Page 28 of The Road to Forever (Beaumont: Next Generation #7)

“Not here,” I say, my voice rough with desire. “Not like this. Not our first time.”

She nods, understanding in her eyes despite the frustration evident in her flushed cheeks. “You’re right. But God, Quinn, you’re making it hard to be patient.”

I laugh softly, pressing my forehead to hers. “Believe me, I know exactly how you feel, and as much as it pains me to say this, you need to put your shirt back on.”

Justine laughs and takes her bra and shirt from my hands. The gentlemanly thing for me to do is to look away, but I can’t. I don’t want to. While she dresses, I rebutton my shirt and adjust the bulge in my pants.

We stay in the lounge for a while, trading kisses that slowly cool from desperate to tender. Eventually, she curls against my chest, her breath evening out.

“I should go back to my bunk,” she says, though she makes no move to leave.

“Probably,” I agree, tightening my arms around her.

She looks up at me, something vulnerable in her expression. “What are we doing, Quinn?”

I brush a strand of hair from her face. “I don’t know exactly. But I know I don’t want to stop.”

“Me neither.” She presses a kiss to my chest, right over my heart. “Whatever this is . . . it feels right.”

“It does,” I agree, kissing the top of her head.

Reluctantly, we disentangle ourselves before one of our bandmates catches us.

“Goodnight,” she whispers, pressing one last kiss to my lips.

“Goodnight,” I echo, watching her slip through the door.

I lean back against the couch, guitar forgotten, replaying every moment of the last hour in my mind. Whatever this is between us, it’s becoming increasingly clear that there’s no going back.

The Billboard Music Awards sneak up on us like a forgotten deadline. Suddenly, we’re being fitted for suits and prepped with talking points for red carpet interviews. Sinful Distraction is up for three awards, including Best Rock Album, which has everyone on edge in the best possible way.

Elle calls me the morning of the ceremony, her voice sharp with pre-event stress. “You’re wearing the Armani, not the Gucci. The stylist will bring it to your room at four. Hair and makeup at five. Car picks you up at six sharp.”

“Good morning to you too,” I say, stifling a yawn. “How’s my favorite pregnant sister?”

She softens immediately. “Enormous. Uncomfortable. Ready to meet this kid.”

“Not long now,” I remind her. “You flying in for the awards?”

“I wish. Even with a private jet I’m not allowed to fly. Besides, my shoes don’t fit because my feet are swollen and every time I stand, I have to pee.”

“I think the latter falls in the too much info department.”

Elle scoffs. “Just win and don’t forget to thank me as your sister first, manager second.”

“Got it.”

“Love you, Quinny. Can’t wait to see you on the red carpet.”

I focus on the day ahead. Soundcheck goes smoothly, despite the undercurrent of nervous energy. We’re performing “Come Undone” with Justine at the ceremony, which means extra rehearsal in the afternoon.

Watching her on the empty stage, running through her part with Dana, I’m struck again by how naturally talented she is. She belongs in this spotlight, her voice filling the cavernous space effortlessly.

When we break, she finds me backstage.

“Nervous?” I ask.

She nods. “A little. You?”

“Not about the performance.” I glance around to make sure we’re alone, then pull her into a quiet corner. “About us. I know we need to be careful tonight.”

Justine steps back slightly, putting professional distance between us. “Right. I should go get ready. Wynonna’s freaking out about what to wear.”

“Justine,” I catch her arm gently. “This doesn’t change anything between us. You know that, right?”

Her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Of course. See you out there, rock star.”

Hours later, I’m stepping onto the red carpet in a tailored black suit that probably costs more than most people’s first car. The flashes are blinding, the shouted questions a cacophony I’ve never fully adjusted to despite years in the industry.

I pose with the band, answer the usual questions about the album, our tour, and the upcoming holiday break. No one asks about Nola, which is a relief.

Inside, we’re seated near the front, with Plum a few rows behind us. I resist the urge to turn around and find her, focusing instead on the opening performance and the host’s monologue.

