Falling Into Love with You (The Hate-Love Duet Book 2)

by Lauren Rowe

  “Oh, wow. This is so cool!”

  Laila shrieks, “It belonged to Jeff Buckley!”

  My jaw drops. I don’t think I’ve mentioned my near-obsession with Jeff Buckley to Laila. Not that I was keeping it a secret. It just never came up. Did she hear about it from Kendrick? “Laila,” I breathe, my heart pounding. “He’s one of my all-time favorites.”

  “Yes, I know. Hence, the gift.”

  “Laila,” I say stupidly, feeling overcome. “Wow. Thank you.” I hug her tightly and sputter, “This is the best gift I’ve ever gotten.”

  “Check it out,” she says. “It’s super cool.”

  I turn my attention to the amplifier, running my hands over it. Twisting its knobs, each touch of my flesh on places where Jeff Buckley’s hands also touched giving me goosebumps. All traces of sleepiness gone, I hop up from the bed, shouting, “I’m gonna get my guitar and plug it in!”

  “Not yet!” she yells. “Wait, Adrian! There’s more to the gift!”

  I dance around like I’ve got ants in my pants. Like I’m four years old, wearing my Christmas jammies, and just got a toy train that needs its caboose. “Babe, I want to get my guitar. Please.”

  She giggles. “Before you do that, there’s more to this gift.” She motions to the spot I just left. “Please.”

  “Whatever more there is, take it back,” I say, shuffling toward the bed. “It’s only downhill from here. This is literally the best thing you could have gotten for me, in the history of time.” I resume my seat on the mattress next to her. “Did Kendrick tell you how much I love Jeff Buckley?”

  “No, you told me, without actually telling me.” She winks. “You always sing Jeff Buckley in the shower.”

  “I do?”

  She nods. “All the time. And, of course, besides that little lullaby you always used to sing to Mimi, you often sang little snippets of Jeff Buckley to her, too. I could tell how meaningful his songs were to you.”

  My heart is bursting. “Still, though, it’s a giant leap that you’d think to shell out the kind of money it’d take to buy one of Buckley’s actual amps. I’m blown away.”

  “I love you. That’s worth more than all the money in the world.”

  I grin broadly, thinking about the money I’ve given up to keep Laila on the show. And once again, like I told Reed the other night, I’m positive I did the right thing. In fact, I’d do it again and again, every single time, if my life were Groundhog Day. If it meant I’d be here with Laila this morning, with “True Love High” still ringing in my ears, and Jeff Buckley’s amp sitting on my bed . . . and, most importantly, Laila’s beautiful smile lighting up my bedroom.

  Laila points. “The amp’s got papers certifying it was Buckley’s. I taped them to the bottom of the amp. Check ‘em out.”

  I turn the amp over, as requested, and I’ll be damned, there’s a folded-up piece of paper taped to the bottom. I detach the paper and unfold it, excited to see Buckley’s name in black and white. Which I do. But I also find a small envelope with the certificate. I open the envelope and find a USB flash drive inside. I hold it up to Laila, a question on my face, and she smiles as big as the Grand Canyon.

  “Adrian Savage, my love,” she says. “On that flash drive, you will find . . . a rare treasure.” Against all odds, her smile somehow finds a way to widen even more. She says, “That flash drive is loaded with the pro tools multi track stems . . .”

  “No.”

  “Of the entire album . . .”

  “Oh my God, Laila.”

  “Of Grace!”

  “Laila!”

  “Every single track from every single song on Grace, your favorite album by your favorite artist, the original owner of that guitar amp.”

  I feel like I’m going to faint. Or have a heart attack or stroke. All while being simultaneously shot out of a cannon. It’s unthinkable that she’s acquired this impossible treasure for me. It’s beyond my wildest dreams or fantasies or imaginations. In my palm, I’m holding something priceless. Something that can’t be bought on the open market: the actual raw files from the recording sessions which were then layered and edited and seamlessly woven together to create the songs on my all-time favorite album. In other words, she’s given me the Holy Grail. A magical gift only a fellow artist would ever give—a gift only a fellow artist would possibly understand to give.

