I can’t believe he talked me into doing this.

Tricked me into doing this, actually.

But I’m so happy to be here with him, standing by his side, I hardly care that there are twenty-thousand people out there watching us, listening as our voices weave in and out in perfect harmony. We’ve both sung this song a thousand times, but never together before this moment. As much as I’d like to, I can’t deny there’s something utterly captivating about the sound we make together, when our melodies mesh into one. Two different bolts of fabric being slowly threaded together by a single needle. Seamless.

It’s exactly as it was when we first sang together at the nursing home, but the stakes are so much higher now. Not just in terms of the massive audience; the ache of desire and desperation in Ryder’s eyes has never been more potent.

“Wish that I could tell you that you’re hated

All those tears I cried, ‘cause you never tried

And still, for years, I waited…”

I hardly remember the actual performance. I’m so lost in his gaze as we sing into the same microphone, so focused on the brush of his elbow against mine as he stands by my side, the rasp in his voice ringing in my ears, it’s a wonder I’m able to recall the lyrics. I almost forget to wave to the crowd as we walk off stage. My pulse is a sledgehammer roaring between my ears. I want more — of this feeling, of his touch, of his voice, of his body. It feels like an eternity since that night in my room above The Nightingale.

I’ve been waiting — wanting — for far too long.

No more.

We take two steps into the wings, out of the crowd’s view. Before I can get out a single word, I find my body pinned against a stack of storage cases as Ryder closes in. His eyes are full of dark promise, his brows pull together with resolve.

Yes. Yes. Yes.

His lips claim mine less than a second later, harder than I remember and hotter than an inferno. I recognize the urgency in his kiss, a match for my own; I’m equally frantic for him. My hands tremble as they slide into his hair, pulling him as close as I can manage. It’s not nearly close enough. I want him under my clothes, under my skin. I’m so lost in his drugging touch, I barely care who might be watching as his hands roam down my sides, grazing every inch of me as though he’s been starved for my touch.

He’s so gorgeous it hurts to look at him too closely. His bruises are gone. His lip is healed — I suck it into my mouth and he groans low in his throat.

“Felicity.” There’s desperation in his voice. Sheer need, unadulterated and exposed. “I need you.”

I can feel the evidence of that need, steely and throbbing against my thigh.

“I need to touch you.” He kisses his way up my neck. “I need to make sure you’re really here with me.” His teeth scrape my earlobe as he tugs gently on it. “I need you in my bed. Under my sheets.” His voice rumbles into my ear and I gasp. “I need to be inside you while you come apart at the seams.”

God, this man is going to kill me.

I gaze into his eyes, practically panting with desire. “What are we still doing here?”

There’s sin in his grin as he leads me through the side exit. We don’t bother to say goodbye to Lincoln, Aiden, or Carly as we run down the steps and cut around the perimeter of the crowd, our hands laced so tight it makes my bones ache. The loft is close — blessedly close. We tear up the stairwell, a blur of limbs, our mouths fused together as he fumbles with the locked door. I laugh as we fall inside, off balance from our haste, landing on the hardwood floor in a pile of tangled limbs with an abruptness that knocks the wind from my lungs.

Ryder kicks the door shut with a predatory growl and rolls on top of me. When I feel his weight, my bones lose all their density. I am completely at his mercy as I arch my neck to meet his lips in a deep kiss. Defenseless in the best kind of way.

“Not here,” he mutters, hauling me to my feet. We manage to find his bedroom, shedding our clothes as fast as physically possible. I don’t bother looking around at the decor as he tosses me onto the bed. I only have eyes for him as he stalks closer — a predator circling the prey it’s about to enjoy for dinner. He makes my breath catch, even in the dark.

“Ryder,” I breathe, watching him watch me.

“Felicity,” he whispers, spreading my knees apart.

“I need you. I need you so much, it hurts.”

