouldn’t expect anything less. I’m glad Gina has such good friends. It’s the best ones who threaten to maim new boyfriends.”

Meredith chuckled in agreement. “And that threat is not empty, my friend. It was nice to meet you.” She looked to me. “You are not escaping margarita night this time. It seems we have a lot to talk about.”

And before I could protest, her heels clicked across the floor as she walked away.

I watched her with a warmth spreading through my bones at the realization that I hadn’t isolated myself as much as I thought I had, and that Sam was beginning to show me that.

He squeezed me as his lips touched my head. “Aisle four?” he asked.

The smile spread on my face, unbidden by my mind, by logical thought. It was something much different, much bigger than my head controlling my facial muscles.

It was him. But whatever followed him around, the energy he spread just by being.

“Still crazy after all these years,” I commented, still smiling.

His eyes twinkled with a smile of his own, but also something else. Something deeper. “Paul Simon? I’m impressed, Thumbelina,” he murmured. “This is turning out to be an excellent night. I’m quite certain I’m going to live in it forever.”

So then there was cake.

And I didn’t even think about the calories.

We more than worked them off later.

* * *

One Week Later

“Sam, you’ve got to let me go,” I ordered, aiming for the stern tone I reserved for my students. Though it was hard to sound stern or even attempt to considering I was having trouble with the brain-to-mouth part of speaking. Sam had taken care of turning my brain to a post-orgasm mush.

Thoroughly.

Twice.

And it wasn’t even 9:00 a.m.

“No, I shall never let you go,” he declared, yanking my naked body to plaster against his so all hope I had of getting out of bed was squashed by his substantial strength.

It was crazy, how quickly I’d lost all form of self-consciousness about being naked in front of him. Even a woman with all the self-esteem in the world would feel uncomfortable next to the sculpted and tattooed god who was currently naked.

In my bed.

And had been for almost a week now.

This was a dance we’d been doing for that almost week. Him yanking me back to him, pleading with me not to leave for the thing I had to do to survive.

Even though that was quickly becoming him.

What he did when I was working was anyone’s guess. He had his Louis Vuitton tote bag exploded in the corner of my room and my life and hadn’t said anything about going anywhere. Not that I wanted him to. I liked coming home to him pouncing on me at the door. Liked lying in bed with him, watching stupid sitcoms between lovemaking. Enjoyed seeing his things scattered around my room, and a guitar resting against the sofa in my living room.

I’d asked about it, considering he played drums.

His face had gone slightly closed off before he shrugged. “Can’t exactly fit a drum set in here.” His eyes had gone around my small and comfortable living room.

It had hit me, that statement. I kept forgetting his was the rich and famous version of Sam Kennedy. It was kind of a big thing to forget. But he didn’t act like that. He just acted like… Sam. With more expensive jewelry and obnoxious luggage.

That moment, though, I remembered. He was the Sam who sold out arenas around the world, whose albums went platinum, who graced the cover of many magazines and who went to the Grammys every year. Who had a yacht in Cannes, which he threw epic parties on, apparently.

And I was Gina, who earned just enough to pay for her mortgage, feed herself, keep herself clothed and shod and in a constant supply of books and knickknacks.

Just.

That Sam and this Gina lived in different houses. I was sure he had mansions scattered around the globe and my tiny, slightly rundown if lovingly decorated home was more than a little lacking to him.

He somehow snatched all that uncertainty from my mind as he snatched my body into his arms.

“Whatever you’re overthinking about that statement, don’t,” he ordered. “This place is perfect. Beyond that. It has everything I need, which I’m holding in my arms. Home.”

His eyes had gone faraway and strange then, and he’d sucked in a breath that was similar to the one I’d used to give me the courage to pour out my heart to him the week before.

“From the start, I didn’t have a home that existed within four walls and a roof,” he said, eyes on mine. “It was one of those crappy Walkmans, you know the ones that took a cassette tape and should be fossilized and in the graveyard with record players and CDs? The graveyard being my library, of course. I never let music die.” He grinned, the expression at odds with the sad flavor to his words. “It was bright yellow, and I had one tape in it for about two months. It was Stone Temple Pilots’ Purple. I think Mom and Dad got it for me because it was another way to get me out of their way, make me invisible.”

He laughed. I didn’t like the sound it. It wasn’t a sound of happiness. It was drenched in bitterness.

