Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
LOU
O nce we’re at the venue, I head to my dressing room for back-to-back interviews and then up to the stage for sound check. Patty and I haven’t spoken since last night except for the bare minimum required for our jobs. The tension between us is thick, but I don’t know how to cut through it. I feel awkward around him, unsure what to say or how to act.
But I do know this—he’s become a distraction.
After wardrobe and a light dinner, I have half an hour before I need to get on stage. I try to read, but my book can’t keep my attention, so I switch over to socials and start scrolling.
I’ve been tagged in so many posts from the last few weeks, it’s impossible to look at them all. My social media manager is a wizard at creating posts in my voice, and Alicia and I keep sending her content from the tour bus and backstage so she can craft engaging, authentic posts.
I look through her most recent updates and see something that surprises me.
Connor Nash has commented on every post.
Every single one.
Hearts and heart-eyes. Comments about how he can’t wait to see me live. Over-the-top flirting that catches me completely off guard.
I’m flattered.
And confused.
I check my texts and see his most recent one.
CONNOR NASH
Another killer show! You are on fire, LJ. I need to get closer so I can warm my hands by your flames.
Is he … is this …
Does he like me?
I’ve thought all this time that he was being friendly and, yeah, definitely flirty. But is he just being playful, or is he actually flirting?
Heat creeps over me at the same time that my lungs squeeze.
I have had a crush on this man since I was a teenager.
Do I still?
I’m sorely tempted to call the Janes and have them put me on speakerphone in the conference room, but a quick glance at the time tells me they’re busy with more important things. Jane will be at home with Tripp, probably having a cozy dinner on the farm. Millie and Duke are probably getting Lottie ready for bed. Parker, Sonny, Ash, and Rusty are out at the Mullet Ridge Ice Plex watching Sean’s game—I can see from Ash’s stories.
And I’m alone in this quiet, lifeless dressing room, wondering if Connor Nash has a crush on me like a fifteen-year-old girl.
Do I want him to like me? Of course I do. It’s beyond flattering. But what do I actually know about the man that I didn’t learn from Wikipedia and TMZ when I was a teen in my Duncan and Nash era?
Nothing.
We don’t know each other. We text about music, but not about anything else. That means if he likes me at all, it’s for the same reasons I like him: looks and, I hope, talent.
Neither of those are enough to build a relationship on. And I’m not planning to build a relationship with anyone, anyway.
Does that stop me from Googling him?
No, no it does not.
Nathaniel Connor LeDuc, known professionally as Connor Nash, is an American musician, singer, and songwriter who achieved fame as a guitarist and singer in the country-rock duo Duncan and Nash. After the band disbanded, he found instant critical and commercial success in his solo career, with his first album, Waiting Out Loud, debuting at number one on the Billboard and CMT charts.
I skip past some of the career highlights and early life details until my eyes catch on one particular fact?—
Connor Nash attended the New England Conservatory of Music.
A prickle of heat rises to my cheeks as I toss my phone onto the couch and push to my feet, my thoughts spinning too fast to catch.
I head out of my dressing room, my boots tapping a sharp staccato against the hallway floor as I make my way to the stage. The venue is bustling—crew adjusting lights, checking levels, moving equipment—but I barely register it. My focus is locked on one thing.
Patty.
He’s center stage, adjusting a speaker when I stop beside him, arms crossed, waiting for him to acknowledge me. When he doesn’t, I clear my throat.
“You knew Connor Nash.”
Patty glances up at me, cool as a cucumber, but his shoulders tense. “Everyone knows Connor Nash.”
I exhale through my nose. “Yeah, but not everyone went to college with him.”
His nostrils flare as something shifts in his expression. “Is that what you think?”
“I think you more than went to college with him,” I hiss. “I think you didn’t agree to come on tour with me until I mentioned him. I think when you said you ‘ran sound for acts even bigger than me,’ you were talking about him .”
Patty flicks a quick look around—no one’s close enough to hear us—and then he pops up, takes my elbow, and pulls me off stage. Wordlessly, he guides me through the corridors and all the way back to my dressing room. The door closes with a click, and Patty crosses his arms.