At my admission, his eyes flare with so much heat I think they’ll turn the sheets to cinders as he thrusts inside me, deeper and harder than ever before. This time, there’s no careful concern, no pause to allow me to acclimate. He’s too passionate to be patient. There’s something savage in his expression as he pounds into me, his fingertips digging into my hipbones. Something dark and dangerous that thrills me to my core.

As stars explode behind my eyes, I think of the song he sang for me tonight… the same one I found written on the last page of my journal just this morning when I packed up my life to leave this city behind.

Wasn’t till I left that it hit me…

I was in love…

With a girl named Felicity…

In my head, I add another verse as I come undone underneath him. A verse I’m not quite ready to share — not yet, anyway. Maybe someday, I will.

Spent my life always the outsider

Till I fell in love…

With a man named Ryder…

I hold him close as we move together, creating our own fireworks while the rest of the world watches the Independence Day display exploding in the sky outside his window. I’m sure it’s beautiful, but I can’t find even the smallest ounce of desire to break eye contact with the man lighting every fuse inside me, setting off a shower of sparks that burn me up.

* * *

“Busted.”

My head whirls around. Lincoln is standing a few feet from me, grinning.

I blush profusely.

It’s morning. I’m wearing one of Ryder’s faded band t-shirts, sitting on the counter with my legs swinging as I eat handfuls of dry cereal straight from the box. I was starving, but Ryder looked too peaceful to wake.

There’s an awkward beat of silence as Lincoln and I stare at each other across the kitchen island. The only thing I can think to do is hold out the box in his direction.

“Want some stale Raisin Bran?”

He laughs. “Nah, I’m good.”

I take another handful, then hop down from the countertop. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to raid your cabinets, but I was hungry.”

Lincoln walks over to the fridge and starts grabbing ingredients for an omelette. His eyes slide to mine. “You eat actual food, or are you strictly a three-month-old cereal kind of girl?”

“I would not say no to eggs.” I grin. “I’m famished.”

“From all the cardio you were doing last night ?” His eyebrows waggle.

“Leave her alone, Linc,” Ryder calls, walking into the kitchen.

Turning to face him, I feel my mouth fill with drool that has nothing to do with the prospect of breakfast. He’s in a pair of low-riding gray sweatpants, his chest bare, his six-pack on full display as he walks across the room to my side. There’s a warm look in his eyes as he bends down to press his lips against mine.

“Good morning.”

“Hi,” I breathe, leaning into the kiss.

“You could’ve woken me.”

“Thought you could use the sleep.” I lift a finger to trace the dark shadows beneath his eyes. “You look tired.”

“It was a long day,” he murmurs.

And an even longer night, I think. The gleam of light in his eyes tells me his thoughts are on the same wavelength. Moving with purpose, he removes the cereal box from my grip, sets it on the counter, and hauls me up against his body.

“Breakfast later.” His lips hit my neck, nuzzling lightly. “There’s something else I’d like to do with you now…”

“Okay,” I breathe, all too on board with that plan. I’m already simmering with anticipation as his lips brush mine.

When Lincoln begins to make fake gagging sounds, Ryder turns and shoves him in the arm.

“Dude! Chill.” Linc rubs his bicep then goes back to making coffee, mumbling under his breath as he shoves a filter into the basket and dumps a few scoops of ground beans inside. “Bastard gets a little action, suddenly can’t take a joke…”

The door to Aiden’s bedroom slams open and bangs against the opposite wall. We all jump as the bassist steps into the room, looking pale and shaky. I half expect him to tell us he’s seen a ghost.

“Man, did you do mushrooms again?” Ryder shakes his head. “Last time it took you two days to come down.”

“No.” Aiden swallows hard. “I’m totally sober.”

Linc rolls his eyes. “Then what’s with the dramatic entrance?”

“I just got off the phone with one of the scouts from Route 66 Records.”

The air goes still.

“And?” Lincoln prompts, abandoning his coffee cup.

“They saw our set last night.”

“And?”

“They want to sign us.” Aiden’s throat works as his eyes sweep across Lincoln and Ryder, coming to rest on me. “All of us.”