“If only they could see me now, see their little plan backfired.” He paused. “I guess they can see me now, if they so wished. Along with a billion other people. But they don’t. Unless they want cash, of course.” He shook his head, as if he could shake away the pain of such memories. “Anyway, I played that fucking tape so much, I think I burned the music right off it. And because I didn’t get enough money to buy them new, I’d troll secondhand stores for new ones. Or new old ones.” His eyes twinkled. “One man’s trash is another man’s treasure, right? Or one man’s treasure he was too fucking stupid to recognize finds its way to one who does. One who appreciates it for what it is and isn’t fucking stupid enough to let it go. Ever.”

The way he looked at me when he said that had me thinking he wasn’t just talking about the tape deck.

“Those vintage stores gave me the impeccable sense of style you see before you, because it wasn’t enough for me to just listen to the music. I had to embody it. Become it. Put on the trappings of the rock star. So that was my home for a very long while. A shitty tape deck, some scuffed Doc Martins, an old Rolling Stones tee and crappy jewelry that turned my fingers green.” He grinned at me, holding up his sparkling bejeweled hands. “Still have the tee and the Docs, just upgraded on the hardware.” He smirked. “Anyway, back to story time with Sam. One of my garage sale tape expeditions found me a pair of drumsticks. No kit, mind you, just two chipped and faded wooden sticks. They could’ve been kindling, but in my eyes, they were the sparkling rings amongst all the coal. My treasure.”

His eyes flared with mischief and something else. Something deeper. Something I wanted to dive into and live in. Drown in.

“My precious,” he rasped in an excellent Gollum impression. Only Sam could do such things in the middle of exposing his heart. “I couldn’t explain the pull, but having them in my hands just felt right. Corny, maybe, or just a kid looking for something to hold on to when he’d never had anything to grasp in his life. Whatever it was, those one-cent sticks began a fucking legend. I’m not too humble to say it.” He winked.

I got it then. I’d always gotten it before, that his humor was his defense mechanism, but I really got it now, when I was immersed in his story and in his past that I guessed he hadn’t shared with many. It seemed like it was the first time he’d even shared it with himself. He said things like that, talked himself up, not because he was trying to convince me or the world of his greatness. No, both the world and I were already very well-educated on that. He was trying to convince himself. I thought I, a former and current chubby girl with self-esteem issues and an emotionally abusive ex-boyfriend, had a long way to go with self-love when no one really told her she was beautiful. But it was he, the magnificent and handsome and talented man before me, who needed it the most. When you had everyone telling you how great you were, it seemed like it was worse than no one saying it.

I snatched his hand and squeezed it, bringing it up to my mouth to first lay my lips on the cold silver of his rings and then onto the warm skin of his fingers.

They jerked in response, and his eyes flared like he understood the reason for my gesture, saw it all, the thoughts I’d just had and the silent support I was trying to share through my touch.

It was then that the man with so much to say said it all without even opening his mouth. And he heard everything I was trying to say.

The silence lasted an age and yet only a sliver of a moment before his eyes regained cohesion with his physical space and jumped out of my emotional space.

“So I got a paper route, mowed lawns, cleaned gutters and emptied my Dad’s pockets when he’d passed out on the sofa.” He jumped back into his story with gusto. Almost too much. Eyes too bright, like he was trying to compensate for the darkness of the thoughts his words brought. “I squirreled it all away for the crappiest drum set you’ve ever seen. Practiced whenever I could, which was usually when my dad was working, which was rare, and passed out, which was often.” His eyes flickered with a horror that, even fleeting, cut through a carnal part of me.

“Told Wyatt and Noah, who decided we’d be rock stars. They got instruments of their own and boom! We began.” He paused. “No. We really began when we heard Lexie singing Pearl Jam in the empty concert hall at school six years ago. That’s the we, though. The beast. Unquiet Mind. We were made. But me? Music made me. Constructed me from all the collected, earned and stolen notes and I just followed. My home was a drum kit, then the stage, the excellent hair, the girls. All the trappings.”

He played with my fingers in his, as if he was creating notes, right there with our intertwined hands. “They didn’t last, though. Like the high of the coke that I was so fond of for luckily just a moment, it wore off. All of it. And sometimes, if I looked too hard, the background of my life, my home, it’d whistle in the breeze and I’d see the thinness of it all like a background of a cheap Hollywood movie. It was all two-dimensional. Surface but no substance.

