I start laughing, the wetness of my ears forgotten. “I think I like you.”
“I’m extremely likable. Ask my fan groups.”
“Oh, and arrogant?”
“We’re the best type.” He winks, then brings the mic back up to his face again. “So what do you say, Scarlett? Will you marry me?”
Pictures are getting shot all around us, phones going off, and people yelling, whispering, mumbling… The crowd has gone insane behind me; I can feel them shoving toward the stage.
I pray my dad doesn’t kill me when I grab the mic from him and speak into it, my lips moving across the surface. “Hell, yes.”
Killian drops the mic to the floor in dramatic fashion making the feedback go crazy, then lifts me into his arms and swings me around.
I don’t know what to do, and I don’t think anyone else does either. Then I hear a voice shout, “I CAN OFFICIATE!”
My best friend and maid of honor, who has clearly seen better days, shoves through the crowd and stares me down, her smile evil, her hair all askew. I don’t even want to ask how her pink lipstick got smeared down her chin—it just adds to the drama, I guess?
“Sure.” I point at her. “Get up here.”
And that, dear friends, is how I became married to one of the hottest rockstars in the world, but that’s not where our story ends.
No, it’s just the beginning.
CHAPTER 4
Killian
One Week Later
“But I don’t want to go to the event; all they do is point and stare and point some more and say oh isn’t that the guy that used to be in—“
Scarlett slaps a hand over my mouth; she’s violent this one. “You’ll do it for the PR, and you’ll thank me after.”
“You know, when I offered to marry you, it was more or less like this contractual agreement where I save your ass, and you keep me from losing mine, but I feel like it’s turned into a PR nightmare where you do nothing but try to get my image back up after…” I don’t mention after.
I haven’t talked about it with her.
The press has said enough.
And I refuse to waste my words on my past.
Honestly, I saw Scarlett as more of my savior. Yes, I helped her, but really, she was helping me; she had no idea what went down that day or what shit I went through, or how desperate I was to get out of it.
And then, like a goddess in shining bridal wear, she asked me to sing. Could I have asked for a better rescue? Probably not.
I probably nearly put my poor agent and manager in the hospital, but it helped that it was deemed the most romantic save of all time.
I wonder when I’ll finally confess that she saved me, not the other way around?
Scarlett starts rummaging through her bag and grabs an Advil, the fact that she knows me already so well just shows how good of a publicist she really is, and she’s not even supposed to be mine, but since she’s my wife, she’s at every event this week with me.
We have to do good PR.
We have to hold hands.
Make it not look like a setup.
Do interviews.
Exhausting but also enjoyable because at least she likes to eat hamburgers. Sad, that the only thing it took for me to fall a little in love with her was when she asked for extra cheese on her Big Mac, then threatened them that if they only gave her two pickles, she’d scream.
She was kidding—I think—but mentally, I was in the same boat, thinking if I got less than three pickles, I won’t ever eat here again!
Lies. But still.
The car pulls to a stop. I take a deep breath.
Scarlett pops a mint in her mouth and does the same. She’s in a beautiful strapless white dress with slits on both sides and gold shoes. I’m in a black tux, and we’re currently preparing to face the world at the Billboard Music Awards.
This is clearly not how I thought my night was going to go a week ago.
“Ready?” She nods at me.
I hold out my hand. “You look beautiful.”
“So do you.”
I haven’t kissed her since then.
We haven’t slept together.
Again, we decided it was more of a contract.
So why, when we get out of the car, do I hold onto her like she’s my forever when I know perfectly well that forever will always fail you and love?
Is for suckers.
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MARRY ME MAGIC
CARI QUINN & TARYN ELLIOTT
CHAPTER 1
Ian
Looking out at the vast and endless orchard always made me feel small. Not in the shitty way like when I first came to America. But in an existential way. Me in this crazy world of family, both mine and the people who accepted me as theirs.
Like Magic.
I glanced to my right. My Magic and my life. One of the most important pieces of my heart. The first person who made me believe that love was possible and that I deserved to experience it in all of its glory. The other was behind me in his new carseat. Because our baby was no longer a baby—he was a toddler who was finding his independence. Some of which included his Houdini act with almost any fecking buckle.
Elvis—aka Bez short for Beelzebub—our handful of a son who needed a five point harness. I was sure those clever fingers would come in handy when he was older, but right now the little shit was taking years off my life. Especially when he wiggled his way out of his seat while we were driving and proceeded to give me a heart attack followed by nightmares untold.
At the moment, both my girl and our child were sleeping as the rain and wind soundtrack roared through the speakers of our mini-bus. No regular minivan for us. Oh, no. We needed far more space for instruments, art supplies, and baby things than the average family.
We’d decided driving across country to get to New York was a good plan. My beloved Zoe had done a version of the trip while we’d been apart. I wanted to rearrange those memories into new ones that included me and our child.
It had been been a lesson in patience and spectacular wonder. We’d even unearthed Matilda, our special Polaroid camera, to use as we traveled in a zigzag pattern across the United States and a few spots in Canada. On our many stops, Magic set up her easels and her paints to document our journey and I wrote more songs than I could ever record.
In between we danced and laughed under the stars of every state.
Our last pin in the map tacked in the back of our bus had included Niagara Falls. And seeing my baby boy experience one of the most incredible sights in the world had been pretty intense. And pretty fucking cold, truth be told. Canada didn’t have warm temperatures except for a few months in the summer. I was used to the wet chill of England, but it had nothing on our neighbor to the north.
We set off at dawn to make our way to Turnbull. Traveling with a three-year-old was full of pitfalls and screaming matches in between the joy. Today included quite a bit of screaming—hence the rain sounds—but we were officially home.
The place Magic and I had rekindled our romance and made Elvis in her artistically perfect barn. Where we’d had our baby boy as well. All the best memories had been built at Happy Acres orchard, and now we would finally have one more.