Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
Dean
Can’t Help Falling In Love
Elvis Presley
The bike is a bad idea. And, that’s exactly how I know it’s the right one.
I picked it up at eight a.m., signed papers with a guy who recognized me and tried not to freak out, then parked it in the Sapphire Resort’s side lot like a promise I wasn’t sure I could keep.
Now it’s ten-ish, Memphis already sweating through my shirt, and I’m leaning against the seat pretending my pulse hasn’t been clocking out since last night.
Sadie walks out of the hotel like she stepped off a magazine cover I didn’t ask for but can’t stop staring at.
She’s wearing a sundress and wow. But of course, she’s still wearing boots, always with the damn boots.
Hair loose because apparently, she woke up and decided I should suffer.
Camera bag cross-body, sunglasses pushed up into her hair, that look on her face like she’s not sure if she’s excited for this or bracing for impact. Probably both.
“Hey.” She smiles when she gets close.
It’s just one word but my heart does that stupid thing it’s been doing since Lincoln. “Hey.” I nod at the bike. “You good with this?”
Her lips part a little like she’s surprised I’m asking. “Yeah. I mean, I’ve never been on one, but-”
“I’ll be careful,” I promise, the words come out before I can stop them. Too soft. Too honest. Sadie’s gaze flicks to mine. A heartbeat of quiet passes between us, the kind that says she heard what I meant, not just what I said.
“Okay,” she murmurs. “I trust you.”
Trust. That word lands like a fist.
I hand her the spare helmet and watch her put it on, fingers fumbling with the strap. I step closer without thinking, take the ends from her hands.
“Let me,” I mutter, tightening it, checking it twice.
My knuckles brush the underside of her jaw.
She goes still. So do I. That spot right under her ear is warm.
The pulse there jumps when I touch it. I feel it because I’m too close and because apparently, I’ve lost all common sense when it comes to Sadie Brooks.
“You’re good.” I clear my throat roughly, stepping back like the air is on fire.
Sadie bobs her covered head. “Cool. So, Graceland?”
“Yep.” I swing a leg over the bike. “Hop on.”
She hesitates for half a second. Then she climbs on behind me, careful, light. Her hands hover like she doesn’t know where she’s allowed to touch.
I keep my voice even. “Hold on to me.”
“Dean…” My name unsure on her lips.
“Sadie.” I glance over my shoulder. “It’s a motorcycle. Don’t make this weird.”
Her laugh is small, breathy. “You started weird.”
Which is fair. She slides closer, arms wrapping around my waist. Her body presses into my back, hips snug against mine and, Jesus, every nerve I own lights up.
When I start the engine, the vibration goes straight through both of us.
She stiffens, then relaxes as I pull out of the lot and into Memphis traffic.
We don’t talk. We don’t need to. The city rolls by in flashes of color. Murals, barbecue joints, tourists crossing Beale Street even this early, the river glinting off to the left like a blade. The air is thick and sweet, and Sadie’s arms are a steady, warm band around me.
It should feel like a hookup. Just a convenience. It’s a much-needed day off. Instead, it feels like something I don’t have a name for anymore.
We hit the highway and I open the throttle a little, just enough to feel the wind bite. Behind me Sadie tightens her grip, her cheek brushing my shoulder. It’s nothing, and yet, it feels like everything.
I’ve been on bikes since I was sixteen. I know the language of speed, the way it clears your head, the way it makes you feel like you can outrun anything chasing you. Today, though?
Today I’m not outrunning anything. I’m letting it catch me.
Graceland comes into view like a church. White columns. Iron gates. That manicured driveway you’ve seen in a million photos. In real life it’s smaller than the legend and bigger than my chest can handle, both at the same time.
I park, kill the engine. Sadie slides off behind me, tugging off her helmet. Her hair is helmet-messy, her cheeks are pink, and she looks alive in a way I haven’t seen since… ever.
“Okay, I get it.” Her eyes pop wide as she gazes up at the house. “This is actually really gorgeous.”
I grunt like I’m not vibrating. “Yeah.”
We walk through the gates with a small crowd of tourists. Nobody notices me under the hat and sunglasses. If they do, they’re polite enough not to say anything.
Inside, the first thing that hits is the quiet. Not silence, but a hush. Like people are stepping into someone else’s memory. Sadie falls into photographer mode, lens up, eyes darting across details. She’s good. Always has been. She doesn’t just take pictures, she catches stories.
By the time we get to the Jungle Room, it’s hard to contain my awe, mostly because I can’t hide it. The green carpet. The carved wood. The waterfall wall. The sheer ridiculousness of it and the way it still feels sacred.
“This is where he made music,” I blurt before I can stop myself.
Sadie’s lens drops. “Yeah?”
I nod, throat tight. “Not the stage stuff. The private stuff. The stuff you do when there aren’t cameras and crowds and expectations.”
Her gaze softens. “That matters to you.”
“It mattered to him,” I explain.
Sadie studies my face like she’s trying to line up pieces. “You see yourself in him.”
I scoff because the truth is sharp. “Not the fame part. The loneliness part.”
She doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t tease. Just nods. “I get that.”
“You’re really a fan-fan,” she states when we hit the foyer, voice pitched low.
“Don’t start.” I go into defense mode.
She smiles, not unkind. “I’m not starting. I’m just, surprised.”
We move room to room, and I try to keep my voice steady when I tell her the dumb facts I’ve hoarded since I was a kid; what album was recorded where, which guitar he used, why the upstairs stays closed, what that lightning bolt on the wall means.
Sadie listens like it matters. Like I matter. At one point we stop in the trophy room. Gold records shine under museum lights, costumes behind glass, framed photos that look like snapshots of another universe.
Sadie points her camera at a black-and-white shot of Elvis onstage, head thrown back, mic in hand like a weapon. “He looks like he owned the room,” she whispers.
“He did,” I confirm. “But he also… he didn’t.”
She turns to me. “What do you mean?”
I stare at the photo too long. “He gave everyone what they wanted.” My voice lowers. “And then went home alone.” I frown, finally snapping my gaze away from the frame.
Sadie goes still. And I hate that she understands without me saying another word. We head outside into the sun, the heat smacking us full in the face. We wander the grounds, quiet, just breathing in the place.
She takes a few shots of me when she thinks I’m not paying attention. I don’t call her out. I like the way she sees me when she thinks she’s only documenting.
We end up by the Lisa Marie airplane, tourists milling around us. Sadie climbs a step for a better angle and turns to me with this bright, almost girlish grin.
“Okay, you were right. This was worth it.”
I look at her, really look. Wind-tangled hair. Sun on her skin. That open-hearted awe she can’t fake even if she tried. Something in my chest gives.
“Yeah,” I agree quietly. “I’m glad you came.”
Her grin falters into something softer. “Me too.”
And then we just, stand there. Not touching. Not talking. But close enough that I can smell the sunscreen on her skin and the faint floral of her shampoo. I shouldn’t want to close the distance but I do anyway.
“Sadie,” I start, and I don’t even know what I’m about to say.
She looks up. “Yeah?”
God. Those eyes. I take a step closer. Her breath catches. Not scared, but aware. “I’m not sure how we’re supposed to do this,” I confess, voice rough.
She blinks, cheeks lifting with a small smile. “You’re making that pretty obvious.”
I huff a laugh that’s mostly pain. “I haven’t let myself want anything in a long time.”
“And do you? Want this?” She tilts her head analyzing me.
“I think so.”
Her face changes. Slowly. Carefully. Like she’s stepping onto thin ice. “Dean-”
“I know.” I drag a hand through my hair. “I know. You don’t owe me anything. You don’t owe me patience. Or kindness. But last night, on that roof, the other day on the stage, on the side of the road-”
“Don’t,” she whispers, interrupting me.
“Let me finish.” My chest is tight. “You didn’t run when you could’ve. You didn’t use what you saw. You don’t make me feel like I’m broken.”
Her throat moves as she swallows.
“I’m not sure I deserve that,” I add.
Sadie exhales shakily. “You don’t have to deserve it for it to be true.”
I stare at her. She’s not angry. Not desperate. Not trying to fix me. She’s just… there. And that does something lethal to the last wall I’ve been holding. I lift a hand, slow, giving her every chance to stop me. My fingers skim her cheek, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
She leans into my touch like its instinct.
Like she’s been waiting. I don’t think. I just pull her closer and kiss her.
It’s not gentle. Not at first. But it is like a collision, weeks of heat and denial and fear cracking open at once.
Her mouth parts on a breath and I go in like I’ve been starving, one hand in her hair, the other at her waist, holding her steady as the ground shifts.
Sadie makes a sound; it’s soft, stunned, surrendered and it wrecks me. I deepen it, slow and hot, tasting her like a promise I’m terrified to make. She kisses me back with that same quiet fire she has behind a lens, the kind that says I see you, and I’m not afraid.
Her hands slide up my chest, gripping my shirt, pulling me closer. I don’t let go. I can’t.
The world narrows to her mouth, her breath, the way she fits against me like she was always meant to be here.
My heart is slamming against my ribs, not from panic this time, but from something brighter and far more dangerous.
When I finally break the kiss, my forehead rests against hers. We’re both breathing hard.
Sadie’s eyes are glossy and shocked and glowing. “What was that?” she whispers.
I swallow. The truth is a blade. “Me not being stupid,” I murmur. Then I shake my head once, because that’s not right. Not anymore. “Me trying to being honest.”
Her lips curve. Small. Trembling. “I’ll take honest.”
I brush my thumb over her lower lip. “Good.” I nod, and the word comes out like a vow.
We stand there another second, surrounded by tourists and legend and heat, and somehow it still feels private. Like the whole world stepped back to give us room.
Sadie lets out a breath and leans her head against my chest like she belongs there.
I don’t stop her. I don’t pull away. I wrap an arm around her and stare out at the airplane, at the open Tennessee sky, at the ghost of a man who loved hard and lost hard, and I think to myself that maybe love doesn’t go away.
Maybe it just waits until you’re brave enough to hold it again.