I mirror his stance, adrenaline crackling in my veins. “You knew him, didn’t you?”
He pauses. “Knew is a strong word.”
That pause. I almost pounce on it, but something in his expression stops me. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
His gaze narrows. “Are you angry or fangirling?”
“Neither! Maybe both. I don’t know. Why didn’t you tell me?”
Patty looks the most flustered I’ve ever seen him as he runs his hands over his beard. “Because it wasn’t relevant.”
“Of course it was! You said you ran sound for big names, but you didn’t say you went to college with those big names.”
“No, I didn’t.”
He’s back to his short, curt responses, and I’m back to wanting to shake him like a can of soda. “Patrick O’Shannan.”
Patty stands with his back to the door, arms folded. “What do you want me to say? Yeah, I toured with Duncan and Nash. You want to hear how Nash loved the audience? How Duncan shut them out? Or do you want to know what they both studied?—”
“Both?” I interrupt. His eyes tighten. “Duncan went to NECM too?”
“That’s where we met,” he says, tight-lipped.
“You’re not telling me everything.”
He huffs and drops his head. “It’s not a time in my life I’m proud of. I made a lot of mistakes, as I’ve already told you.”
“Why didn’t you go back on tour with Nash? After you recovered from your accident?”
His smile is one of disgust. “Because I’m an idiot who trusted the wrong guy.”
“You mean when they split, you chose Duncan over Nash? He broke up the band. It makes no sense.”
Patty looks away, his jaw clenched. “I guess I made a mistake.”
“No,” I say, “there’s gotta be a reason, even if it’s misplaced loyalty.”
“I’m honored you think I’d pick anyone over myself.”
I roll my eyes, because his self-loathing is getting old. “Enough with the ‘I’m such a bad guy’ routine. You’ve sacrificed for your family plenty, even if it took a minute for you to catch up to Sean. You don’t have to be perfect to be a good guy.”
“No, but you have to be good .”
I ignore this. I’m not in the mood to convince Patty that he isn’t the flaming train wreck he’s convinced he is.
“What aren’t you telling me?”
He chuckles to himself. “A lot, Queenie. My regrets are too many to count.”
I pause, studying the tension in his jaw. “Did you burn a bridge by choosing Duncan over Nash?”
“Oh, yes,” he says.
“Are you hoping to make up with him? Is that why you came on tour with me?”
“Objection. Leading the witness.”
“Patty …”
He exhales loudly. “I came on tour for a lot of reasons, but the number one reason is money. I have a dad who needs surgery and a failing bar. Making up with Nash falls somewhere after that.”
I almost shake my head at the news about his dad. “I didn’t realize. I’m sorry.”
“It’s gonna work out,” he says with a quarter-smile that makes me realize I don’t want to push him anymore. I want to understand him.
I half-smile back. “I didn’t realize you two had … unfinished business. I wish you’d have told me.”
His brows thread together, and when he speaks, it looks like every word is taking a toll. “I don’t like who I was then. I never felt like I could be myself around Nash. I wanted to impress him too much.”
I can’t imagine you wanting to impress anyone, I think. But then I remember how he acted with my parents only last night. He was open and easy, complimentary and almost … deferential. He clearly liked them. How might he have acted if he didn’t like them? Or if he didn’t like himself around them?
Sympathy thaws me the rest of the way. “I could put in a good word with Nash for you if you’re hoping to reconnect. We text sometimes.”
He blinks hard, and I wonder if it’s about me texting with Nash. And I also wonder why that possibility feels like a fist squeezing my heart.
“I’d rather you don’t,” he says. “I haven’t figured out what I’m going to say to him when I see him. The last thing I need is him gearing up for a different conversation than I am.”
“Gearing up? Does he have a temper?” I ask, suddenly wary. I don’t do tempers. For all of my dad’s faults and my mom’s missteps, neither of them has a temper, and I can’t stomach people who fly off the handle over a mistake, big or small.
