Jack McLachlan’s POV

Three. Long. Fucking. Months. That’s how long it’s been since I’ve seen Laurelyn. And I don’t think I can take another minute. I die a little more each day she isn’t in my life.

She’s been damn near impossible to find. Fate has worked against us every step of the way. The hoops Jim has jumped through for the smallest bit of information have been ridiculous. One step forward, two steps back—instead of the other way around. A criminal on the run would’ve been easier to find.

But I’ve finally found her. Laurelyn Paige Prescott—better known to the public by her stage name as Paige McLachlan—that’s the woman I’m here to see tonight.

I still smile when I think about her taking my name, but I can’t help but ponder why she’d need to use a stage name. She never mentioned using one before and it makes me wonder if something happened with the sperm donor. Or worse—maybe with Blake Phillips.

I enter the auditorium lobby and the thick crowd makes it difficult to push through. The Martin I’m carrying adds to my difficult navigation as I bump shoulders through the horde, so I have to apologize with each step.

I find my assigned seat. Because I’m a creature of habit, I’m happy when I see it’s in a dark corner. I sit and place the Martin by my feet. I’m nervous and adrenalized as evidenced by my rapidly beating heart. I’m about to see the woman I love walk out onto that stage.

I look at the time and see it’s only a minute until eight. My heart is pounding erratically, throbbing in my ears over the loud crowd. Finally, musicians begin filing onto the stage to take their places. That’s when I see her for the first time in three months. My Laurelyn. All the time and distance that separated us disappears upon finally seeing her face again.

She looks the same, yet different. Her hair is a little longer and darker. Her honey highlights are missing and she’s slimmer. She’s still beautiful as ever but doesn’t fit the image etched in my mind these last few months.

She’s wearing brown boots—the same ones she wore the first time I saw her—with stonewashed jeans and a strapless white top. Her bare shoulders make me desperate to touch her exposed skin. And kiss it. Her top is fitted below her breasts while the bottom flows loosely over her jeans. I picture them riding low on her hips so I have easy access to kiss her belly.