  I thought the amp was the best gift, ever. And it was, a moment ago. But now, this is, by far, the most boner-inducing, heart palpitating, perfect, mind-blowing gift Laila could ever, ever, ever have given me. And to think she did it not only because she loves me. But because she knows me, so well. Because she’s figured me out, without anyone, not even Kendrick, telling her this would be the best gift I could receive. Honestly, I don’t think even Kendrick would come up with this idea, if tasked with finding the perfect gift for me. Only Laila could or would do something so magical for me. So amazing. And the effect on me is like she’s given my very soul the most amazing blowjob in the history of time.

  I swoop her into my arms and kiss the hell out of her, thanking her profusely. I tell her I love her, over and over again, as I take off her clothes. And she tells me she loves me, too, over and over again, as she slides her naked body onto my cock and rides me like there’s no tomorrow. I devour her breasts and nipples. Massage her clit. We fuck and laugh and kiss, our euphoria palpable. I didn’t know love could feel like this. I thought love like this was a fairytale. And love songs about it were bullshit. But now I know this kind of love is not only real, it’s the only thing that matters.

  When we’re done making love, we lie in bed for a bit, kissing and laughing. But soon, I can’t resist grabbing my laptop and inserting the flash drive, as Laila cuddles up to me and lays her cheek on my shoulder. As the files unfurl on my screen, I “ooh” and “aah” like I’m watching a fireworks display on the Fourth of July, and Laila giggles at my reaction.

  “How did you get your hands on this?” I ask, clicking around through the files like a madman.

  “Reed said he owed me a big favor for doing the music video for Alessandra. So, I called in the favor.”

  “I could weep.”

  She laughs, not realizing I’m not joking.

  I pull her to me and silently hug her close for a very long moment, long enough to gather myself. Finally, I feel in control of myself enough to pepper her gorgeous face with kisses, before taking her face in my palms. “Laila Fitzgerald, if I’m ever so much as cranky toward you, if I’m ever even remotely close to being an asshole in your presence, ever, please, please, say ‘Buckley multi track stems’ and I promise on my life I’ll instantly stop whatever shitty or immature thing I’m saying or doing, drop to my knees, and kiss your feet.”

  She makes an adorable sound of pure joy. “I’m gonna hold you to that.”

  “And rightly so.”

  We kiss again. But, suddenly, Laila says, “Oh! There’s one more gift you need to open.”

  “No. Stop. No more.”

  “This one is a small token. It cost me approximately twenty dollars.”

  She grabs the book-sized wrapped gift from the corner of the bed, and hands it to me. “I had this made for you when we were in Chicago. But I decided to wait a little bit to give it to you.”

  My heart thumping, I open the wrapping paper to find the inside of an old birthday card, given to me by Mimi on the first birthday I spent with her. My thirteenth. Laila’s gotten the card framed behind glass like it’s an exquisite work of art. Which it is, to me.

  The handwritten note on the card from Mimi reads:

  My dearest Adrian,

  Happy 13th birthday, my love. I thank God everyday he brought you to me, so you could light up my life like a shooting star. Whenever you get frustrated or angry, if you’re feeling like the world is against you, take a deep breath and remember you’re never going to be alone again. You’ve got me now. And I’m not going anywhere. Even when I’m gone from this earth, my love for you will remain.
You’re the light of my life, Adrian. I love you, forever and always.

  Love,

  Mimi

  Thirty-One

  Laila

  One month later

  It’s around nine in the morning on my twenty-fifth birthday. I’m sitting at the baby grand in the corner of the living room while Savage sleeps upstairs. For the past hour or so, I’ve been working on a song for my third album that came to me in a dream.

