Marrying Olivia: An Accidental Vegas Wedding Rock Star Romance

CHAPTER ONE

LEWIS

H ey, Ben. Got anything good for me tonight? I shouted, the sound almost lost to the strum of a guitar and the chatter of the crowd in the next room.

Alex and Tom stopped behind me, waiting not-so-patiently while Alex continued whining over his ex-girlfriend playing hard to get.

Couple new acts. One or two might have something. He pursed his lips as he scanned the lineup for the showcase.

Whenever I visited LA, I always stopped at Rhymes. Not out of some need to be a mentor—I mean, I’d been in the music business for going on thirteen years now and let me tell you, I’d seen some shit. I’d make a fucking excellent mentor. But I digress.

No, the hours I spent at this tiny, no-frills venue located down an alley near Sunset and Vine were some of the most inspiring.

I’d walk in with a heavy weight on my shoulders, an ache in my bones that said the time to call it quits was fast approaching. Couple of beers and a few acts later and the ideas were coursing through me faster than I could track them. My fingers itched to pick up my guitar and join the acts on stage.

For a few fleeting hours, the joy returned.

Don’t ask me when it faded. I’d tried to trace it, to find the exact moment my brain checked out and the music became nothing more than a job. But I couldn’t find it. It all blurred into one messy, chaotic disaster.

Even with Alex’s moaning, I needed this.

In two weeks, we’d ship out for the longest tour of our careers. Two years, hundreds of stadiums, and five continents. Somehow I had to refill the well and keep it full.

The alternative if I failed didn’t bear thinking about.

I refused to let my friends and bandmates down.

That one act you liked last time just finished twenty minutes ago. Ben grimaced apologetically. Sorry, man. If you’d let me know you were coming in, I would have sent over the schedule.

No need. I waved his apology off. I wasn’t planning to stop by. I’m sure there’ll be some great music anyway.

If you consider that off-key strumming great, you and I need to have a conversation, Alex grumbled. He frowned at the doorway that led to the main bar and the stage. Who the fuck taught this guy to play?

Tom and I shared a look. When Alex wasn’t trying to win Ceri back, he treated us to this… grumpy man child act.

Let’s get some drinks, yeah? Tom slapped his hand down on Alex’s shoulder and shoved him towards the doorway. Hopefully, it’ll mellow you the fuck out before one of us decides we don’t need another guitarist and glasses you.

Alex laughed but Tom threw me a dark, raised-brow look. It screamed ‘Did I say I was joking?’

There is this one chick, Ben said before I followed them. Singer-songwriter from South Carolina. The voice on her. He shook his head, a look of pure peace in his eyes. I wanted it. You’ll love her, I’m sure of it.

I thanked him and followed Tom and Alex into the main room. It didn’t take me long to find them at the bar, and to Alex’s delight, the guy who couldn’t play guitar finished up his set to a cold audience.

Do you remember what it was like for us getting on a stage in the beginning?

Alex’s attention snapped to me and his brow furrowed. Of course I do.

Oh really? I drawled, unable to stop the smirk claiming my lips. What was it like?

Nerve-wracking. He cut a sly look to Tom. Tom threw up like three times.

Like fuck I did. That was you, you dickhead.

We’d been fourteen-year-old, cocky kids who thought they were destined to be rock gods. Turns out we weren’t half wrong, but that didn’t absolve us from the time-freezing moment when that first spotlight hits, and suddenly we’re blind, with too many expectant eyes on us to count.

I look back on those early days with a bittersweet nostalgia, but I wouldn’t wish to relive them.

Alex crossed his arms, a beer bottle dangling from his fingers. What’s your point?

You don’t need to be an asshole to a stranger learning the ropes. I stared at him, searching for a sign that the message got through. This isn’t you, Al. We know you’re frustrated but taking it out on other people isn’t going to make Ceri like you any more.

If anything, you’re fucking up your only chance to win her back, Tom added, his tone severe. You’ve got three months to prove her wrong. Once you’re divorced, you probably won’t get another opportunity.

I snorted. She’ll move and change her number without a second thought.

In Ceri’s situation, I would.

Alex glared at me, but for the first time in weeks, he looked like he was listening. His expression lost some of its fire and he nodded.

Rehearsals had started already, but there was only so much the band could do when our lead singer kept hopping across the pond. 

All of that changed tomorrow. We were meeting our opening acts and Lily landed later tonight. Things were finally starting to heat up and as much as I dreaded spending two years on the road, anything would be better than this perpetual waiting.

Part of me also hoped it would give Alex something else to focus on, other than driving Ceri mad.

The lights dimmed before any of us could say more.