“Which was why I didn’t look too close. Why I made sure to move fast enough so I couldn’t look close enough. But then there was a point where I didn’t have any other choice but to look. Because I found that real home, substance, in stark fucking 3D. And that’s home. You. First, it was sinking into you.” His eyes went hard and soft at the same time, and a small but intense smile licked at the corner of his mouth. “And forgive me for my crassness, but I convinced myself that it was just good pussy. Even when I knew better. I was still moving fast, you see. But then I slowed down. I woke up with your lazy eyes and naked happiness and I saw it. Home. Which is more than just your fucking pussy, babe. It’s holding your fucking hand. Watching you dance like an idiot and butcher Bob Dylan when you think I’m not watching.” He leaned forward. “And I’m always watching, just so you know. “This.” He held his hands to my shelves, my cozy little room, and then yanked me to him to lay a kiss on my head, then my nose and my mouth. “It’s all home,” he murmured.

I didn’t know what to say to all of that. Well, I did. But I wasn’t going to blurt out “I love you” when he’d only been really, truly in my life for a week. He said a lot of intense things, the very last sentence being one of those, but I still sensed it wasn’t time.

“We can make room for a drum set,” I found myself whispering instead.

He laughed, yanking me into his embrace as he did. “No, babe. Don’t need one. Not when I’ve got you.” His hands traced circles on my back, then started to tap. “But my hands get twitchy if I don’t make at least a little music. I know it’s hard to believe, but I get even more nutty if I don’t get my hands on an instrument.”

I regarded him, his hands and the guitar. “I didn’t know you played,” I said, deciding to focus on the guitar portion of the conversation while I digested the rest.

I’m sure it would take me about the same amount of time as it would that gum I swallowed last week.

He shrugged. “I sure don’t play as well as Lexie, or Wyatt.” He narrowed his eyes. “And I will deny, under torture, ever uttering that if you feel inclined to repeat that to him,” he warned.

I grinned and made the motion of zipping my lips.

He grinned back. “I just hit the drums. Lexie writes the best songs, sings them even better.”

I gaped at him. “You write them too?”

His eyes moved sideways, not meeting mine, as if he was embarrassed or something.

But that couldn’t have been it. Sam didn’t get embarrassed. Ever. Even when he should.

“Like I said, not as good as Lexie. Scribbles, really. Gibberish,” he dismissed.

I frowned at him, then stroked at his own furrowed brow. “I doubt that,” I said softly. “I’d like to hear something sometime, if you wanted.”

He stared at me as if he was looking for ridicule in my eyes. “Yeah, maybe. Sometime.”

He had yet to play in front of me. Though I knew he had been playing because the guitar was in different spots by the time I got home.

I didn’t press, though. I saw it was something to him, and he wasn’t comfortable with it. He needed time. I was one who could understand that. And even though I worried that time was one thing we didn’t have, I gave it to him.

I worried about that because of how utterly perfect the last week had been. How enthusiastically happy I’d been. How easy, natural, mind-shattering everything was with Sam.

And I knew a life like that was temporary. It didn’t last forever. Nothing did.

He had a life to get back to, after all. I was waiting for it to hit—reality. For the hordes to descend on our sleepy little town once word got out that Sam was here.

The media followed him everywhere. He was a guaranteed story. So I’d been beyond surprised that someone hadn’t tipped them off about the whereabouts of one of the most famous people in the world.

That tip would’ve been worth a lot. And this wasn’t exactly a cashed-up town. I knew my friends would never sell me out, all two of them—three, counting Garth. But I couldn’t say much for the rest of them.

In fact, I would’ve bet my little lump of savings that Simon would’ve been the one to sell the story out of spite. But everything had been quiet. We didn’t turn on the television, didn’t peek at any social media. We were switched off from that world. Just living in our own.

And when I’d asked Sam about the absence of that other world knocking at our doors, he’d shrugged. “Maybe another Kardashian got divorced,” he said. “Or that Korean guy set off some nukes. I’m not always big news.”

That was a lie and I knew it. But I wasn’t ready for the ugly truth just yet.

The loud screaming truth. I was rather enjoying the quiet truth. And surprisingly, Sam was enjoying my quiet life too.

He came to game night with Pria and Garth. And once both of them had gotten their jaws off the floor and stopped acting like psychos—well, Garth stopped, at least—it was a fun night. Sam slipped into stride easily with us. He acted like playing monopoly with me and my married friends was more exciting than whatever parties he usually went to on a Friday night.

Though he was not a good loser, muttering about the game being rigged when Pria and I had won.

He also seemed content with my usual lazy Sunday, though I was sure he usually went to some boozy Sunday brunch at some trendy rooftop café, or whatever it was that famous and fabulous people did on their weekends. Not that weekends had any meaning to such people, but I knew Sam worked. He’d been touring for a year and had played hundreds of shows, and played the part of Sam Kennedy for that year too. It must’ve been exhausting.