  Ever since I got back from Mexico a month ago, and Savage and I shared that incredible, magical night, during which we must have said “I love you” to each other a thousand times, I’ve been flooded with musical inspiration. All of it, about love. Or if not that, directly, happiness and joy. And it’s no surprise, considering how great everything has been going in my life. Not only with Savage, but with the show, too. When it started airing, the ratings hit record numbers and never dipped. Which, thankfully, has insulated Savage and me from any more meddling from Nadine. In fact, she’s left Savage and me alone to be happy and authentic on-camera, exactly the way she said she’d do when she called me in Chicago. And now, I can’t write one of my usual “fuck you!” kind of songs to save my life.

  “Happy birthday,” Savage says, entering the living room, and I quickly stop playing the song I was working on—the passionate love song about Savage that came to me in my sleep.

  When Savage reaches me, he kisses me in greeting and then makes me scootch over on the piano bench so he can join me. “The big two-five,” he says, settling himself next to me. “I should have gotten you a walker for your birthday.”

  “You didn’t? Darn.”

  Savage tickles the ivories playfully. “Nope. Unfortunately, all I got you was a baby grand, just like this one, that’ll be delivered to your place when we’re booted out of here in a few weeks.”

  I gasp. “No.”

  Savage grins. “Happy birthday, baby.”

  Squealing, I hug him and thank him profusely, and we talk about my exciting gift for several minutes. “So, hey,” I say, “speaking of us being booted out of here in a few weeks.” I take a deep breath. I’ve been wanting to broach this topic with Savage for a few weeks now. He’s told me in the past he hates feeling “tied down” or “locked in,” but we’ve been so happy together, I can’t stand the thought of not waking up to his face every morning after we leave here. Savage couldn’t possibly want to live apart when our contractual relationship is over, could he? I walk my fingers up the piano keys, mustering my courage. “When we leave this house, where are you planning to live?”

  When he’s silent, I gather the courage to peek at Savage’s face and find him red and flustered.

  “A hotel?” I ask, returning to the piano keys.

  “Uh . . . yeah. A hotel.”

  “I figured. I’ve been thinking, though . . . maybe it would be fun if you came to live with me at my condo.” Savage says nothing, so I peek at him again. This time, he looks like his mind is racing. Like he’s been caught with his hand in a cookie jar. “Uh oh, did I scare you away?” I’ve tried to make my tone sound light and bright. Like this is no biggie. Ha, ha. Just a wild idea. But, truthfully, I feel disappointed he hasn’t replied with a quick and simple yes. But oh well, at least he hasn’t given me an immediate no. So, that’s something.

  Savage’s features soften when he sees whatever look of anxiety has crept onto my face. “Of course, you didn’t scare me away, Fitzy,” he says. “Nothing you could say or do could possibly scare me away. I just don’t want to be a mooch, that’s all.”

  I sigh with relief. “Don’t think of it like that, babe. I have a place and you don’t. This makes sense. One plus one equals two.”

  Savage bites his lower lip. “You know what? You’re right. Of course, we should live together after the show, since I don’t have a place of my own.”

  “Exactly.”

  “It makes perfect sense.”

  “I couldn’t agree more.”

  Savage snickers.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. I’m just excited. Thanks for asking me to live with you.”

  “Thanks for saying yes.” I shudder with excitement. “This is going to be so fun!”

  Savage smiles broadly. “Yes, it is. ‘A grand adventure,’ as Mimi always used to say.”

  “Indeed.”

  We seal the deal with a kiss, after which I squeal again and say, “I can’t wait to play my new piano in my condo! It’ll be a tight fit, but I can get rid of a couple chairs and make it work.”

  “What were you working on when I came in? I heard a snippet. It sounded amazing.”

  I shake my head.

  As Savage knows, I don’t reveal my works in progress until I’m certain the song is worthy of being born. And that’s especially true of the song I was just working on about Savage. It’s the most honest, passionate song I’ve ever written in my life. A song I’m nervous might freak Savage out a bit, to be honest, if I play it before its time, since it contains some lyrics that will express things to Savage we haven’t yet said to each other. I’ve told Savage I love him many times. But telling him I’m going to love him forever, that my love is “infinite and everlasting,” as this song does, repeatedly, feels like taking our relationship to the next level, and I’m not sure he’s ready for that yet.

