Chapter 14
Liam
I woke to sunlight streaming through the windows and the weight of Stephy draped across me like she'd been trying to crawl inside my skin while we slept.
Her hair was everywhere—across my chest, tangled in my fingers, probably in my mouth.
One of her legs was thrown over both of mine, her arm across my stomach, her face pressed into my neck.
She was completely unconscious, breathing deep and even, occasionally making these little sounds that weren't quite snores but weren't quite not snores either.
I'd never been happier in my entire life.
The storm had passed, leaving that crystal-clear morning that only comes after nature's violence has washed the world clean. Birds were singing like they'd just discovered sound. The air coming through the cracked window smelled like wet earth and new growth and possibilities.
She stirred against me, making that waking-up sound that was half groan, half purr. Her hand flexed on my stomach, fingers spreading like she was testing I was still there, still solid, still real.
"Morning," I said softly.
"No," she mumbled into my neck. "Not morning. Still night. Still sleeping."
"The sun says otherwise."
"The sun is wrong." She pressed closer, which I wouldn't have thought possible. "Also, I can't move. I think you broke me."
"You broke yourself. You're the one who insisted on round... what was it, four?"
She lifted her head just enough to glare at me, though the effect was ruined by her sleep-mussed hair and the satisfied smile she couldn't quite hide. "Excuse me, but I'm pretty sure you broke my vagina. Like, actually broke it. I may need medical attention."
I burst out laughing. "Your vagina is not broken."
"It might be. It definitely feels... thoroughly used. Possibly sprained. Is that a thing? Can you sprain a vagina?"
"Steph—"
"I'm serious! You and your..." she gestured vaguely at my body, "ridiculous masculine perfection performed like a champion last night. Like an Olympian. Gold medal level performance in our personal fuck-a-thon."
"Fuck-a-thon?" I was laughing so hard I could barely breathe. "Did you just call last night a fuck-a-thon?"
"What would you call it? Love-making marathon? Sexual Olympics? The Great Banging of 2024?"
"Jesus Christ, Steph."
"Don't act shocked by my crudeness now. You seemed to appreciate it at three AM when I was telling you exactly where to put your—"
I kissed her to shut her up, rolling her onto her back, and she came willingly, laughing against my mouth.
"Seriously though," she said when we broke apart, her hands roaming over my chest, tracing the muscles there with obvious appreciation. "Your body is ridiculous. Like, offensively perfect. All these..." she squeezed my bicep, "delicious muscles. It's very unfair to womankind."
"You seemed to appreciate them last night."
"Oh, I did. Multiple times. Hence the potentially broken vagina."
"Your vagina is not broken,” I repeated.
"You don't know that. You haven't checked." She grinned wickedly. "Maybe you should examine the situation. You know, for medical purposes."
I arched a brow playfully. “Medical purposes?"
"Purely scientific. We need data."
I was already kissing down her throat, tasting the salt of last night's exertions still on her skin. "Data collection is very important."
"Critical," she agreed breathlessly as my mouth found her breast. "Thorough examination required."
I worked my way down her body slowly, reacquainting myself with every inch—the tiny scar on her ribs from falling out of a tree at ten, the way her stomach muscles contracted when I kissed just below her navel, the bruises on her hips from my hands last night that made me feel simultaneously guilty and possessive.
"Lee," she gasped, her hands tangling in my hair as I kissed the inside of her thigh. "Please..."
I was just about to give her what she was begging for when her phone rang.
We both froze.
"Ignore it," she said, tugging on my hair.
I tried. I really did. But the phone kept ringing. Stopped. Started again immediately.
"Fucking hell," she muttered, the mood thoroughly shattered.
I could see the screen from where I was: Robert - Manager.
"Don't answer it," I said, resting my forehead against her thigh in frustration.
"I wasn't going to." But she was looking at it, and I could see reality creeping back into her eyes.
The phone stopped, then immediately started again. Same caller.
"He'll keep calling," she said, sitting up, pulling the sheet around her.
"Let him."
It rang again. And again. And again.
"Jesus Christ," I muttered, grabbing the phone and answering it. "She's busy."
"Who is this? Where's Stevie? I need to speak to—"
I hung up.
Stephy stared at me, mouth open. "Did you just hang up on my manager?"
"Yes."
The phone immediately started ringing again.
"He's going to keep calling," she said, but she was trying not to laugh.
"Then we'll throw your phone in the creek."
"Lee..."
But the spell was broken. She grabbed the phone on the fifth round of ringing, rejected the call, then scrolled through what looked like dozens of missed calls and texts.
"Jesus," she muttered. "Twenty-three missed calls. Forty-seven texts. Six emails marked urgent."