“No fucking way!” Linc’s grin overtakes his entire face. “That’s amazing!”

“What do you mean, all of us?” Ryder asks.

Aiden is still staring at me. “They want Felicity, too.”

“Mother fudger,” I whisper as all three of them turn to stare at me.

* * *

Ryder’s hand is tight on mine as we climb out of Linc’s car and head for the door of the coffee shop where Aiden arranged for us to meet with the scout from Route 66. A grim tension has descended over our small group as we walk inside.

At least the yelling has stopped.

When Aiden broke the news about the record deal, Ryder and Lincoln were at each other’s throats in the span of a minute. Linc thought it was a no brainer that I’d join the band — of course I’d sign on with them to sing. Of course I’d want to go on tour. Of course I’d consider moving to Los Angeles to work on the album.

What kind of crazy person doesn’t dream of landing a record deal?

Me.

But someone like Linc, who’s dreamed of the spotlight for as long as he can remember, can’t possibly understand someone like me, who’s never wanted attention or public recognition. I don’t have to look farther than my own family tree to justify my reasoning. I’ve seen firsthand how fame can destroy a life. From the outside, it might seem like the best thing in the world… nothing but endless royalty checks and universal adoration. But that astronomical success comes with a level of scrutiny and pressure that’s far more of a burden than it is a blessing.

I spent my childhood in a steel cage; I have no desire to trade it for a glass house.

When Ryder told Linc to stop pressuring me, the tension escalated to a breaking point. Thankfully, Aiden managed to diffuse the situation before punches were thrown. I swallowed down the immediate impulse to run and told them I’d go to the meeting, buying myself some time to think of a way to extract myself from this tangled web.

The weight of Lincoln’s eyes is heavy on my face as he holds open the door for us to walk inside. I can almost see the accusation simmering beneath his skin — the outright anger that I somehow hold the keys to the future he’s always wanted.

I look down at my feet and feel Ryder squeeze my fingers in reassurance. I know he can sense how torn up I am inside. Just as I can sense that, no matter how much he’s trying to hide it from me, he’s just as invested in this Route 66 deal as Lincoln.

The guilt inside me grows so overpowering, it’s hard to breathe.

I might be able to deal with disappointing Linc and Aiden. But Ryder?

I don’t think I could stand to see the look in his eyes if I dangled his dreams in front of him, only to snatch them away at the last moment. I don’t think I could stand myself, if I did that.

Aiden spots the talent scout — a chic-looking woman in her early thirties with an asymmetrical auburn bob and long, pin-straight bangs. She’s dressed in stilettos and a sleek white suit I’d never in a million years be able to wear without staining. She’s speaking rapidly into her phone, but hangs up when she sees us walk in.

“Hey.” Ryder tugs me to a stop before we follow Aiden and Linc over.

I glance up, eyebrows raised.

His lips graze mine in a light kiss. “You do not have to do this, Felicity. I know how you feel about being in the spotlight. I know this isn’t your dream. And I hope you know, whatever you decide, I’ll back you up. I’ll make sure Lincoln doesn’t flip out on you.”

“Thank you,” I murmur, stretching up on my tiptoes to kiss him properly.

We take our seats and soon become the subject of the scout’s intense focus.

“I’m Francesca Foster with Route 66,” she says in a forthright, no-frills tone. Her eyes are sharp with intellect as they move from me to Ryder. “I’m not going to waste your time, or mine, with ass kissing. I don’t do ass kissing. I do facts. And the facts are, if you sign with us, I can make you very, very successful in a very, very short timeframe.”

“How do you know that?” Ryder asks, sounding dubious. “Not to undercut your enthusiasm, but we’ve been through this before, to disastrous results. I apologize if we’re a bit skeptical, but we only have your word to go on, here.”

“I encourage skepticism. It’s a healthy method for ascertaining truth.” She straightens her shoulders and folds her hands delicately on the tabletop. “Your lyrics are strong and catchy, for the most part, though I’d suggest you ditch the re-tuned Lacey Briggs songs and write entirely new material, perhaps involving Felicity in the process to better suit your sound.”

