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She knows she’s my everything.

But now I also know she trusts me.

Which means so much to me.

“I love you,” I breathe against her lips. “So much.”

“I love you more,” she whispers back.

Our eyes lock, and my world is stupidly perfect.

“Hudson?”

My eyes snap to hers.

“What are you waiting for? An invitation?”

I rumble out a laugh and press my lips to hers.

“You’re in a very compromising position to be so sassy.”

“Uh huh.” Her eyes twinkle. “Let’s go, buddy—I have less than an hour at this point.”

“Well… you might be a little late.”

Atlas

“And then he says”—her voice drops into a rough approximation of my voice and if I wasn’t so annoyed at the gorgeous woman making fun of me a-fucking-gain, I’d be impressed at how good she is at that—“I haven’t had a hot dog in my mouth since college.”

Yup.

Not one of my finer moments.

But I turn into a bumbling dumbass around this woman.

Lily Maxwell is beautiful. And funny. And smart and talented, a country star who’s successfully made the transition to full and complete pop star in the last six months.

People sport T-shirts with lyrics from her songs.

Her tour dates sell out in seconds.

Social media shows her on every other video—or maybe that’s just my algorithm because I can’t seem to scroll away when she comes up on my phone.

Number one singles. Platinum records. A documentary about her song-writing and the aforementioned tour.

All of which has cemented her spot as an A-lister.

And none of which seem to have changed her.

She’s still the same vivacious, smart, confident, and yes, it has to be said, beautiful woman with a mischievous streak a mile wide.

“Dude,” Banks mutters, slanting his gaze at me, his green eyes dancing with mirth.

I know.

If it was anyone but me who said that shit, I’d be dying of laughter.

Unfortunately, it was me.