Page 137 of Collide
I look up at him, breath caught in my chest.
“The Hamptons with you?” he murmurs, cupping my face, his thumbs brushing along my jaw. “Sounds good to me.”
Then he kisses me.
It’s slow—like he’s sealing a promise, RSVPing with his tongue.
Before I can chase the warmth of it, he pulls away.
Ugh. Come back.
But he’s already turned, back at the stove like nothing happened. The air around me still buzzes, every nerve jolting for more. I take another sip of wine, the rosé slipping down too easily on an empty stomach. I’m lightheaded. Warm. A little floaty.
He plates the food—salmon, roasted potatoes, crisp green vegetables, a simple salad—and sets it down on the dining table with quiet confidence. It smells incredible.
We sit. He tugs my legs into his lap, his hand settling on my bare knee like it belongs there. I settle into the feeling, the moment. It’s domestic, almost tender, but charged underneath.
“I can’t wait for you to hear them,” I say between mouthfuls, trying not to sound too giddy.This is so good.
“Your album?”
“Yes. Maybe after the Hamptons. Or”—I glance at him, hopeful—“you could come to the studio while we’re recording?”
He chews thoughtfully, then nods. “Let me get back to you on that. I’ve got a few things lined up, but I’m sure I can make the time.”
“Okay.”
He’s quiet for a second, then glances up at me.
“Actually…would you be interested in being my date to the red carpet premiere forThe Kingmaker?” he asks, drawing lazy patterns across my skin
My fork pauses mid-air.
Red carpet.
Paparazzi.
With him.
That sounds…official.
Is this it? Is this the talk?
“Is that a good idea? When is it? That seems official, likereallyofficial, and the media, oh.”
He chuckles, deep and easy. “It’s not for a while. Just floating it on your radar.”
“Okay.” The word comes out slowly as I try to process. Not quite the talk I was hoping for. “I mean, I’ll think about it. I’ll talk to Kylie.”
Now that the media buzz around us has died down, Kylie’s been gently steering me toward low-key, off-grid dates. Private dinners. Hotel lobbies with back entrances. Nothing too flashy,nothing too public. She doesn’t trust the press—or the fans who treat Alex like a public commodity.
He takes a long sip of wine, watching me over the rim of his glass. “You know, a few calculated public appearances might actually drum up more interest for your new album. Your older stuff’s been getting some airtime again, hasn’t it?”
He’s not wrong.
His fans—fierce, loyal, intense—flooded toward my music, giving my old album new life. So much so that the tracks are charting again. The attention is flattering, sure, but part of me bristles.
I want my work to stand on its own.