He barks a laugh. “Does ice have a temper?”
“Sorry?”
“No, Connor’s not the type to flare up. He has the patience of an icicle.”
This isn’t as comforting as I want it to be. “Because icicles are famous for their patience.”
He snorts. “Maybe the metaphor needs work.”
“Seriously. You’re making me rethink that song we’re co-writing.”
He laughs and then releases a heavy exhale. “So we’re co-writing a song?”
“If you’ll allow it,” I say. Then I add, “I’ll make sure you’re paid.”
His forehead screws up for only a moment, and then he gives another quarter-smile. “I’m not sure you can afford me,” he says, and I laugh. “Thanks for letting me meet your family, by the way. I like them a lot.”
“Whoa,” I say, reaching my hand up to put it on his forehead. “Are you feeling okay? I’ve never heard you say thank you. And you’re talking about liking people?” His forehead is warm to the touch, and for someone who’s always cold, I want to keep my hand there to let him heat me up. It up. My hand.
He chuckles and takes my hand, releasing it quicker than I wish. Again, because I’m cold. Not for any other reason.
“Enough. I like my family. I like Rusty and his friends. I even like Ash.”
“Liking Ash is like liking oxygen. Only idiots don’t.”
He snorts. “I like your music.”
I make a show of gasping to cover the very real fluttering in my stomach. “Someone get the fainting couch ready. I’m about to pass out from shock. Patrick O’Shannan loves my music.”
“I said like, not love.”
“Nice try. You love it so much, you dance along to it. You can’t get it out of your head. You sing my lyrics in the shower.”
“I’ll see myself out,” he says, turning for the door like he’s serious. But he stops himself a split second before I grab his bicep to stop him. He turns back around closer than I expect, and suddenly, his golden eyes drop from mine down to my mouth.
And just as suddenly, I feel my own lips part in surprise and …
Anticipation.
I’ve never kissed someone. I’ve never let someone get close enough to kiss me. Every iota of self-preservation and ambition screams at me to back up, avert my gaze, but there’s that other part of me—the part that sees how happy my parents and sister are, the part that sees the joy my friends have in their partners—that doesn’t care. That part of me is crying out that it’s lonely, that it’s empty, that there has to be more to life than a career that could be taken from me at any moment.
No—that makes it sound like Patty is just some placeholder. Like he’s only here because the timing was convenient, not because he matters. But he’s so much more than that. He’s the man who stood up for me. Who protected me. He’s the man who gets my music like no one else does, who feels it every bit as deeply as I do. He’s the man who jammed with my parents last night and didn’t judge my dad for his past.
I’m not saying I’m ready to abandon my tour if he stubs his toe, but I can’t pretend he’s just some guy.
And I’m not sure I want to.
Also, he’s the manliest kind of hot possible. The scruff. The thick dark hair. Those soulful amber eyes that strike a fire in my gut like a flint.
My heart hammers as Patty gets closer, and when his warm hands reach up to my cheek, I think I might need that fainting couch for real. His hands on either side of my face are steady and sure, protective but not possessive as he guides my face closer to his. We’re so close, I can taste the vanilla and hazelnut on his breath and can almost feel the scruff of his whiskers. I close my eyes, waiting for him to kiss me.
Still waiting.
What are we waiting for?
My eyes fly open, and Patty’s in the exact same spot.
But so am I.
“What are you waiting for?” I whisper.
“Something I shouldn’t be,” he says.
When I don’t respond—don’t move a muscle or bat an eyelid—he rubs his nose against mine, starting at the tip, sliding up the bridge, and lingering at the soft dip where my nose meets my eye. A heartbeat later, he presses a kiss to my closed eyelids. Then his warmth pulls away as he leans back, releasing me.
“Time for sound check, Queenie.”
I hear the door open and close, and then I fall onto the couch, panting as oxygen floods my lungs and my thoughts race to figure out what. Just. Happened.
Patrick O’Shannan almost kissed me.
And I almost kissed him back.