In front of the crowd, a huge vintage limo stopped, and we watched a couple in formal clothes get out while being swarmed by fans. "Is that Brangelina?" I whispered to Sky, who nodded wordlessly, mouth agape.

We slowed to a crawl in the line of limos letting people out. When it was finally our turn, Jax turned to me. "You ready?" he asked.

"Ready as I'll ever be," I said, taking one last look in my compact mirror before putting it back in my bag.

The driver opened the limo door, and the band stepped out onto the red carpet, dates in tow. Jax and I stepped out last, and were nearly blinded by the flood of flashbulbs that surrounded us.

Reporters and audience members screamed a hundred questions at once as we stepped down the long red carpeted hallway. It took half an hour to walk fifty feet while interviewers shoved mics in the band's faces and stopped them for press photos.

"Is it true that all the songs on your album were written in just two weeks' time?"

"That's right," he said, flashing a grin and squeezing me close to him as he answered the question. "But then, I had some pretty amazing inspiration."

"What do you have to say about rumors that The Days of Wanting Her Back is the favorite to win Album of the Year?" one reporter, dressed in a red gown with a mermaid-style skirt, asked Jax.

"I can't possibly comment on that," he said, looking suave as he smiled, raising his scarred brow. "All the nominees are talented—we're happy just to be nominated today."

The funny thing was, unlike most of the people at the award ceremony, he was probably the only one telling the truth. For Jax, going from homeless runaway teenager to rock sensation was plenty. An award on a shelf, he'd told me the week before, would just be a pretty paperweight.

The rest of the band, of course, didn't share his opinion, and neither did I—a win would mean more press, bigger concerts, and the possibility of a music legacy that could last beyond our lifetimes.

As we got to our seats, the enormity of the event really struck me. Here we were, sitting next to actors, musicians, producers . . . all the people who made the industry tick. After weeks of preparing for the awards ceremony, it was really happening.

Once the host, an edgy comedian with a dig about most of the stars in attendance, took the podium and got started with his routine, the only question on my mind was what he'd say about the Hitchcocks. It happened, finally, just before the Best Album nominations were read out, after we'd been sitting politely clapping for winners and nominees for over two hours.

"As for the crowd favorites, the Hitchcocks," the host was saying as the crowd erupted in scattered "wooooo" sounds, "Are they here because of their music or because they've got Khal Drogo leading the band and slaying everyone who gets in their way?"

Jax and I turned to one another laughing—we'd watched all of Game of Thrones together, and I had noticed his resemblance to the show's powerful horse lord character more than once.

As the nominees were announced, I gulped, taking a look around. I knew it wasn't the end of the world if The Hitchcocks lost, but by the way their knuckles clenched white around the seat arms, I also knew that every member of the band—even Jax—wanted a win more than anything.

"And the winner of Best Album of the Year goes to. . ." the host said, tearing a side off the envelope and peering at the paper within with a grin as I squeezed Jax's hand.

"The Hitchcocks, with The Days of Wanting Her Back!"

Instantly, the auditorium erupted into thunderous applause. Sky's jaw dropped, and Chewie and Kev gave each other a high five as they got up.

I clapped wildly as Jax stood, but then he held his hand out to me.

"Wait, what?" I asked incredulously. I wasn't part of the band—there was no reason for me to be up on stage when they accepted their award.

"Come up there with us," he said, still holding his hand out, with a glint in his eyes I'd never seen before. "Trust me."

My mouth opened to object, but when would I ever get the chance to do this again? I reached up and took his hand, grinning ear to ear, and made my way down the aisle of the auditorium with the rest of the band.

The spotlights shone down on us as we climbed the stairs and Jax took the mic at the podium. "Wow," he said, testing the heft of the statuette in his hand. "So this is how it feels."

From the audience, a female voice shrieked: "WE LOVE YOU, JAX!"

He cleared his throat and took a deep breath. "I want to thank my band, the best band in the world, The Hitchcocks, for being the greatest people I could imagine touring with. My manager, Reed, all the people at our record label . . . but they're not the ones I want to thank most. One person made this entire album possible, and she's standing with us right now. Riley . . . "

He turned to me, and suddenly I felt like the eyes of the entire world were staring in my direction.

"Riley," he started, then noticed that I was looking out at the audience. He looked at me closely, then put two fingers up to his eyes, then toward mine. "Look at me, Pepper. Look at me like it's just the two of us here."

My breath shallow and fast, I turned to look at him. His eyes were deeper, more soulful, than I'd ever seen them.

"Riley, we've been through incredible things together. Amazing ones, terrible ones—and the only constant is that I love you more through every experience we have together." I felt myself blushing in the heat of the light as he spoke, and I could hear the audience start to murmur among themselves. "You're my muse. You're my rock. I want to keep you safe always. I want you by my side forever. Riley . . ."

My heart beat faster and faster as his words sunk in, and then Jax, his voice nearly cracking with emotion, said, "Will you marry me?"

My eyes opened wide, and my hands flew to my mouth. I nodded, trying to get my bearings, and tears started coming to my eyes. "Yes!" I cried out. The audience broke out into whoops and cheers, and a thousand flashes lit up as photos snapped all over the room.

He held out a ring, sparkling in the intense lights. I walked toward the podium, and he slid it around my finger. I looked back to the rest of the band with an incredulous look on my face, as if to ask, did any of you know about this? They stared back with sheepish grins. I wondered, grinning, how long this had been part of the plan . . .

and then I felt Jax's lips, kissing me in front of the audience, the cameras, the world. His mouth pressed against mine in a frenzy that shut out anyone but the two of us, locked close together in an embrace no one could tear apart.




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