And I didn’t miss his numerous phone calls, text messages, and notifications, all of which he ignored.

He mentioned something about being in the middle of recording an album, but when I expressed my worry about keeping him from his work, he dismissed me. When I tried to press him on it, he made sure to distract me. Thoroughly and utterly.

He seemed at home in my little cottage, my head on his chest as I read and he just sat there, stationary, nothing in his hands apart from me, looking and feeling completely at ease.

We were both in our underwear. I’d first fought against this dress code, yanking long dresses over my head whenever we ventured out of the bedroom. He’d yanked them right off and then swatted tenderly at the hands that tried to cover myself.

“No, you are not to hide yourself from me,” he demanded, bending down to kiss my navel. It took every ounce of willpower not to shrink away, not to run from the room in fact. Every man should know that even the most fit women didn’t like having their stomach touched. Or maybe the most fit women did. I didn’t know since I’d never been a fit woman.

But his touch was so reverent, so loving, that I melted into it as his mouth traveled to my hips, marked with the blemishes of a thankfully small amount of stretch marks, but they were there. His lips brushed right over them.

“I know it’s not as easy as me saying it and making you believe it,” he murmured. “But you’re beautiful. I’ve seen a lot of women. And not a single one of them can hold a lighter, let alone a fucking candle to you,” he growled.

So I let myself wear my underwear around him. And as long as I didn’t catch my reflection in the mirror, we were good.

“I like this,” he muttered.

I glanced up from my book to his face. “What? The multitude of chins I’m currently treating you to at this angle?”

He scowled at me. “Shut that beautiful mouth if you’re going to keep saying insane things like that.” His fingers went to trail over my lips. “No, this. Just sitting here. With you. Watching you read. Just doing nothing.”

I pushed myself up from my spot, as it wasn’t exactly a favorable position to have a conversation in.

“It’s Hygge,” I said, placing my bookmark on my page and closing my book, setting it down with small grin.

He frowned in confusion. “Isn’t that a children’s diaper brand?”

I full-on grinned that time. “No, it’s a way of life. A Danish one. It’s slowing down, appreciating the small comforts. A warm fire, a good book, a hot cup of tea. It’s seeing all that simplicity and recognizing it. Bathing in it and nothing else. Just letting it sit. Sink into your soul.”

I’d started off confidently, lightly, explaining the concept to him. The one I thought I understood so well. But as I said the words, curled up in him, tasting them in the air, I watched the way his face changed and his smile disappeared, replaced with something so profound that I could barely even look at it without squinting. Like the sun or something.

That’s what Sam was stripped down, his mask for the masses off: the sun. And I got why he wore the mask, because he’d blind the whole world if he let them see something like that. The homogenous mass couldn’t understand that.

But for me, the one lucky enough to be in his arms for however long, I’d gladly go blind.

“Not good at slow, babe,” he murmured softly. “Or at least I wasn’t. Now I get it. Stopping. Not to smell the flowers.” He inhaled deeply. “But this. This fucking moment where we’re doing nothing but it’s fucking everything. I thought it needed to be loud and big and fucking chaotic to feel things in your soul, but that didn’t even touch the surface.”

The week had been full of moments like that. Ones that were too perfect to even exist, in a week that was too fantastical to even exist.

But it did.

And I was in the present, and it wasn’t a Sunday morning but a Tuesday, which meant a school day. Which meant leaving Sam. “I have to work, Sam,” I told him against the warm and hard pecs I was nuzzling into.

He squeezed me tighter. “Can I come, at least?”

I giggled. “No, you cannot come. You’ll be a distraction, among other things. And you’ll most likely teach toddlers words that their parents would not thank me for. Words I probably don’t even know.”

He gasped in mock shock, yanking me up to lie half on his body. “I do great with children. They love me,” he said proudly.

I giggled again. “I’m sure they do. But you still can’t come.”

He pouted.

I stayed strong.

He sighed long and hard as he did every morning.

“Fine, if you insist,” he grumbled.

“I don’t, my employer does,” I corrected him, kissing his head and regretfully pushing up to get myself dressed.

I still held my breath a little turning my naked back to him, my dimpled ass in full view.

Even the most perfect of weeks, the most perfect of men, couldn’t combat or erase what a lifetime of insecurity had created. What decidedly imperfect men had inflicted.

And even the most perfect of weeks had to end. With the imperfect man deciding it was his chance to destroy some more.