Page 20 of Love Loathe Devotion (Tightrope #3)

The black suit fits like a damn glove, tailored to the inch, sharp and unforgiving. The black shirt beneath is unbuttoned just enough to show a hint of my chest, no tie—never a tie. Not for me. It’s polished, sure, but I’m still me. And I want her to see that tonight. I want the world to.

But as I pace the living room, checking the time on my watch for the third time in five minutes, the truth is, I don’t give a damn about the gala.

I just want to see her.

The past few days since Laney agreed to give this a real shot have been.

.. something else. Easy. Natural. Like we’ve always known each other.

Like this wasn’t supposed to be fake, not for a second.

We laugh. We cook. We talk about everything and nothing.

And in the quiet moments, when it’s just her and me? God, I can’t keep my hands off her.

The kisses we’ve shared—hot, aching, unrelenting—play in my head like a goddamn highlight reel. Her body pressed against mine, her fingers tugging at my hair, the soft whimpers she makes when I touch her just right. I’ve come so close to losing control more than once.

But I’ve held back.

Because I want to do this right. For her. For us.

Tonight, though? Tonight, I plan to romance her, to worship her. And if she lets me, to finally have her in my bed.

The soft sound of heels on the stairs draws my attention, and when I turn toward the staircase, everything inside me stops.

Laney descends slowly, one hand on the railing, the other holding the edge of her dress. And holy hell...

She’s a vision.

Black satin hugs every inch of her body, the mermaid silhouette molding to her curves like it was made for her.

The halter neckline draws the eye to the long, exposed line of her throat, and the daring cut-out that runs from the base of her neck to her sternum reveals just enough to make my pulse spike.

The thigh-high slit offers a glimpse of a toned leg with every step she takes, her black satin pumps clicking softly against the wood.

I swallow hard, taking a step forward like I’m drawn to her by gravity alone. “Jesus, Laney...”

Her cheeks flush, her lips painted the deepest red I’ve ever seen on her. I take her hand gently, spinning her in place, reverent. “You are... the most stunning thing I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

She laughs shyly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and all I can think is how this woman—my woman—has completely wrecked me.

Lyrics form in my head, unbidden. Soft curves in satin and fire in her eyes, stealing my breath with every step. Hell, it might be the start of a new song.

I lean in, intending to kiss her, to taste that damn lipstick. But she ducks her head with a smile. “Not the lipstick.”

I gently grip her chin, tilting her face up to mine, voice low and rough. “Fuck the lipstick.”

And then I kiss her. Softly. Just a whisper of lips, enough to make her breath hitch. But I pull back before it deepens, smirking. “Later, I wanna see it smeared all over my cock.”

Her eyes darken, and she gives me a slow, seductive smile. “If you play your cards right.”

A chuckle rumbles out of me, and I offer my arm like a gentleman—barely holding back the urge to toss her over my shoulder and skip the damn gala altogether. “Come on, darlin’. Our chariot awaits.”

I lead her out to the waiting limo the label sent and, as the door closes behind us, the space between us crackles with something electric.

She’s mine tonight.

And God help anyone who looks at her for too long.

Because I’ve waited long enough.

And I plan to make every second of this night count.

The limo slows to a stop in front of the venue, and I already don’t like what I see through the dark glass. Paparazzi. Bright flashes. Red carpet. This isn’t what I agreed to.

I clench my jaw, willing myself to stay calm. Reggie swore this would be a low-key appearance, just a quick show of support for the label, shake a few hands, smile for a couple of cameras. Bullshit. I make a mental note to call him first thing tomorrow—and maybe wring his damn neck while I’m at it.

I exhale slowly and smooth a hand down my jacket. Composed. Controlled. That’s the game.

The driver opens the door, and I step into the chaos.

Flashbulbs explode immediately, a chorus of shouting photographers calling my name. I square my shoulders, give a small wave, and then turn, offering my hand back into the car.

Laney’s hand slides into mine, warm and trembling slightly. She steps out, poised but quiet, the light catching in her hair, her black satin dress clinging in all the right places. The moment she’s upright, the crowd loses their damn minds.

“Eddie! Who’s the girl?” “Eddie! Is this your new girlfriend?” “When’s the next album dropping?!” “You excited to be back on tour soon?”

The noise is deafening, but I keep my face smooth, my grip on Laney’s hand firm.

She inches a little closer, and I immediately let her hand go and wrap my arm around her waist, drawing her in until her hip is pressed snug against mine before I reach down with my other hand and thread my fingers through hers.

I lean down, murmuring against her temple, “I’ve got you, darlin’. Just breathe.”

She gives a small nod, her fingers curling into mine like a lifeline.

I face the cameras again, wearing the easy, polished smile I’ve perfected over the years. The one that says I’m in control, even when I’d rather be anywhere else.

“I’m excited to get back on the road,” I say, voice smooth and strong. “The tour’s shaping up to be something real special.”

“And the new album?” someone shouts.