When “Come Undone” is announced, the butterflies finally hit. Dana and I take the stage first, with the band setting up the intro. When Justine joins us, emerging from stage left in a floor-length silver gown that catches the light with every movement, the crowd reacts with enthusiasm.

We’ve performed this song countless times but tonight feels different. More significant. The energy between us is electric, impossible to disguise. When our voices blend on the chorus, it’s like we’re the only two people in the arena.

The performance ends to thunderous applause. As we exit the stage, Justine catches my eye, a silent acknowledgment passing between us. No matter what complexities lie ahead, this—the music we create together—is real and undeniable.

We don’t win Best Rock Album, but we take home Best Rock Performance for “Fading Ink,” a song I wrote during those early, raw days after Nola left. The irony isn’t lost on me as I clutch the award, thanking our fans, my sister, and the band.

At the after-party, I do my duty of networking, accepting congratulations, and discussing potential collaborations. But my eyes keep finding Justine across the room, where she’s deep in conversation with a producer I recognize from the Grammy committee.

“Just go talk to her,” Dana says, appearing at my elbow with two champagne flutes. “Your pining is becoming embarrassing.”

I accept the champagne. “I’m not pining.”

“Please. You’ve looked at her seventeen times in the last ten minutes. I counted.”

I take a sip to hide my smile. “I’m just being professional.”

Dana rolls her eyes. “Some things can’t be controlled, Quinn.” She nods toward Justine. “Some people are worth the risk.”

Before I can respond, Justine looks up and catches me watching her. A slow smile spreads across her face, and she excuses herself from her conversation, making her way toward us.

“Congratulations on the win,” she says when she reaches us.

“Thanks,” I reply, hyper aware of Dana watching us with amusement. “You were incredible tonight.”

“We were incredible,” she corrects. “We make a good team.”

The double meaning isn’t lost on any of us. Dana clears her throat dramatically. “And that’s my cue to find Keane. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” She winks before disappearing into the crowd.

Justine laughs softly. “Subtle.”

“She’s not known for subtlety,” I agree, stepping closer. “You really did look amazing up there.”

“So did you,” she says, her voice dropping slightly. “That suit is . . . distracting.”

“Bad pun,” I tease, but the compliment sends warmth through me.

She shrugs, unrepentant. “I’ve been thinking about tonight.”

“What about it?”

Justine’s voice softens. “I don’t want to hide how I feel about you forever.”

The simple honesty of her statement takes my breath away. “Neither do I.”

“So, what do we do?”

“We find a balance,” I tell her. “Professional in public, but no more pretending there’s nothing between us when it’s just us. And when the tour’s over . . .”

“When the tour’s over?” she prompts.

I take her hand, not caring who might see. “When the tour’s over, we figure out what comes next. Together.”

Her smile is all the answer I need.

Three days later, I’m waiting in my dressing room before our show when the door opens. Justine slips in, locks the door behind her, and leans against it with a mischievous smile.

“We have twenty minutes before soundcheck,” she says.

I set aside my guitar. “Is that so?”

She crosses the room in a few quick steps, climbs onto my lap, and kisses me deeply. “I’ve been thinking about this all day,” she murmurs against my lips.

“Just this?” I tease, my hands finding their way under her shirt.

Her breath catches as my fingers trace her ribs. “Among other things.”

We make the most of our twenty minutes, learning new ways to make each other gasp and sigh. When we finally emerge for soundcheck, flushed and slightly disheveled, Dana takes one look at us and snorts.

“Real subtle, you two,” she mutters, but there’s no judgment in her tone, just affection.

Justine squeezes my hand before heading to her mark on stage. I watch her go, the feeling in my chest expanding with each passing day.

I guess it’s probably time to tell my family that Nola and I are no longer together because something tells me Justine and I aren’t going to be able to keep this a secret much longer. I’d really like it if my mom didn’t think I cheated; that would break her heart.