Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 93936 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93936 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
“Turn around,” she says, and I shift so she can get my chest and stomach. “I still love watching people’s faces when they realize what this is.”
She’s talking about the small “J” tattooed over my heart, simple black script that matches the “Q” she has on her hip bone. We got them on impulse after finishing the shoulder piece, high on adrenaline, fresh ink, and the reality of being newlyweds.
My tattoo is a shoulder piece that tells our story. A treble clef morphing into sound waves that flow into the Vegas skyline, with our wedding date worked into the design in Roman numerals. It’s intricate, beautiful, and completely worth the eight hours of needle time.
“Speaking of which,” I say, sliding my hand along her waist to where her bikini bottom sits low on her hips, “I still think yours is sexier.”
She swats my hand away, laughing. “We’re in public, Mr. James.”
“So? You’re my wife. I’m allowed to appreciate my wife.”
The word still sends a thrill through me. Wife. After that whirlwind night in Vegas. The show, the proposal, calling Elle at midnight to tell her we needed a wedding planner ASAP. It all feels like a beautiful dream I’m still processing.
“Your wife who will dump this entire bottle of sunscreen on your head if you don’t behave,” she threatens, but she’s grinning.
I hold up my hands in surrender. “I’ll be good. For now.”
She finishes with the sunscreen and settles back in her chair, reaching for her iced coffee. We’re staying at the Fairmont Southampton, and the hotel staff has been incredible. Setting us up with the perfect spot on the beach, making sure we have everything we need to watch Eden’s competition in comfort.
“Look,” Justine says, pointing out at the water. “She’s up.”
I shade my eyes with my hand and watch Eden catch a wave. Even from the beach, I can see why she’s ranked second in the world. Her style is fluid, powerful, combining technical precision with an artistic flair that makes every ride look effortless. She carves up the face of the wave, hits the lip with a perfect snap, and kicks out with a grace that makes it look easy.
“That had to be at least an eight,” I say.
“Eight point five, at least,” agrees a voice behind us. We turn to see Liam approaching, wearing board shorts and a Panama hat, looking every inch the relaxed vacationer despite the fact that he’s technically here on business.
“How’d the meeting go?” I ask as he settles into the chair we saved for him.
“Brilliantly,” he says with a satisfied grin. “The label executives love the rough cuts from your album. They want to fast track the release, get you two on the festival circuit this summer.”
Justine and I exchange a look. We spent two months in Beaumont after Vegas, recording our debut album as a duo. Twelve songs that tell our story from heartbreak to healing to falling in love. Working with Liam as our producer has been a dream, and the music we’ve created together is some of the best work either of us has ever done.
But it wasn’t without its challenges. Two artists used to being leads, learning to share creative control, figuring out whose vision takes precedence when we disagree. We had our first real fight in the studio over the arrangement of “Electric Heart.” I wanted to strip it down acoustic style, she wanted to keep the rock edge. We didn’t speak for three hours until Liam locked us in a room together and told us to figure it out.
That’s when I learned something crucial about my wife: she doesn’t back down from what she believes in, but she also listens. Really listens. We ended up with a version that was better than either of our original ideas.
“What’s the timeline?” Justine asks.
“Album drops in June. I’ve already got calls from Lollapalooza, Austin City Limits, and a few others. Everyone wants the couple that got married on stage in Vegas.”
“We didn’t get married on stage,” I correct him.
“Details,” Liam waves me off. “The story is what matters, and your story is bloody perfect. Star crossed musicians, whirlwind romance, Vegas wedding. It’s like a modern fairy tale.”
He’s not wrong. Our story has captured people’s imaginations in a way that still surprises me. The wedding photos that Chandler took and Paige posted on social media went viral within hours, and since then, we’ve been featured in magazines, interviewed on talk shows, and had our music streamed millions of times.
The wedding itself was perfect in its chaos. Elle managed to pull together a ceremony at the Little White Wedding Chapel in four hours, complete with flowers, a photographer, and a minister who didn’t dress like Elvis. My entire family was there. Parents crying, JD livestreaming against Elle’s explicit instructions, the babies fussing.