"Block him."
She looked at me, and there was something sad in her eyes. "I can't just block my entire life, Lee."
"Why not?"
Instead of answering, she opened one of the texts, and I saw her face change as she read.
"The label is threatening legal action if I don't return to fulfill my promotional obligations.
There's a radio tour scheduled that I'm apparently missing.
Award show nominations I'm supposed to be campaigning for. "
"You were attacked. You're recovering."
"They don't care about that. They care about the money they're losing every day I'm not out there selling myself."
She kept scrolling, her face getting tighter with each message. I wanted to take the phone and throw it out the window, but I knew that wouldn't solve anything. The outside world had found us, even here in our bedroom bubble.
"Hey," I said, gently taking the phone and setting it aside. "That can wait. All of it can wait."
"Can it, though?" She looked at me, and I could see the stress creeping back in, tightening her shoulders, dimming the light in her eyes. "I've been hiding here for almost two months. At some point, I have to deal with reality."
"Reality can wait one more hour. Come here."
I pulled her back down, and she came, but the easiness was gone. She was thinking now, I could feel it, her mind spinning with obligations and contracts and all the reasons last night couldn't be more than just last night.
"Oh!" she said suddenly, like she'd just remembered something. "Ivy and Louisa were telling me about the Founders’ Day Festival this weekend."
I tensed. "Yeah?"
"They said it's this huge town celebration. Pie contests, local bands, dancing in the square. Louisa said she makes her award-winning peach cobbler every year."
"It's... a thing, yeah."
"I want to go."
Every instinct in my body screamed no. ”Steph, I don't think that's a good idea."
"Why not?" She sat up, and I could see her getting defensive.
"Because you'll be in public. Exposed. There'll be hundreds of people, and if even one person recognizes you—"
"So what? So what if someone recognizes me?"
"Your stalker is still out there."
"In LA. He has no idea where I am."
"You don't know that. One photo on social media, one person posting 'Look who I saw at the Copper Creek Festival,' and he could find you."
"So I'm supposed to hide forever?" Her voice was getting sharp. "Never go out? Never live?"
"That's not what I'm saying—"
"It's exactly what you're saying." She straddled me suddenly, hands on my chest, and I lost track of my argument because she was naked and beautiful and using her body as a weapon. "Lee, I need this. I need to feel normal. To do something regular people do."
"Steph—"
She rolled her hips, and my brain short-circuited. "Please? I'll be careful. I'll wear a hat and sunglasses. We'll leave if anything feels weird."
"That's not fair," I groaned as she moved against me again.
"What's not fair?"
"Using naked persuasion to win arguments."
She smirked, hips rolling. ”Is it working?" She leaned down, kissed my neck, that spot that made me crazy.
"You know it is."
"So we can go?" Another roll of her hips, and I was gone.
"Fine. Yes. We can go. But—"
She kissed me before I could list conditions, and then we were back to where we'd been before her phone interrupted, except now she was on top, in control, taking what she wanted with a confidence that made me forget why I'd been arguing in the first place.
"You're going to be the death of me," I said when we finally collapsed back onto the bed, both breathing hard.
"But what a way to go," she grinned, looking entirely too pleased with herself.
"You don't play fair."
"I play to win." She kissed me, soft and sweet this time. "And I really do want to go to the festival. I want to hold your hand in public. Eat terrible fair food. Pretend we're just normal people in love."
The words hung in the air between us. In love. She'd said it casually, like it didn't change everything.
"We are in love," I said carefully.
"I know." She traced patterns on my chest, not meeting my eyes. "That's what makes it complicated."
"Does it have to be?"
"My life is in LA. Yours is here."
"Your life could be here."
She looked at me then, and there was so much sadness in her eyes. "Could it? Really? I abandon my career, break my contracts, and what? Become a ranch wife?"
"You make that sound like a bad thing."
"It's not. It's just... I don't know who I am anymore, Lee. I'm not Stevie Wilson the superstar, but I'm not just Stephy from Austin either. I'm something in between, and I need to figure out what that means."
"And the festival?"
"Is a start. A test. Can I be in public without panicking? Can I be around people without being 'on'? Can I just... be?"
I understood then. This wasn't just about wanting to have fun at a small-town festival. This was about reclaiming her life, piece by piece.
"Okay," I said, pulling her against me. "We'll go. But you stay close to me."
Her smile was small, but genuine. ”Wouldn’t want to be anywhere else."
We lay there as the morning aged into afternoon, both aware that something fundamental had shifted. The bubble hadn't burst, but it had developed a leak. Reality was seeping in, drop by drop.
But for now, we had this. This bed, this closeness, this connection that transcended whatever we called it.
For now, it was enough.