  “Okay, then, if you won’t play me whatever you were working on when I came in,” Savage says, “then play me something. You can’t whet my appetite like that and then leave me hanging.”

  “Sure. Any requests?”

  “How about one of your cool Laila Fitzgerald covers?”

  I can’t help smiling. Savage loves it when I transform one of my favorite songs by another artist into a slowed-down, piano cover. I pause, considering my options, and then start playing the intro to “Fireflies” by our friends, 22 Goats—one of my all-time favorite songs to sing. But since I’m playing the song much slower than the recorded original, and also on nothing but piano, Savage only recognizes the song when I start singing the famous first line: “Fireflies, you’ve got me feeling ‘em/never before or since.”

  “I’ve got goosebumps!” Savage blurts. “Just like the ones I got when I heard you singing this song with Aloha and the Goats at Reed’s party!”

  I stop playing on a dime, my jaw hanging open. “You heard me singing this song at Reed’s party? But you told me you didn’t come inside and see the performance.”

  “I didn’t. I was standing outside on the patio and could hear the first part of the performance from there. Don’t stop. Sing me the whole thing. I love your voice on this one.”

  “Your wish is my command.” I return my fingers to the keys and start from the beginning again, turning “Fireflies” into a piano ballad, with a few tweaks to the original lyrics, especially for my love:

  [Click here to listen to Laila’s cover of “Fireflies”]

  Fireflies

  You got me feelin’ ‘em

  Never before or since

  All my life

  Been chasing butterflies

  And in

  Just one night

  One perfect night . . .

  Boy, you made butterflies your bitch

  Oh, Fireflies

  Oh, In your eyes

  Don’t know if you’re feeling it

  These wings and lights

  Or if everything’s all in my head

  But there’s one thing I know

  One singular truth:

  I need you

  I need you

  Boy, I need you so bad

  In my life

  In my bed

  Oh, Fireflies

  Oh, in your eyes

  Oh, Fireflies

  Oh, in your eyes

  Fireflies

  Fireflies

  You got me feelin’ ‘em

  With you

  And nobody else

  You’re a savage

  A puzzle

  My destination

  Would give my sou
l to the devil

  My soul to the devil

  To never stop feeling

  Those

  Fireflies

  With you

  When I finish singing my version of “Fireflies,” Savage looks absolutely blown away, the same way he always does whenever I sing for him. He kisses and hugs me, whispering, “You sound even more amazing on that song than you did at Reed’s party. I love it when it’s just you and your piano, and no other instrumentation.”

  “I can’t believe you heard me singing this song at Reed’s party. I thought for sure you hadn’t.”

  “I heard half of it. I left midway through the song.”

  “I looked for your face in the audience during the entire performance! And when I didn’t see you, I decided, ‘Screw it, when I’m done performing, I’ll put my ego aside and find him, and be the first one to say hello.’ But when I got offstage, and did a lap of the party looking for you, you were nowhere to be found.”

  Savage chuckles. “I heard you singing ‘Fireflies’ and couldn’t stay at the party a second longer. Your voice was so gorgeous, so mesmerizing to me, it made me want to cock-block Kendrick the second you walked offstage. So, I left the party, right then, to keep myself from hitting on you.”

  “Oh my gosh,” I say. “I was positive I couldn’t find you because you’d left the party with whichever lucky lady you’d decided to bang that night. Georgina, or the woman you’d been talking to by the pool, or whoever else.”

  He shakes his head. “I didn’t want to be a dick to Kendrick. By the way, I didn’t hit on Georgina that night. I mean, I did, but only because that was Kendrick’s birthday dare for me. Although, admittedly, I was thrilled to do it to get you back for flirting so brazenly with Cash in front of me.”

  I snicker. “I wasn’t remotely interested in Cash.” I wink. “But I sure did enjoy the look of molten jealousy in your eyes when I flirted with him.”

  “You’re an evil woman,” he says with a lopsided grin, but his tone feels like he’s giving me his highest compliment.