“News on that’s comin’ soon. Y’all’ll be the first to know,” I toss back, keeping the tone light, though I’m already counting the minutes until we can be inside and away from all this.

“What about the lady? Is she someone special?”

I glance at Laney, feel the way her body stills beside me. Her breath catches, just for a second. And I know this moment’s bigger than both of us.

“She’s my stunning girlfriend,” I say clearly, letting the pride—and something deeper—show in my voice. “She put the light back in my life.”

I don’t give them her name. I don’t need them digging any faster than they already will. They’ll find her soon enough. But this moment? It’s ours.

I don’t look back at the cameras. I just steer Laney toward the entrance, ignoring the chorus of follow-up questions. The noise dulls behind us as we step inside the venue, into cool air and elegant lighting, and I finally feel her start to breathe again.

She looks up at me, eyes wide but steady.

“You did good,” I murmur, brushing my thumb along her hip. “They didn’t deserve you out there, but you were perfect.”

She smiles—soft and brave—and it guts me.

Because, yeah, I can play the part of the polished country star all night. I can flash the smile, shake the hands, sip the drinks.

But all I really want to do is get through this fast, get her home, and remind her that none of this circus matters. Only us.

Only her.

Inside the venue, everything is polished and expensive—glass chandeliers glittering overhead, golden lighting casting everything in a soft glow. The string quartet in the corner is playing something fancy I don’t recognize, and the hum of conversation fills the air like a low drone.

I spot a few familiar faces—industry folks I’ve crossed paths with at award shows or studio sessions—but before we dive in, I snag us a couple glasses of champagne from a passing tray.

I hand one to Laney. “You good?”

She nods and smiles, her hand brushing mine as she takes the glass. “Better now.”

We start to mingle. People recognize me, of course—they always do.

Smiles, back pats, polite laughter. The industry schmooze.

Laney stays close to my side, and I keep my arm loosely around her waist. Every time I introduce her as my girlfriend, something in me tightens, warms. It feels right.

More real than anything else in this room.

Then one of the producers I know—Jason—comes over. He’s already a few drinks in, face flushed, tie crooked. He leans in to say hello to Laney, and his hand brushes her bare shoulder just a little too long.

She stiffens.

I move fast, stepping between them and sliding my hand around her back possessively. “This is Laney,” I say, voice flat. “My girlfriend.”

Jason gives me a lazy smirk. “Lucky man.”

I don’t answer. Just steer us away, out of the tight knot of people, over to a quieter corner.

I lean in, brushing my fingers along her lower back. “You okay?”

She gives me a small smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Yeah. It’s fine.”

I press a kiss to the corner of her mouth, gentle and brief. “Tell me if it’s ever not.”

She nods, leaning slightly into me. And I swear, I’m about to suggest we leave early, skip the rest of this parade—but then he shows up.

Gerald fucking Whitmore. One of the execs from the label.

The one who made the most noise after I played that engagement set at the gay bar.

The same man behind the ‘image rehabilitation’ campaign, who pushed for me to get a ‘wholesome’ girlfriend.

The one who cheated on his wife with a cocktail waitress at last year’s CMA afterparty and has the nerve to act like he’s the moral compass of country music.

I school my face into something polite as he approaches, but I pull Laney even closer into my side.

“Eddie,” he greets with a shark’s smile. “You clean up well.”

“Mr. Whitmore,” I say evenly. “Glad you could make it.”

His eyes slide over to Laney, and I feel her tense again beside me. He looks her up and down like she’s a car he’s thinking of leasing. That same sick smirk spreads across his face.

“So, this is the girlfriend, huh?” he asks, gaze lingering way too long. “Tell me, sweetheart—how much’s he paying you to play the part?”

Laney flinches, just barely, but I feel it.

I step forward, jaw tight. “She’s not playing anything. She’s my girlfriend. For real.”

Gerald taps the side of his nose and winks. “Of course she is. Right.” Then he laughs, like we’re old pals sharing some private joke. “Whatever it is you’re paying her, she should ask for more. With that body? Hell, you’re gettin’ your money’s worth—just don’t embarrass the label again, eh?”

I see red.

It takes every bit of control I have not to smash the champagne flute against his smug face. My hand curls into a fist behind Laney’s back. My jaw aches from how tight I’m clenching it.

I force a smile, cold and hollow. “Excuse us.”

Before he can say another goddamn word, I guide Laney toward the dance floor. She comes willingly, slipping her hand into mine, and I don’t stop until we’re far enough away to drown out the bastard’s voice.

I turn to her, still burning with rage, but she surprises me. She sets her hand on my chest, right over my heart, and then cups my cheek.

“Ignore him,” she says gently. “He’s not worth it.”

I close my eyes for a second, breathing her in, letting the heat ebb just slightly.

The string quartet transitions into something soft and slow, and I pull her into my arms. Her body melts into mine, fitting there like she belongs.

No one else matters right now. Not the cameras, not the label, not that piece of shit executive.

Just her.

Laney.