“All packed?” Monica asks me on FaceTime.

I walk from the foot of bed to the window sill. My phone is propped up against a small cactus plant. A late afternoon sun covers my room is dusky orange. It’s kind of melancholy in a way. The idea of spending a year away from home, from everything I’ve known for twenty-three years, suddenly hits me.

“Just about.”

“Don’t be sad,” she says. “You’re gonna have a blast on tour.”

I shrug. “I know.”

“Good on you for using it as a job, too. See, that business degree came in handy.”

I smile. Business rep to the biggest band in the world does have a nice ring to it.

There’s a knock on my bedroom door.

“I gotta go. I’ll ring you when I get to the airport.”

“Sure, babe.” She blows me a kiss and we end the call.

“Come in,” I shout.

Mom walks into the room. “Hey, honey.”

“Hey.”

“Have everything you need?”

I roll my eyes and grin. “Yes mom.”

She scans my bed. The entire contents of my wardrobe are sprawled across my duvet like a junkyard sale.

Starting over to her, I place both my hands on her shoulders. “Mom, it’s time to stop worrying.”

“I can’t help it, honey. You’ll always be my little girl.” She looks at my suitcase. “Are you sure this is what you want?”

“For now . . . yes.”

“And Jay treats you right? I grew up in the sixties you know . . . Mick Jagger, Robert Plant . . . those singers had reputations.”

“Mom!”

“Just saying. Don’t let him hurt you.”

“I won’t.”

A warm smile pulls at her lips and her eyes turn glassy.

I push into her arms and give her a big hug. Although she always moans at me, I know it’s because she loves me and wants the best. As we embrace, I feel my eyes become misty and my throat tighten. A year away from my small town world, and then after . . . who knows.

Parting from our hug she brushes the hair away from my eyes. It’s the same tender, motherly gesture she’s done since I was a kid. It feels nice and familiar, making this choice—for just a split second—seem like the hardest one I’ll ever make.

She clears her throat. “Your father will take you to the airport.”

“It’s okay, I booked an Uber.”

“Nonsense. Your dad wants to take you. He may not express himself like I do, but he loves you just the same.”

“I know. Thanks mom.”

She searches my eyes. “I’m proud of you.”

That’s it. Water works. For the first time in my life I feel validated. My parents have always met my dreams with resistance before—reality, as they like to call it. Now, with those four simple words coming from mom’s own lips, I know I’m doing the right thing.

* * *

If I thought the American fans were crazy for Sweet Agony, then this UK fan base makes them seem pedestrian by comparison. They sing back the songs so loud they almost drown the band out.

I’m standing backstage, reviewing the travel itinerary with the tour manger. All the paperwork is laid out on top of a disused speaker. As I try to crunch costs for both the band and crew, the house lights dim.

A hush blankets the entire arena. Curious at the sudden change of energy, I look out and see Jay take the middle of the stage. Holding onto an acoustic guitar—which is odd seeing as he never plays instruments live—he sits on a backless stool. A single spot light shines down on him as the rest of the band take five in the shadows.

I frown at the manager. “What’s going on?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Can I see the set list?”

Looking as confused as me, he grabs the attention of a passing roadie and asks for the order of songs. A few seconds later the roadie scurries back with a crumpled piece of paper in his hand. I snatch it from him, muttering my thanks.

Carefully, I examine the list. They’ve just played their greatest hit and should be following it up with their latest single.

I walk to the edge of the stage and wait.

“London,” Jay calls out. Everyone cheers. “London, I’d just like to slow things down for a moment. This is a tune that’s never been heard before.”

What is he up to?

“Actually, that’s a lie.” He pushes his mouth closer to the Mic. “Krissy . . .”

What the—?

“Hey, Krissy . . . come on out here.”

Completely thrown, I stagger onto the stage. The spotlight fixes on me, almost blinding me, and the full capacity crowd cheers.

As I get closer to Jay, he offers me his hand.

“What are you doing?” I whisper to him. “This is so embarrassing.”

The bright white spotlight now shines on us both. Thousands of camera phones are held up high in the crowd, creating a magical look that seems as if me and Jay are floating above the stars.

Jay smiles at me and places his fingers on the fretboard. “This song is called Hard Rock Love.”

Not knowing what to do with myself I stand there, idle and feeling stupid. Just as my annoyance peaks he starts playing.

I am completely and utterly floored by what I hear.

It’s the song . . . the song he sang for me that first sweet time in his hotel room.

He hasn’t changed a thing. Same words, same beautiful guitar playing. My heart beats wildly.

When he finishes, the crowd break into emphatic applause. It’s a tender ballad that’s treated with the respect it deserves—there’s no screaming, no anything, just a wave of appreciation from each and every fan.

“Ladies and gentleman,” Jay says into the mic. “That song was about a very special girl.” He gazes up at me from the stool, wearing a slight smile on his face. “For this girl, standing right here with me . . . my rock.”

I gasp and my whole body trembles. Jay wrote that for me. Although we’re officially boyfriend and girlfriend now, he still makes me feel like a teenager—all butterflies and weak knees.

“One more thing,” he says, “Krissy, look at the screen behind us.”

Slowly, with my heart still stuck in my throat, I turn. The giant screen, which normally displays the band’s logo, flashes. Replacing Sweet Agony is a question mark. Nothing else. When I look back down at Jay, my brows meet. Reaching into his pant pocket, he pulls out a small box.

“Krissy Swinton . . .” He rises from the stool, sets his guitar and mic down, and drops to one knee.

The crowd goes wild.

“Will you marry me?”

A flood of tears rain down and I hold my hands over my mouth in shock.

He opens the box. Inside is the biggest diamond ring I have ever seen in my life.

“Well?” he presses.

I don’t answer; this has to be a dream now.

“Krissy,” he whispers, titling his head to the crowd, “kind of got a show to get on with here.”

Snatching the microphone off the stool, I scream into it. “YES!”

The house lights explode in color and the crowd all cheer. The sound is deafening.

I glance toward the tour manger, and then look at the band. They all nod and clap, each wearing a silly grin. Bastards—they knew all along.

Jay pushes to his feet and slides the ring on my shaking finger.

If I thought the crowd was loud before, that was nothing to the noise they make when I kiss Jay. I laugh into his mouth.

Pulling away from him, I stare into his beautiful green eyes. “Why me?”

“Because you’re the one. I love you, Krissy.”

I can’t stop crying—tears of sheer joy and bliss. “I have to tell Monica,” I say through staggered, raspy breaths.

He shakes his head.

My brow furrows. He points off stage and I follow his outstretched hand.

Monica, standing next to the drum kit with Greg on her arm, wipes away tears of her own.

Jay, with all his little idiosyncrasies, the rock and roll dramas and tantrums, the pushy fans, the worldwide acclaim, has picked me—a humble girl from a small town, who only ever wanted an autograph—to be his wife.

I kiss him again, harder.

His lips taste so much sweeter knowing I’ll soon be Krissy Tyler.

This should only ever happen in fairytales, or in the movies, but I’ll take it . . .

Boy, will I take it.