Chapter Three
Evie
"The show is sold out."
"Wait. What?" I blink at my mom, sure I heard her wrong.
"You sold out, baby girl," she says, beaming at me through my phone screen. "I just got off the phone with Addison. She said the last tickets sold overnight."
"Oh my gosh." I drop into a chair in my kitchen, my legs shaking. Actually, I think my whole body is shaking. "But…that's like…"
"Twenty-five thousand people," my mom says, still smiling like she wants to climb through the phone and throw her arms around me. "You did it, baby girl."
I'm not going to cry. I'm not going to cry.
I kind of want to, though. My first stadium show in Los Angeles officially sold out.
Holy shit.
"Dad didn't buy all of them again, did he?" I ask, narrowing my eyes at her.
"He only did that once!" she says, laughing. "And it was your first show. He was excited."
"Excited?" I stare at her with wide eyes. "He paid Dax to go down to Broadway and stand on the street corner, giving them away, Mom! That's unhinged." It's also totally on brand for him. There's nothing he wouldn't do for us.
"Well, it worked, didn't it? It kept your brother out of your hair, and it got butts in seats for that show.
" She grins at me, her blue eyes gleaming, before setting the phone down on the counter, pointed straight up at the ceiling.
"And look at you now. Your show is sold out, and he had nothing to do with it this time. You did this yourself, Evie."
I bite my bottom lip, fighting the urge to cry again. A year and a half ago, I was playing in dive bars, fighting like hell to be taken seriously, not as Kasen Alexander's nepo baby, but as an actual artist. Now, twenty-five thousand people are coming to see me. It doesn't seem possible.
"I wish you guys could be here," I whisper.
Mom immediately picks up the phone again, her expression soft. "I wish we could, too, baby girl. But your dad isn't allowed to travel yet."
"I know. I'll just miss you." Dad just had a bad case of appendicitis. If he had to stay in the hospital much longer, his doctor was going to murder him. They probably let him leave before he should have because he's a horrible patient.
"We miss you, too, baby girl. But Everly is there, and you're going to do amazing."
"How's he doing?" I ask, drawing circles on the kitchen table with my finger.
"He's fine," Mom promises, rolling her eyes. "The man refuses to stay in bed unless I sit on him."
"Yeah, that's probably the point," I say, giggling.
She snorts but doesn't deny it. She can't hide her smile, though. My parents are crazy about each other and always have been.
Things weren't always easy for them, especially after he left her the night before they were supposed to get married when they were kids, but he's spent his whole life making it up to her. And she's spent hers telling him that she forgave him a long time ago. That never stops him, though.
When I fall in love, I want it to be with a man who loves me the way he loves my mom. He never tries to hide the fact that she's the most important thing in his world, or that he's wild about her. If I can't have that, I don't want it.
My mind drifts to Kingston before I groan out loud, burying my face in my hands. I swear, the man keeps popping into my head for no reason! All night last night and all morning, he's just invited himself into my brain.
It's annoying as hell. I do not like him.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing," I quickly lie, yanking my hands away.
"Uh-huh." Mom grins at me. "And is nothing named Kingston Monroe?"
"Everly told you?" I groan.
"Oh, baby girl," Mom says through laughter. "Your sister didn't have to spill the beans. It's been all over the gossip sites."
"Great. Has Dad seen anything about it?"
"He has. He's staying out of it."
I blink at her, shocked and suspicious. My dad doesn't stay out of anything, ever. Literally, ever. If there's trouble, he's probably causing it. "What? Why?"
"He trusts you."
"What does that mean?" I ask, even more suspicious now. Kingston literally fell at my feet in front of the world and then told the media the lamest story ever—that he was trying to speak to Hughes, the man who was standing beside me.
No one bought it. Literally no one.
I don't know why I stepped over him like I did. It only added fuel to the fire he started. My Instagram comments are a shitshow right now. Everyone wants to know if we're dating.
"It means you've built an incredible life and career for yourself," Mom says, her tone gentle. "When you meet the man for you, you'll build something beautiful for yourself there, too. You don't need your dad telling you what to do. You're smart enough to figure it out on your own."
I stare at her for a long moment. "You know he's full of crap, right? If he said all of that, he's swimming in it."
"He usually is," she agrees with a laugh, "but he was serious this time."
