Chapter 5 Sadie
Sadie
The stage lights felt different tonight. My voice felt stronger than it had in months, and I knew Grammy's honey remedy was only part of it. The real difference was the man standing at the back of the crowd, pewter eyes steady on mine like an anchor in rough seas.
Gavin had come to watch me perform.
He wasn't taking photos or videos like most of the audience.
He was just listening. Like my music mattered to him in a way that had nothing to do with celebrity or career potential.
The memory of his hands on my skin in the kitchen that afternoon, the way he'd kissed me like he was starving for the taste of me, sent warmth curling through my belly even as I sang.
"This next song," I said into the microphone, my voice carrying clearly across the December air, "is one I wrote a few years ago when I was feeling pretty lost. Sometimes we all need reminding that home isn't always a place. Sometimes it's a feeling you find when you least expect it."
I started the opening chords of "Small Town Dreams," and watched Gavin's entire body go slack. His hands dropped to his sides, and even from the stage, I could see the way his breathing changed. The memory of him confessing that this song had saved his life made my throat tight with emotion.
This is the song that pulled him back from the edge.
The lyrics took on new meaning as I sang them.
It wasn’t just my story anymore, but his too.
The breakdown that led him away from high-class dining’s brutal kitchen culture.
The late night on his apartment floor, listening to my voice remind him that dreams didn't have to cost your soul.
I found myself singing directly to him, pouring all the connection I felt into the melody.
When I reached the bridge, our eyes met across the crowd, and I sang the words like a promise meant only for him. Around us, the audience swayed and hummed along, but it felt like we were having an intimate conversation in a language only we understood.
The song ended to enthusiastic applause, but I barely heard it. All my attention was focused on the man who'd found salvation in my lyrics before he'd ever known my face, and the way he was looking at me now like I was something miraculous and fragile and completely necessary.
I finished my set in a haze of anticipation, my body humming with awareness every time I caught sight of him in the crowd. When the last song ended and I thanked Silver Ridge for being an incredible audience, my voice carried more genuine warmth than it had in months.
As I packed up my guitar, festival-goers approached for the usual post-show routine. Tonight, instead of feeling drained by their attention, I found myself energized by their stories. Real connection. Real impact. The reasons I'd started making music in the first place.
But through it all, I could feel Gavin waiting, patient and steady as a mountain, and my skin felt electric with the promise of whatever came next.
When the crowd finally dispersed, I found him by the side of the stage, hands shoved deep in his coat pockets, breath forming clouds in the cold air.
Christmas lights strung around the festival grounds cast a warm glow over his face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw and the intensity in his pewter eyes.
"So," I said, slinging my guitar case over my shoulder, trying to sound casual despite the way my heart was racing, "what did you think?"
"I think," he said, "you know exactly what I thought."
He looked at me like he wanted to devour me right there in the Christmas lights. I stepped closer, close enough to catch his scent of pine and kitchen spices.
"I think hearing you sing that song was like watching someone reach into my chest and touch my soul."
The raw honesty in his voice made my knees weak. "Gavin..."
"I think," he continued, stepping closer until I could feel the heat radiating from his body, "that I've been waiting my whole life to hear someone sing directly to me like that."
Above us, Comet Kringle blazed brighter than I'd seen it yet, its warm glow competing with the Christmas lights and casting everything in magical light. The festival sounds faded to background noise as we stared at each other.
"Want to look at the comet again?" he asked quietly, his thumb brushing across my lower lip in a touch that made me shiver with want.
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
"My cabin's just up the mountain. Better view of the comet from there." His eyes held mine, and I could see the desire burning there, the same need that was pooling hot and insistent between my thighs. "If you're interested."
The invitation hung between us, loaded with implications that had nothing to do with stargazing. I could see the want in his eyes, could feel it echoing in my own body. I nodded.
His cabin appeared through the snow-laden pines like something from a Christmas fairy tale, with log walls glowing golden from the porch lights, smoke drifting from the chimney. Above it all, the comet blazed its ancient path across the star-scattered sky.