Please welcome to the stage the incredible Olivia Monroe, the announcer said, his voice amplified by the sound system.

The crowd clapped and screamed, a surprising contrast to the last act. People jostled for the best view of the small stage and the single stool and mic stand sat in the middle. String lights wove through Rhymes’ logo in the background, casting a warm glow in the darkness.

The spotlight turned on as she settled herself on the stool with a coy yet nervous smile. Everything about her captivated me instantly—from the loose strand of chestnut hair she tucked behind her ear to her ripped jeans, bohemian-style top, and beat-up Converse.

Good evening Los Angeles! I’m Olivia, and we’re going to have some fun for the next twenty minutes, she said, her voice lyrical. I hope you enjoy the show.

I was transfixed, and she hadn’t played a note yet. The guys chattered amongst themselves, about what I couldn’t say. I only had eyes and ears for her.

Her fingers strummed the guitar, setting an upbeat tone, building with percussive taps on the guitar’s body. She leaned towards the mic, her foot tapping gently on the stool rung, and then she started to sing.

The whole room stilled, all focus zeroed in on her as that voice flowed out like honey. Sweet yet complex, with an almost ethereal quality that left me enthralled.

Hey! Where are you going? Tom grabbed my arm, pulling me back. I tore my gaze from her–from Olivia–and blinked at him like I was coming out of a dream. I couldn’t remember taking a step. Are we getting a table or what?

Sure. I shrugged off his grip and turned back to the most captivating woman I’d ever seen. I’ll find you.

Their protests were swallowed as her voice rose and I kept moving forward, pushing through the mesmerised crowd until I found myself front and centre. I was helpless, pulled by some invisible force to be as near as possible to this siren on stage.

Her voice was incredible, but that wasn’t all that drew me. The way she seemed to glow under the soft stage lights, eyes closed as her fingers caressed the smooth neck of her guitar, stole my breath. 

She had it. That joy I’d lost.

Utter happiness radiated from her, and it made me grin but also ache at the loss. I remembered it so clearly; the way it used to feel, the way I could close my eyes and be swept away into my own world despite knowing there were hundreds, thousands, millions of eyes on me and one badly timed twitch could ruin the song.

Her eyes fluttered open and green officially became my favourite colour. Our gazes locked for a moment and I felt a spark of connection so real it left me reeling. At that moment, I’d have done anything for her, gone anywhere with her. 

How was it possible to feel so drawn to a stranger? 

Her full lips curved into a smile made for much more than performing. It was made for lazy Sunday mornings tangled in sheets, for stolen kisses in the back of a tour bus, for heated whispers in the dark of night.

I couldn’t remember wanting those things, but now, listening to her, watching her, they consumed my thoughts.

She held my gaze for I don’t know how long, seeming to sing directly to my soul. When she shot me a sly look, almost like we were sharing some secret, I couldn’t help but reciprocate. Then she glanced away, taking a piece of me with her. 

Alex and Tom sidled up on either side, jostling me from my daze. I barely stopped myself from scowling at them. 

Couldn’t these fuckers see I was having a moment?

She’s incredible, mate! Tom said.

Of course she is, we only pick the best. Alex took a swig of his beer. 

Wait! What?

Unfortunately, his attention was still on me when the realisation struck and my eyes widened. A shit eating grin spread across his face. You didn’t know she was our opening act, did you?

I might have tuned out when all those decisions got made. What? I was a musician, not a businessman. Plus, Lily had found her, and if our lead singer said she was perfect for us, then she was perfect.

And had you been paying attention, you would have found her sooner.

Shit.

I stayed silent, still struggling to wrap my head around the strength of my reaction. Her voice had awoken something in me. It had energised me yet shepherded me to a peace I hadn’t experienced in a long time.

CHAPTER TWO

OLIVIA

Do you think anyone would notice if I started fangirling on stage? Yeah, it probably wouldn’t go over too well. But Lewis Davies was staring at me like I’d fed him my grandmother’s county fair award-winning cobbler.

I’d adored The Brightside forever. I’d been in high school when they’d hit it big. I’d fallen in love with their music. Then my mother surprised me with tickets to their Savannah show. She had never told me how she got them, but I didn’t care. I nearly lost my mind with excitement.

Seeing them live changed everything for me.

I’d wanted to make music ever since I could remember thanks to my granddaddy. Nearly every memory I had of him involved a guitar. He’d made it look so easy and seeing my fascination, he’d made it his mission to teach me.

Only it wasn’t easy in the slightest.

My impulsive nature nearly outdid my drive to learn, but thankfully, my grandaddy was a stubborn man. Because of him, I spent the majority of my childhood and teenage years fiddling with guitar chords and filling notebooks with snippets of lyrics. 

