Broken Chords (Love in London 2)

“Take your time,” Tina says, shooing us out. “I’m going to catch up with all my programmes while this little monster sleeps.”

“Not little monster,” Max protests. “Little boy.”

“Of course you are, Maxie.”

Eventually we get away. Alex holds my hand, carrying his guitar case in his other. It swings along as we walk. I get a flashback to the old days, to the way he’d tense up before a gig. Getting angry and cocky.

The way he’d smoke too much.

He’s not like that at all, anymore. He hasn’t been since he’s been playing small venues again. Nowadays, it’s only Alex, his guitar and the mic. He says he likes it better this way, prefers the connection with the audience.

I only care about his connection with me.

“You okay?” he asks again, looking down at my stomach. “I’m not walking too fast?”

His concern irritates and gratifies at the same time. I hold on to the gratification and ignore everything else.

“I’m good, honestly. I’ve got another three weeks yet, anything could happen.”

He smiles. “We should take advantage while we can.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Before we have another little kid sleeping in our bedroom for months.”

“Cockblocker.” He grins when he says it, even though I elbow his stomach.

“Language,” I chide. The smile remains.

When we get to the pub, it’s already full. He’s become a minor celebrity around these parts. The man who chose art over fame, family over celebrity. A site manager by day and YouTube sensation by night.

Yeah, he still gets his fix. Although, this time the only hits he gets are on his website, and I’m okay with that.

I quite like it. It’s kind of sexy.

“You want a drink?”

“Can I have a water?”

“Of course.”

“Thank you.” He brings it over and chats with me, while slowly sipping a pint of beer, and I feel warmth wrap around my body. The past two years haven’t always been easy, but they’ve been worthwhile. Every time I see him sitting behind the microphone, a big smile on his face as he sings slow and deep, it makes my heart clench.

Tonight, he’s trying out a new song; a slow melody accompanied by clashing chords. He closes his eyes as he breathes into the microphone, words spilling effortlessly out of his lips and carrying across the room. Though it’s dark I can see the pulse in his neck, the rise of his chest as he takes in some air. And as the song comes to a stop, and he thanks the audience, I notice his eyes locked on mine.

“Okay?” he mouths.

I nod, smiling.

“Stay there.”

I’ve seen those words before. Mouthed across a crowded room while an audience cheers and sweat pours down his face. And though we’re older, wiser, maybe slightly jaded, they still make me feel things.

Everything.

When he reaches me, pulling me up, against his damp chest, I’m still breathy from his performance. He kisses me with warm lips, laughing when the baby kicks him through my stomach.

“Was it all right?”

I kiss him back, this time pushing my fingers into his dark hair, while his palms press against my hips. “It was amazing,” I say. “I’m a lucky girl.”