Page 37 of Librarian & the Rockstar

But no amount of pleading is going to stop the inevitable.

He steps around the mayor like the man doesn't even exist, his eyes still locked on me. He doesn't look away a single time, not until his hand is on my arm, his chest pressed against mine. His lips brush my ear.

I'm acutely aware of everyone watching us like this is a stage play instead of my actual life. But they don't matter, not really.

"Loralei," Ash breathes, his voice shaking.

I whimper. I don't mean to do it, but there's no stopping the sound. I'm so goddamn miserable without him that it's pathetic.

"Loralei," he says again, pulling me closer.

"Ash," I choke, pressing my face against his throat.

"Christ, I've missed you, beautiful," he rasps, the tip of his tongue touching the side of my throat.

I make a sound that's half surrender, half frustration. And then my hand is on his arm, practically dragging him through the gala. Everyone watches us go, avidly curious, but I don't care. We aren't doing this in front of the whole town.

I drag him out of the ballroom, down the hall, and into an empty conference room. Only when the door is closed behind us do I spin to face him, breathing hard.

"You look stunning, baby," he murmurs, leaning against the door, his hands at his sides like he's trying his best to behave himself. "I wish like hell I'd been there to see you getting into that pretty dress."

"What are you doing here, Ash?" I ask, crossing my arms in the hopes that'll help me keep my hands to myself. He's in a full tux, his beard neatly trimmed, looking edible. I'm too damn weak for this.

"Fighting for what matters." He looks nervous, the way he did the very first day we met, like he isn't sure what to make of me. "You matter, Loralei, more than anything ever has."

"Please don't," I whisper.

"I know you're mad. I know you probably don't ever want to see me again," he says, taking a step toward me, "but I can't live with that, beautiful. If you're kicking me out of your life, I want you to know the truth first."

"What truth, Ash? Because I think you told me enough of it on Saturday," I mumble, fighting not to cry. "You made it pretty clear that I don't fit into your world."

"It's not you who doesn't fit, Loralei," he says. "It's me."

"What?" I blink at him. "What does that even mean?"

"It means that I've been telling myself that I need to change everything to protect you because you're too good for my world, but the truth is…" He blows out a breath, mumbling a curse. "The truth is, when I look at you, I don't feel good enough for you. You're fucking perfect. And I'm a recovering alcoholic who damn near tossed his sobriety away just a few weeks ago."

"Ash, that's not true," I protest. "You are good enough."

"It was never about you not being able to handle the scrutiny and pressure and bullshit, baby. You can handle anything. It's me who can't handle it anymore. I think I've known for a long fucking time that I can't do it anymore, and I'm fucking worried that if I drag you into my world and expose you to all that bullshit, I'm going to slip. I'm going to fail." He blows out a shaking breath. "I'll fuck up and lose you, trying to be something I'm not just because it's what people expect."

"But I realized something recently," he murmurs, holding my gaze. "There's no rule saying I have to keep doing it. I don't have to keep grinding every fucking day until I'm stretched so thin, hitting the bottle feels like the best escape. There's no rule that says I have to keep chasing this fucking status I don't even want."

"Ash," I whisper, my heart clenching for him. "Of course you don't have to keep doing it."

"It was never about hiding you or being ashamed of you. I was trying to cut ties with the shit that has been dragging me down so you'd want to make a place in your world for me. Look around," he says, holding his hands out. "You have a fucking amazing life here. You have a job you love. You have memories you've built and friends who would, quite literally, kill for you. I wanted to be the guy who could fit into what you've built without fucking it all up because that's what you deserve. You deserve someone willing to do whatever the fuck it takes to make your life easier." He ruffles a hand through his hair. "And maybe I was fucking worried that if the press showed up, you'd realize the only thing I do is make it harder."

"Ash," I whisper, my heart in my throat. "You've never made it harder, not a single time since I met you."

"I made you cry."

"Okay, fine," I grumble. "Maybe that part was hard."

His lips quirk, but it's not a smile. It's more a grimace, like it physically pains him to know I cried over him. Frankly, I don't love it, either. But I don't love this any better—knowing that he feels like he's not good enough, knowing that he's worried he has to prove himself worthy of me. He's always been worthy.

"I don't care about the press," I say, reaching for his hand. "I don't care about the fans or the gossip or any of the other stuff. I knew who you were before I ever got into the car with you. I knew who you were before I slept with you or fell in love with you. I knew what the risks were, and I was fine with that. But I'm not fine with you trying to keep me in some compartment or choose for me. You can't invite me into half of your life, and then lock the other part away so it never touches me. You are who you are, and that man has been a rockstar for the last twenty years. This will never work if I'm only allowed into the parts of your life that you decide are good enough for me."

"I'm retiring," he blurts.