Chapter 28
BLEEP BLEEP.
Still half-asleep, I feel around for my phone. It’s making a noise that’s rather unwelcome on a Sunday morning. Bleep bleep.
Whassat? Rudy yawns, wrapping an arm around my waist.
Dunno, I mumble. I put my phone away, snuggling my back into his stomach, all comfy under the thick duvet. December is cold, but right here, in this downy cocoon, the chilly temperature can’t touch us.
Mmm. Rudy starts to kiss my neck as his hand travels along my hip, my waist, my breast. Though my body was heavy with sleep just a moment ago, it seems to be slowly awakening.
Rrrinnng. A phone call. On a Sunday morning. It’s gotta be something urgent. I pull myself upright—defying Rudy’s groans of protest—and realize it’s Marcel. Filled with anxiety, I stare at the screen. Please tell me we haven’t hit another roadblock for this party.
Why isn’t your phone on silent? Rudy whines, flopping back onto the mattress.
Let me guess: the DJ cancelled, I say, as soon as I press the little green phone icon.
What? No. Not at all. Marcel’s voice is vibrating with bottled up excitement. Check out the link I just sent you!
With Marcel still on the line, I open up our WhatsApp chat to find the YouTube link he sent me.
Rudy’s going viral! he screams through the phone.
What?! Rudy bolts upright, watching along over my shoulder as I start the video.
He’s on stage with his guitar singing Bluebird into the microphone with his eyes closed. It’s so quiet in the room you could hear a pin drop. Everyone is completely captivated.
Holy shit! I shout. You have almost eleven million views! I stare at him, stunned.
Rudy’s expression mirrors my own. How, though?! Snatching the phone from my hands, he scrolls through the comments below the video.
Holy hotness! That man can sing
Ah, the long lost love child of Leonardo DiCaprio and Brad Pitt
Can I just suffocate him with my boobs already?
I squint a bit reading the response from Sexyguyscout007.
You’re famous, I say, sounding incredulous.
His mouth is agape as he stares at me through enormous eyes. That’s impossible, right? I mean . . . He keeps watching, seeing himself spill his heart and soul out on the stage. How, though?
I’m pretty sure I know how, I tease, brushing a lock of hair out of his gorgeous face. The real question is . . . What does this mean?
And it doesn’t take long for us to discover what it means for the video to go viral.
Once Rudy grabbed his own phone, he found multiple emails in the band’s inbox coming from a series of record labels expressing their interest in the band.
Not only had they seen the video of Rudy, but they’d also viewed a bunch of other New Dawn performances uploaded by the band.
Everyone agreed on one thing: this exceptionally talented band should have been on a Times Square billboard, like, yesterday.
The following days are a whirlwind of label meetings, band meetings to discuss the label meetings, and ultimately a decision culminating in a signed record deal.
Patrice and I are walking through the Diamond District when Rudy messages me a picture. He’s gazing into the camera with the look of someone who just won a mega millions lottery jackpot—except instead of a massive cheque, he’s holding a contract with his own signature on it.
I reply with a selfie featuring an equally enormous grin, along with every single emoji that could possibly represent parties and joy.
Ooh, look! The Tiffany’s window displays are in full Christmas mode! Patrice says.
My eyes follow her pointing finger to the other side of the street.
I immediately recognize the big building as the place Audrey Hepburn was so enamoured by in Breakfast at Tiffany’s.
Enormous letters on the facade spell out TIFFANY )