"Wow." I sit back in my chair, shocked. And not entirely convinced. The day my dad actually stays out of something will be the day the whole world mourns because he's gone. And that isn't allowed to happen. He has to live forever. "Well, it doesn't matter anyway. I don't even like Kingston."
"Uh-huh," Mom says, and she has that tone—you know, the one that says she thinks I'm as full of it as my dad is. "Is that why your laptop is open to his social media?"
"What?"
She points behind me.
I turn, see what she's talking about, and squeak, practically throwing myself out of my chair to slam my laptop closed.
"You saw nothing!" I cry. Research and internet stalking are not the same thing.
"You mean like the picture of Kingston that you were ogling?"
Dammit. Busted.
"Nothing!" I cry again.
Mom just cracks up.
An hour later, my phone dings while I'm at the piano, aimlessly striking keys like that'll give me inspiration.
I stop and scoop my phone up, frowning.
"What the hell?"
I open the notification, convinced I saw it wrong, but no. It's right there in living color. Kingston just followed me on Instagram.
"What is he doing?" I whisper…not entirely sure I even want to know. If this is his way of convincing the press to buy his lies, he needs media training. They're going to be all over this.
I want to message him to ask what he's up to now, but I don't. I don't follow him back either. I don't even open his feed. See? I have self-control.
It lasts approximately 2 minutes and 10 seconds, and then my phone dings again.
I don't even try to pretend I'm not rabidly curious. I snatch it up like it holds the answers to the universe.
"Oh my gosh," I whisper. Did this man seriously just slide into my DMs? Yes. Yes, he did.
I tap the message to see what he wants.
Kingston: I'm sorry if I embarrassed you at the game last night, princess.
That wasn't my intention. In my defense, it's not every day that a man comes face to face with fate and gets a glimpse of his future.
I just wanted to tell you that you have an incredible voice.
It blew me away. I can't wait to hear you sing again.
"Oh, he is shameless!" I mutter, gaping at his message. I might be smiling too. Jesus. This is bad.
I set my phone down, determined not to message him back.
And then another message comes through.
Kingston: I see you read my last message. And you haven't blocked me yet. I'm taking that as a positive sign.
"It's not," I growl, glaring at my phone.
Kingston: I listened to your album last night. Not afraid to admit I listened again this morning. Jesus Christ, princess! I'm in awe. Did your dad teach you to sing like that?
I don't know why I pick up my phone to answer him. Really, I don't. But my fingers fly across the screen.
Me: No. I learned in church like every other good little southern girl.
I hit send, then realize he's probably going to think that gave him an opening.
Me: You can stop messaging me now.
I don't even have to wait five seconds for his response.
Kingston: You responded.
Kingston: You went to church? I bet you were adorable in your little church dresses, singing in the choir.
Me: Pretty much everyone in Tennessee goes to church, Kingston. Why are you in my DMs?
Kingston: Because I've been thinking about you nonstop since I saw you in the locker room yesterday. I want to see you again.
My heart flutters before I remind myself that he's probably like this with everyone. I quickly flip my phone around and snap a photo of myself before sending it to him.
It's not a good one. I'm in sweats, no makeup, with my hair in a messy bun. Basically, the way I look most days. Hopefully, he'll see it, decide that I'm not what he's looking for, and move on quickly.
That thought doesn't sting. Not even a little bit.
I'm also a dirty liar.
Me: There. Now you've seen me again and can move on with your life.
Kingston: Goddamn, you're beautiful, baby. I could get lost in those eyes and not regret a second of it.
Oh, jeez. He really is shameless, isn't he?
Kingston: And just so we're clear, there will be no moving on. I'm already planning our future.
Me: Rufus will be thrilled to hear that.
Kingston: Rufus is adorable. He's a boxer, right? Why'd you lie about being married?
"Dammit," I groan. Of course he figured that out already. I glance across the kitchen at Rufus, who is passed out in his bed like usual. I really need to stop sharing so many photos of him. How am I supposed to use him as cover if the whole world has already seen him?
Me: Who says I lied?
Kingston: You don't like me much, do you?
Me: Do you want the truth?
Kingston: Absolutely.
I consider what to say for a moment and then shrug.
Me: I don't know you well enough to know if you're likable or not.
