63. Everywhere, Fleetwood Mac
"Everywhere," Fleetwood Mac
Tori
A profound sense of relief washed over me as we entered our building’s lobby, a balm to my frayed nerves. Cruz refused to put me down, his arms unyielding, his strides purposeful. I’d fallen in love with a man strong enough to carry me. How could I have thought I could walk away?
By the fifth floor, my hands trembled so badly I dropped my keys—cold, unfamiliar metal after a month of penthouse keycards. Before I could curse, Cruz had already scooped them off the floor, unlocked the door and hauled me inside.
The door slammed behind us, keys clattering to the floor as I shoved him against it desperate for his skin to prove the truth that we were here, that this was real. His breath was ragged against my lips, his grip bruising on my waist.
Our eyes met, our mouths inches apart, sharing the same breath, and I knew I never wanted to be apart from him again. All that mattered was this—him, us, now .
“Hey,” he murmured, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear, his thumb lingering on my cheekbone.
“Hey,” I breathed, leaning into his touch as my throat tightened. “Missed you.”
Weeks of aching for him crashed into me. I surged onto my toes, crushing our mouths together in a kiss that burned through every lie I’d ever told myself about being better off without him.
My hands shamelessly explored the hard planes of his chest, his back, his hips, my body moving instinctively against the heat between us. His fingers tangled in my hair, tilting my head back as his lips trailed down my throat. When his teeth grazed my collarbone, my knees buckled. In an instant, his hands were under my thighs, lifting me, carrying me to the kitchen island where he settled between my legs like he belonged there.
His fingertips slid under my skirt, and when they reached my panties, I leaned back on my palms to lift my hips, wanting nothing between us ever again.
A crash shattered the moment.We both jolted, our heads snapping to the sound of crashing, coming out of the lusty fog to make sense of the plastic bottle clattering on the tile floor. Bubble bath.
I blinked twice, looking where my palm had landed beside boxes of tampons and chocolate-covered pretzels. Exactly where I’d left them that final morning, when I’d dropped to my knees to prevent myself from blurting out that I loved him.
Brushing the tampon box, a trail of dust came off on my index finger. I closed my eyes to brace myself as reality sank in.
I lifted the pretzels. “You don’t live here.” Shit, that sounded like an accusation.
“No,” he admitted, stepping back and raking a hand through his hair. The loss of his warmth was a cold slap on my thighs.
I curled my legs together, suddenly exposed as a real estate executive who couldn’t even give property to the man I love.
"You really thought I'd live here without you?" His raw voice cracked something open in my chest.
“But I, I thought I was ..” I rubbed my temples, unable to look at him. “I wanted you to have a place that was yours, not tied to your job, so you could focus on your training clients, or your music, or—”
“That’s why you gave it to me?” he asked.
My mind raced, trying to pull together the blurry whir of memories about that day: the deed transfer, packing my clothes, writing the letter … “I thought I told you that. In the letter. Didn’t I say—?”
“You called it a token of your appreciation, Victoria,” he said, his tone resigned. I hated the sound of my full name on his lips instead of being his Tori.
“I thought I was taking care of you,” I whispered. When his jaw tensed, my heart crashed into my toes. “But I just gave you one more thing to maintain.”
“I was never in this for your shit, you know that, right?” he asked, his voice gruff with emotion. “And then you left. You took Connor, let Alex drive you, and I barely got a goodbye.”
“I’m sorry, Cruz. I panicked,” I said, my voice shaking with emotion that I couldn’t steady, even if I’d wanted to. I kicked off my shoes and lowered my bare feet to the floor, approaching him cautiously. “I don’t know what I’m doing, and I feel like right now I’m fucking it all up all over again.”
I swallowed hard, thinking about my first session with my therapist, and her advice that I had to learn to accept support from the people I trusted. It was fucking terrifying, but I powered through the knot in my throat. “But I want to figure it out. Together. As equals. I could quit Sinclair Larsson so we could—"
"No." He recoiled like I'd struck him. "Don't you dare throw away what your mother built. You have the chance to do something incredible with that power. I can’t let you walk away from that."
“So what, then? You said, 'Say yes and figure it out.' So yes, Cruz. Whatever it takes. Yes.”
He nodded with a soft smile, and I exhaled in relief … before his muscles tensed and he glanced down at his scuffed up sneakers. "We might need to try long distance," he murmured.
My hopes deflated. A month ago, he would have dropped everything and moved to the city. I knew it, he knew it, hell, even Alex knew it the day we left. But I’d hurt him, and I would need to regain his trust.
Before I could reassure him that I’d go as slow as he needed, he shocked me. "Because I got offered a record deal last night."
My mouth fell open. "Are you fucking serious?" When he nodded sheepishly, I threw my arms around his shoulders and yelled, “Congratulations! I’m so proud of you, Cruz.”