Then I’d seen The Brightside live and something had clicked. 

Hope seeped beneath my skin and refused to let up. 

They were only two years older than me, and they’d not only made incredible music, they’d broken out.

They were from a small Welsh town on the other side of the ocean. If they could make a real career out of music and hit it big in another country, then surely this small-town South Carolina girl had a reason to hope. That concert lit a fire in me, a burning determination to chase my own musical dreams no matter the odds.

It hadn’t been easy. I moved to Nashville, wrote every free moment, played every showcase, worked every shift I could as a waitress to support myself and keep myself flexible for the moment my big break came. I poured my heart and soul into every note, every lyric, hoping someone would hear the truth in my words.

And it would come. I knew it in my bones.

I just didn’t think it would take ten years, or come directly from Lily Tyler, The Brightside’s lead singer. When that unknown number flashed up on my phone, I almost didn’t answer. It was right in the middle of a busy shift, but I’d spent so long waiting for that call that I’d scrambled into the kitchen and answered while the cook shouted at me.

He shouted some more when I quit on the spot and walked out. I didn’t even bother taking off my apron.

She’d given me a month to prepare, but nothing was going to stop me from living this dream of mine as soon as possible.

To anyone else, the speed at which I’d packed up my Nashville apartment, found a replacement for my roommate, and moved all my stuff back to Jasmine Bay would be depressing. They’d think it meant I hadn’t lived, but I saw it differently.

To me, it meant I’d achieved my goals. I’d been ready to leave on a dime when the moment came, and I did. I’d been prepared.

But this? I wasn’t prepared for this.

To be playing my second open mic in Los Angeles within a week and find myself staring at my teenage crush. For that guy, a super successful musician, to be watching me like I’d blown his mind… how was I supposed to react to that? My teenage self was screaming inside.

I’d braced myself for meeting him tomorrow. I’d given myself the pep talks, reminded myself not to stare at him like a lovesick teenager. I’d practised my introduction in the mirror, trying to strike the right balance between professional and friendly.

With my heart racing and my mind spinning, I knew none of it had worked.

The crowd cheered and applauded when I finished the set. The melody still hummed through my bones as I stepped off the stage and packed up my acoustic guitar. Exhilaration buzzed inside of me. I was drunk on the euphoric rush that always came with playing to an engaged audience, but it didn’t have a chance in hell of drowning out the nerves. My belly did somersaults worthy of an Olympic gymnastics team.

Should I walk up to him? Or should I sneak out and pretend I haven’t seen him?

I winced at the last idea. If I wasn’t allowed to be a lovesick teenager, I definitely couldn’t pull any of that high school bullshit. 

This was the start of my music career, and he was part of the reason I had it. The least I could do was say hello. I owed him that much, even if the thought made my palms sweat and my mouth go dry.

I weaved my way through knots of people, exchanging grateful smiles and the occasional high-five. All the while, those damn nerves twisted in my gut and threatened to choke me.

It was nothing. Just saying hi to a normal guy I’ve never had a crush on and whose band wasn’t responsible for my entire career.

I scanned the room, rising up on my tiptoes to try and see over the shoulders of people much taller than me. The longer I looked, the more disappointment pinched my insides. It settled like a lead weight in my belly, dragging down the corners of my hopeful smile.

Maybe he’d left.

He didn’t owe me anything. I was just another opening act, a blip on his radar. Nothing special.

The host announced the next act. I’d get a drink and enjoy the rest of the night. Or, you know, drown my sorrows in a whiskey or three and chalk it up to another crazy LA experience.

I glanced over my shoulder, giving the room one final scan. When I still couldn’t spot him, I bit my lip. Disappointment dug deeper and I silently chastised myself for being so ridiculous.

Sighing, I turned back to the bar and slammed into a hard surface. It grunted and hands gripped my shoulders as I stepped back, blinking at the Super Mario image filling my vision.

Maybe you should work out less, I muttered. I rubbed my head, expecting a bump, but that would be ridiculous. I’d run into a person, not a wall.

You alright?

I froze. I couldn’t tear my eyes from what I now realised was a band t-shirt with ‘Hey Mario’ on it. If there ever was a moment when the ground needed to swallow someone, now was it.

Slowly, I dragged my gaze up his buff chest, over his stubbled jaw until his hazel eyes captured mine. They were even more mesmerising in person, flecks of gold catching the dim bar light.

He smiled and it creased his eyes, somehow making him hotter. That smile could’ve powered a small country. It certainly made my heart rate skyrocket and my brain short-circuit.

Photos really didn’t do him justice.