Everyone looks a bit stunned at the level of intel she seems to have on our group.

How does she know about Lacey?

Does she work for the CIA?

“Your instrumentals are also quite solid. You’re comfortable both playing and performing together. There’s a natural energy between the three of you”— she gestures at the boys — “that makes it clear you have the ability to create good music together.” She pauses. “Good, but perhaps not exceptional.”

Lincoln’s eyes darken with anger. “That’s bulls—”

“I am not finished.” Francesca smiles, but there’s iron behind it. “This is where Felicity comes into this equation. She’s the wildcard.”

I go still, not liking the sound of that. At all.

Ryder chuckles lowly. “Fitting.”

When Francesca’s brows lift in question, he clarifies. “Felicity’s last name is Wilde.”

“Ah.” She doesn’t laugh. Simply straightens her shoulders again and launches back in. “As I was saying, the three of you have a solid group dynamic. But the four of you… it could be phenomenal.” Her eyes are speculative. “Ryder and Felicity — your voices are completely complementary. Perfectly suited for duets. I haven’t heard harmonizing like that in years. With a bit of polish, some vocal coaching… you could make an incredible album. You could sell a lot of records.”

“And what, exactly, would you want from us in return?” Ryder keeps his voice calm and even, but I can tell from the way he’s squeezing my hand beneath the table that he’s excited by the things she’s saying. “We’re not interested in a label that tries to change our sound or manipulate our image.”

“If I can be frank — it takes far more brute force to take a rough lump of clay and chisel it into a sculpture than it does to acquire a beautiful piece of art, pull it out of storage, and put it on display for the world to enjoy.” Her smile is small, but steely. “I’m interested in signing fresh talent, not manufacturing it.”

Lincoln is nodding. Aiden is fighting a smile. Ryder’s grip tightens on mine.

I can feel their hope, tangible in the air around me.

I am holding their dreams in my hands.

“You seem so sure there’s an audience for us,” I chime in, feeling my defenses rise. “I just don’t think you can be certain of something like that, at this stage.”

“As I said, I like data. However, I’m not so rigid that I cannot accept the existence of some variability. There is, to use a common term, a certain X-factor that makes some groups rise astronomically to the top of the charts, far faster than any projections can account for.” Her pause is heavy. Her eyes are intent. “I believe you have it.”

“Still.. this seems like a huge gamble for you. We’re nobodies from Nashville and you’re convinced you can take us to LA and turn us into stars, essentially overnight?” I shake my head. “It seems a bit too good to be true, if I’m being honest.”

“Honesty is always appreciated, Felicity.” She smiles placidly. “Do any of you have a smartphone with you?”

“I do,” Linc says, pulling out his iPhone.

“Do me a favor.” Her eyes crinkle slightly at the corners. “Plug the word ‘Nashville’ into your search engine.”

“Just ‘Nashville’?”

She nods, watching him type. The smirk on her face reminds me of a magician setting up an unsuspecting audience member for a slight of hand. The smirk grows into a smile when she hears a curse explode from Lincoln’s mouth.

“Holy shit— look at this!” He shows his screen to Aiden, whose eyes widen. They both look a bit stunned as they pass the phone over to Ryder. I peek over his shoulder so I can see what all the fuss is about and feel my breath hitch.

The screen is full of dozens of results from the past few hours. They all have headlines that say things like:

Country couple’s onstage reunion: watch it now!

Fireworks in the sky — and on stage — at Nashville music festival

Each article has a video clip attached. Ryder’s finger taps the screen and suddenly, I’m watching a tiny video of… me.

Running onstage, barefoot, my hair falling out of its braid. My face looks totally star-struck as I slam to a stop ten feet from Ryder. He’s still singing the song he wrote for me, eyes closed. The audience is going insane as they wait for him to look up and notice me standing there. And when he finally does…

That kiss.