His arms enfolded me and my brain took off in a runway of ideas about his future career, remembering the way the crowd had cheered his name last night. His hands lingered on my waist as I leaned back to swat him on the chest. “Why didn’t you tell me right away?”
“I was going to have Alex look over the offer.” His shoulders tensed and I nodded, swallowing my disappointment. A month ago, he wouldn’t have hesitated to ask for my opinion, but he’d replaced me. Of course he did. “I don’t know if I’m going to take it.”
“Okay,” I said, trying not to steamroll his consent. “If you want Alex to review it, that’s great. Or if you need a second opinion—”
“Nah, you’re busy,” he shook his head, and his refusal stung. I’d built walls so high no one dared climb them—and now the man I loved was respecting them, and I hated it.
“Cruz,” I said softly, cupping his cheek. “I spent months billing you for air mattresses and furniture assembly. You think I’d let some record label screw you over?”
His warm laugh rumbled, softening the tension between us.
I brought his hand to my sternum so he could feel my racing heartbeat. “I’m sorry I made you feel like you weren’t important. I was lost for a while. But I’m here now. I’m in this, however that looks. If you want your own lawyer, I get it. You need space from me, I respect that, ok?” I licked my lower lip, gathering my courage. “Or if you want me to represent you, just say the word.”
“Tori,” he breathed, immediately shaking his head. “You don’t have time for a stupid record contract.”
“Not stupid. Your career is just as important as mine,” I said firmly. “If you want to do this on your own, without my shadow, I get it. But I learned how to fight from the best man I know,” I said as his lips twitched into a smile, “If you want me, it would be my honor to fight for you.”
He rested his forehead against mine.His warm skin, his gentle breath—it anchored me in a way nothing else could.
“Email me the contract tonight. I’ll rip it apart and—”
“Whoa.” His hands settled on my hips. “We’re not doing this now.”
“But the terms—”
“Can wait.” His lips brushed my temple. “Right now, I just need to know one thing.” His voice dropped, rough with vulnerability. “You’re really okay with this? Me touring? Us being apart?”
I imagined watching his shows on my laptop while buried in paperwork. More videos to grow his channel—songs that he could co-write and not worry about copyright takedowns. Maybe I could record songs for him while he was on the road, to show the world that when you love somebody, you’ll do anything to make it work.
Even when I imagined the late-night phone calls and lonely hotel rooms, it was still better than living without him or trying to do it alone. I was ready to choose the mess, the distance, the uncertainty.
Because it meant getting to love him. To see him succeed and flourish. To get the best of him, and give him the best of me.
“We’ll make it work,” I said, then wagged a finger. “But I am reviewing that contract.”
His grin was pure sunshine. “Yes, ma’am.”
“And Cruz? When you’re not touring, we could be together here, or in New York. Jurisprudence misses you. She wails whenever I turn on your channel.”
“Where is my Princess Prudence?” he asked, his eyes softening.
“At my dad’s place in Tribeca.”
His hands stilled on my waist. “You didn’t move back into the Chelsea townhouse?”
I shook my head. “I’m selling that townhouse, and all of Richard’s places. Too many Sinclair ghosts in those walls.”
“But where will you—?”
“ We , you mean,” I said. “I want somewhere that’s ours. Even if it's not in Manhattan. If you want, we could find a place in—god help me—Queens.”
His laugh rumbled, loosening my chest. “Careful, Blackstone. That almost sounded like you want to take the L train.”
“I’ll survive.” I would deal with the commute if it meant I could keep seeing the way his whole face lit up—like I’d handed him the keys to a castle instead of suggesting a commute. “Somewhere between your mom’s place and work. With space for your guitars and my shoes and … ” I kissed his smirk. “Soundproof walls, so nobody can hear us through the vents.”
“Brooklyn?” Cruz asked, pressing me back into the kitchen island.
“Brooklyn,” I agreed, mentally plotting the best neighborhoods.
But those thoughts dissipated as is hand ran along the slit of my dress. “What about tour schedules?”
I nipped his lower lip. “I’ll fly out for shows when I can. Front row, glaring at your groupies.”
He groaned, pressing his hips into mine. “Fuck, that’s hot.”
My laugh dissolved into a gasp as his hands found their way home. Later, we’d argue about neighborhoods and square footage. Later, I’d tear his record contract to shreds. But now, with his heartbeat thundering against mine, I finally understood.
For my entire life, I’d thought of homes as real estate, to be bought and sold at a profit margin. But being back with him, I understood that home wasn’t about a zip code or MLS listing.
Home was this: The man who hadn’t given up on me. Love that didn’t need clauses to enforce it. And the future we’d build somewhere between our worlds.