But you strike me as the kind of guy who makes a habit out of shit like this, and that's not something I'm interested in.
You're wasting your time and mine playing a game you won't win, just because I'm not interested in sleeping with you.
He doesn't respond immediately, and part of me regrets being so honest with him. I don't make a habit of hurting feelings or being mean. It's just not something I like to do, and it bothers me to think that I might have hurt his.
I set my phone aside and pluck a tune on the piano. It sounds morose and kind of sad, though.
My phone dings, startling me.
I snatch it up so fast, it makes me dizzy.
Kingston: A few things, princess. First, I'm not that kind of guy.
I don't even talk to women, let alone make an ass of myself in public just to get their attention.
I don't slide into their DMs to leave fan mail just to fuck, either.
If you don't believe me, ask around. Second, I told you what I wanted when we met.
I meant it. I'm not playing to score. I'm playing to win.
Third, getting five minutes of your time will NEVER be a waste of mine.
Once my ring is on your finger, every second of it will belong to you. Use it however you want.
"Oh my gosh," I whisper, my hands shaking around my phone. Either he's lost his mind, or I have, because I actually think he might be serious.
And I have absolutely no idea how to respond to that. None at all.
I'm not entirely surprised when I open my eyes in the morning to a new message from Kingston. I'm also not entirely surprised by how quickly I tap the notification to see what it says.
Kingston: I dreamed about you last night, princess. I made you smile so big, I felt like a king. Waking up in my own bed to realize it wasn't reality was depressing as hell. Did you dream about me?
"Yes," I groan, admitting the truth to the ceiling since I'll never tell it to him. I dreamed about him all damn night.
Me: You realize it's six in the morning, right?
I don't even make it to the bathroom before he responds.
Kingston: I've been up since four, baby. Did you sleep well? I bet you looked fucking adorable, snuggled up with your pillow, moaning my name.
I groan, setting my phone down to splash water on my face. He really is shameless. He's also probably not wrong about me moaning his name in my sleep. I will not be telling him that, though. He doesn't need any encouragement.
Me: Why are you up so early? Aren't athletes supposed to party all night?
Kingston: Yeah, no. I tried that shit one time in college. Zero stars, do not recommend.
Me: Couldn't hang, huh?
Kingston: With a bunch of frat boys who do that shit professionally? Fuck no. I thought I was going to die.
I laugh out loud, trying to imagine him at a frat party.
Honestly, I can't. He doesn't really seem like the type.
I don't know much about sports, but I know enough to know the athletes who make it to the professional level are beasts.
They train harder than anyone on the freaking planet, eat a lot of boring food, and exercise enough to make my soul shrivel.
I could never.
Kingston: What are you doing up so early?
Me: It's not early in Nashville.
Kingston: You're back in Nashville?
Me: No, but I've only lived in LA for two months. My body is still on Nashville time.
Kingston: Do you like it here?
I set the phone down to get dressed, mulling my answer.
Me: I thought it'd be different, but it's really not. Everything is pretty much the same as it was back home. There is just a lot more traffic.
Kingston: That's because you're from Nashville. Try coming from a small farming town in Minnesota. LA is a whole different world.
I smile at the phone, damn near running into the wall.
Me: You're from Minnesota?
Kingston: Born and raised on a soybean farm. Even played in Minnesota for a few years before I got traded to the Knights.
Me: Do you miss it?
Kingston: Less since I met you.
I groan out loud, shaking my head. As soon as I think maybe he's normal, he says something like that. I like it way more than I should…and that's dangerous.
He doesn't even know me.
Me: Whatever you're after here, you aren't going to get, Kingston. I wish you'd stop trying.
Kingston: Who says I'm after anything, baby? Maybe I just want to get to know my future wife.
Me: We are NOT getting married.
Kingston: We are. You'll see.
Kingston: You're going to fall for me, Evie. I'm not giving up until you do.
I read his message twice, my heart pounding. For a moment—just a split second really—I let myself wonder if he actually means it, if that's really what he's after here.
"Nope," I growl, dropping my phone onto the island. "No way." I'm not letting myself fall for that. I can't, not if I want to survive this man with my heart intact. He's dangerous, for a lot of reasons that it's far too damn early to even think about right now.
Instead, I do the smart thing.
I close out of our chat, determined not to open it again.