Page 48 of Love Loathe Devotion (Tightrope #3)

One Year Later

My thumb is tracing slow circles over the back of her hand.

I don’t even realize I’m doing it until I catch the way Laney looks up at me with that small, secret smile—the one that still wrecks me, every time. Soft. Knowing. Like she sees right through all the noise to the real me underneath.

God, I love her.

The kind of love that settles in your bones. That builds a life from the rubble of everything you thought you knew before it.

Laney Crowe.

My wife.

I still can’t believe I get to say that.

We’ve been married almost five months now.

The most perfect, private ceremony tucked beneath the trees on our land, just us and a handful of people who’d bleed for us.

She wore a simple dress with lace on the sleeves, and she walked down the aisle barefoot, tears in her eyes, and I swear to God I almost forgot how to breathe.

Now, she’s standing beside me again, backstage at the first stop of my U.S. tour—smaller venues this time. Closer. More honest. Just the way I want it.

Lucas is across the room barking into his headset like he was born for this. His clipboard is color-coded. His patience is already wearing thin. But man, is he good at this. Calm, sharp, loyal to the core. I’ve never trusted anyone more to run the whole show.

Except maybe the woman standing right here with her fingers wrapped through mine.

“You okay?” Laney asks, tilting her head, her voice quiet and steady.

I nod, but it’s a little tight. “Bit nervous.”

Her brow lifts, amused. “You? The man who played Wembley?”

“This is different,” I admit. “I’m singing it for the first time.”

She blinks. “It?”

I nod, my heart kicking. “The song. Your song.”

Her lips part, eyes flicking up to mine.

“I wasn’t gonna say anything,” I add with a lopsided smile. “Wanted to surprise you. But my hands are sweating and I think I forgot how lungs work, so… surprise.”

She laughs, a quiet breathless sound that tugs something deep in my chest. Her hand comes up to cup my face, thumb brushing over my stubble. “You still get nervous for me?” she teases, eyes warm.

I step closer. Wrap my arm around her waist and rest my forehead against hers. “You’re magic in my soul, Laney Crowe,” I whisper. “Before you, I was just… existing. And you—baby, you showed me how to live.”

She blinks fast, tears sparkling in her lashes.

And then the lights dim. The stage manager waves me forward.

The crowd erupts like thunder behind the curtain, and I lean in and kiss her—slow, reverent, like every word I’m about to sing is already inside her heart.

“Wish me luck,” I murmur against her lips.

She smiles. “You don’t need it.”

I wink. “Still want it.”

And then I step into the light.

The spotlight hits me, warm and bright, and I step to the mic as the crowd roars. The energy rushes up from the floor like a wave, rolling through my boots, up my spine, right into my chest.

I grip the neck of my guitar and lean into the mic, grinning. “Damn, it’s good to be back.”

The crowd howls.

“Some of you know me. Some of you don’t. I’ve been off the road for a while. I had something pretty important going on.” A pause. Beat. My smile deepens. “I was falling in love. And marrying the girl of my dreams.”

Shrieks. Cheers. Stomping feet.

“She’s here tonight. And if y’all would be real polite and just look right over there—that’s my wife. Laney Crowe.”

The house lights sweep briefly, catching her where she stands offstage. Shy, glowing, perfect.

I blow her a kiss and watch her cheeks flush as the crowd loses their minds.

“This next one…” I say, strumming the opening chords, the crowd already quieting, sensing something sacred, “...this is a brand-new song. One I’ve never sung before. It’s about the day everything changed.” My eyes stay on her. “This one’s for you, baby.”

Then I play.

Fingers finding frets like they were born for it. Lyrics pouring out like prayers. The chorus is a soft confession. The bridge a vow. Every note stitched with the kind of love that only comes once in a lifetime.

And as the final chord fades into the silence—

I look at her.

And all I can think is:

God, I’m the luckiest man alive.