"It's perfect," I said as he led me up the front steps, my guitar case abandoned by the door.
Inside was exactly what I'd expected. Lots of natural wood and copper pans, herbs growing in mason jars on the windowsill.
A fire crackled in the stone fireplace, casting dancing shadows on the walls.
But what stopped me cold was the sight of my albums lined up on a simple wooden shelf, all of them, well-loved and obviously played often.
"You weren't kidding about being a fan," I said, running my finger along the spines.
"That one saved my life," he said quietly, nodding toward Small Town Dreams. "Seemed wrong not to take care of it."
I turned to face him, and the intensity in his expression made my knees weak. He was standing by the fireplace, flames casting golden light across his face, and he looked like something out of a dream, both rugged and beautiful and completely focused on me.
"You want to know something?" I said, my voice coming out breathier than intended as I stepped closer to him.
He nodded, his eyes tracking my movement.
"That night you played my album on repeat, after your breakdown—I was in my Nashville apartment, writing.
Writing about finding someone who understood what it meant to choose authenticity over applause.
" The words came out in a rush, three years of unknowing connection crystallizing into this moment.
"I was writing about you, Gavin. Before I met you, I was already writing about you. "
For a moment, we just stared at each other across the small space of his living room. The only sounds were the crackling fire and our slightly uneven breathing. Then he moved, crossing the room in three quick strides, and suddenly his hands were cupping my face and his mouth was on mine.
This kiss was nothing like the tentative exploration we'd shared on the mountain. This was desperate and hungry and full of three years of unknowing anticipation. I melted into him, my hands fisting in his flannel shirt, pulling him closer as his tongue swept into my mouth.
He tasted like winter air and possibility, and when he groaned against my lips, the sound sent heat racing straight between my thighs. My back hit the wall beside his bookshelf, and he pressed against me, his hard body pinning me in place while his mouth worked magic against mine.
"Been thinking about this," he murmured against my throat, his lips trailing fire along my pulse point while his hands slid down to grip my waist. "Ever since the kitchen. Ever since I tasted you."
"Gavin," I gasped, my head falling back to give him better access. His teeth scraped gently against my collarbone, and I arched into him, desperate for more contact, more pressure.
His hands were everywhere—tangling in my hair, tracing the curve of my waist, sliding under the hem of my sweater to find bare skin.
Each touch sent fire racing through my veins, and I was drowning in sensation, in the scent of him, in the way he was looking at me like I was something precious and necessary.
"Tell me you want this," he said, his voice rough with need. His thumb traced along the edge of my bra through the thin fabric of my sweater, and I gasped at the contact.
"I want this," I whispered, my hands working at the buttons of his shirt with trembling fingers. "I want you. I've wanted you since that first night when you fed me soup and looked at me like I mattered."
That was all the permission he needed. He lifted me easily, my legs wrapping around his waist as he carried me toward his bedroom. Through the window, I caught a glimpse of the comet blazing overhead, its warm light streaming through the glass to bathe us in celestial fire.
His bedroom was simple—a large bed covered in soft quilts, windows facing the mountain. But all I could focus on was the way he was looking at me as he set me down beside the bed, his hands gentle but sure as they worked at the hem of my sweater.
"You're beautiful," he said quietly, his eyes never leaving mine as the sweater hit the floor. "Been wanting to see you like this since that first night."
The cool air hit my skin, but his gaze was like a physical touch, warming me from the inside out. I reached for him, needing to feel his skin against mine, and he helped me push his shirt off his shoulders.
God. He was gorgeous—all lean muscle and golden skin marked with small scars that spoke of years in professional kitchens. I traced my fingers along his collarbone, down his chest, marveling at the way he shivered under my touch.
"Your turn," I whispered, and watched his eyes darken with want.
His hands were reverent as they explored my body—tracing the line of my ribs, the soft curve of my breast through lace, the sensitive skin just above my jeans. When his thumb brushed across my nipple through my bra, I gasped and arched into him, desperate for more.