It’s magic. Pure magic. Like something out of a fairy tale. Scripted like a Hollywood movie.

I must make some small sound of concern as I read through the hundreds of thousands of comments piling up at the bottom of the article.

Blyss G: Omg, who are these two?! That’s true love right there!

Sumita M: Someone give them a record deal, STAT.

Taylor W: Is this on iTunes yet?

Sara E : Get yourself a guy who looks at you the way he looks at her…

“Wow,” Ryder breathes.

“Wow,” I concur.

“There are hundreds of articles just like that one circulating around the internet as we speak.” Francesca’s voice cuts through the fog inside my brain. I look up and find her watching me carefully. “Your love story — and your music — has gone viral. People want to know who you are, where you came from, what you’re doing next… They’re already emotionally invested. And if you capitalize on that momentum… if you let me help you do it… I have very few doubts about your future.” She pauses. “Does that answer your question about why I’m so confident there’s an audience out there for you?”

All I can do is nod. I’ve been effectively stunned into silence.

Francesca sits back in her chair and expels a sharp breath. “I like concrete numbers. Solid figures that support my reasoning. I never make an offer if I don’t know, with certainty, that it’s going to be mutually beneficial for all parties involved.” She reaches into her slim briefcase and pulls out a sheet of paper with about a dozen names and contact numbers typed in crisp, lowercase font. “These are just a few of the deals I’ve brokered in the past few years. All artists who signed with Route 66 and went on to do great things. By all means — reach out to them. Do your homework on me. Ask around. Everyone will tell you the same thing: if Francesca Foster makes you a promise, she’ll deliver on it.”

She reaches into her bag again, extracts a contract, and slides it across the table toward us.

Aiden has a shellshocked expression on his face.

Lincoln looks a little bit in love with her.

Hell, I’m half in love with her. I want to be her when I grow up.

“We’re going to need some time to discuss this,” Ryder says, squeezing my hand so tight I think my fingers have lost circulation.

“Naturally. Nonetheless, I will need your answer by tomorrow night — I’m headed back to Los Angeles on the red-eye. Keep in mind, if you accept this deal, we’ll want to bring the four of you out to LA as soon as possible, to get the ball rolling. Media attention may be plentiful right now, but next week there’ll be someone else in the news if you don’t take control of your narrative.” She rises gracefully to her feet and stares down at us as she slings her briefcase strap over her shoulder. “If you have questions, call me. My direct line is on that sheet. If you don’t like something in the contract, it can be amended. I’m all about transparency.”

We all rise to shake her hand, trading polite goodbyes. The boys manage to stay silent until the door swings closed behind her before exploding into motion.

“Holy shit!” Lincoln yells.

“Unreal!” Aiden grins. “Just un-fucking-real!”

Ryder is scanning through the contract, his eyes devouring the words on the page with such intent focus, I can hardly stand to watch. “This looks good,” he mutters under his breath. “This looks fucking great actually.”

Linc and Aiden crowd around him so they can look as well.

I don’t move.

I’m frozen. Paralyzed. Trapped inside a nightmare.

Francesca made it clear that, without me, there’s no deal.

You’re the wildcard, Felicity.

Which means, it all comes down to me. My decision. There is no vote. This is not a democracy.

I am the dictator. I am the monarch.

Off with their heads.

There’s no way I can pretend to be impartial here. I am holding three futures in my grasp, fragile as glass, and if I decide to drop them…

They’ll shatter.

It would be hard enough to choose, even if Ryder wasn’t part of the equation. But he is. And I can’t ignore the fact that my decision will have lasting effects that ripple out across not just our lives, but also our relationship.

There is no win-win scenario I can see here. No gray area. Either path I pick, one of us loses.

If I walk away, I keep my life of safe anonymity… but I could lose him in the process.

If I agree, I could make his wildest dreams come true… and lose myself completely.

I am balanced on the edge of a razor-blade — sway too much in either direction, I’ll wind up sliced in two.

Him or me.

His dreams or mine.

…but definitely not both.