The thought should have worried me, but all I could do was stare at him, my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth and my mind running off down a road it had no business going. One where we weren’t in a crowded bar, neither of us wore a stitch of clothing and I didn’t need to feel guilty for getting lost in his eyes. Where I could trace the lines of his tattoos with my fingertips, explore the planes of his body with my hands and lips…

I’m Lewis Davies.

I know.

I stared at him, dawning horror burning up my neck.

Way to make a stellar first impression.

He smirked. And I know who you are. He ducked his head, his eyes glittering with amusement. But I figured you’d appreciate me not being the big-headed asshole that assumes his reputation precedes him.

Despite the flush of embarrassment, I laughed. Yeah, you might be right about that.

He glanced briefly at the stage and then those captivating eyes landed back on me, stealing my breath all over again.

You were incredible up there.

Thank you.

That last song gave me goosebumps.

I fought the urge to pinch myself to check if this whole thing was nothing more than a dream.

That means the world coming from you.

I just about swallowed my tongue as the words fell from my lips. What in the world was I thinking? Might as well have asked him to sign my bra while I was at it.

From a member of The Brightside, I mean.

He nodded. I didn’t… he blushed and my insides squealed at the sight of it. He cleared his throat and tried again. I come here whenever I’m in LA. I didn’t expect to find you, in case you thought⁠—

That you were checking up on your investment? My brows quirked and he laughed, the sound surprisingly nervous. It humanised him somehow.

Yeah, that. He turned, beckoning to the bartender at the nearby bar. Would you fancy joining me for a drink?

I opened my mouth to say yes—what else?—but then I spotted two of his bandmates at a table in the corner, watching us with amused grins.

What about your bandmates?

Ignore them. He shifted a step and blocked my view. They’re big boys. They can look after themselves.

And I can’t?

No—I didn’t mean—ah fuck. He dragged a hand through his hair and laughed. Do-over?

I couldn’t say a do-over would make me forget that even he wasn’t immune to making an ass of himself. But I wasn’t about to torture the poor man. Not when he looked so adorably flustered.

A do-over sounds perfect, I said with a smile and held out my hand. I’m Olivia Monroe, but my friends call me Liv.

His shoulders relaxed and his lips curled. It’s nice to meet you, Olivia. I’m Lewis Davies, bassist for The Brightside. My friends call me Lewis, but I’m pretty sure I’d let you call me anything you want. He bit his lip and eyed me with a question in his eyes.

Oh lord, is that a flirty look? It is, isn’t it? That little quirk of his lips, the mischief dancing in his eyes… yep, definitely flirting.

Holy shit, Lewis Davies was flirting with me.

It was surreal, exhilarating, and absolutely terrifying all at once. He was even more gorgeous in person, all tousled hair and scruffy jawline and eyes that could make a girl forget her own name. And those lips… I could write a whole album about those lips alone.

Say something. Anything. Before he thinks you’re having a stroke.

Yes, you can call me Liv, I managed to say, my voice coming out breathier than I intended.

Thank you. His warm hand engulfed mine, his slightly calloused fingertips dragging across my skin, sending a tingle up my arm. His eyes sparkled with mischief and something else I couldn’t quite place. Something that made my belly clench and my thighs press together.

Well then, Liv, he said, his voice low and inviting. How about that drink?

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak again. He guided me towards the bar, his hand resting lightly on the small of my back. The simple touch sent my heart racing and my barely-under-control thoughts spiralling to forbidden places. Him pressing me up against the bar, his body flush against mine as his lips claimed my neck. His hands, those talented musician’s hands, skimming under my shirt, tracing the curve of my waist, the dip of my spine. Me hooking a leg over his hip, drawing him closer, feeling the evidence of his desire hot and hard against me. I imagined his fingers dipping into the waistband of my jeans, teasing, exploring, making me gasp and arch and beg for more.

Heat burned my skin when I shook it off. Lewis stared at me, an amused but intrigued glint in his eyes. I ignored it and focused on the bar and the array of bottles that promised to cure me of these nerves.

As we approached, the bartender set two drinks down in front of us.

To serendipitous meetings. Lewis clinked his glass against mine.

I eyed the amber liquid, a silly part of me wondering if it was fate that he knew my drink of choice. I took a sip, the smooth whiskey warming my throat. It burned going down, but in the best way. Like the first touch of a lover’s hand.

Do you make a habit of buying drinks for unsuspecting opening acts?

He laughed, the sound rich and genuine. Only the incredibly talented ones who nearly knock me on my ass.

I ducked my head, my cheeks heating. Flattery will get you everywhere, Mr Davies.

Please, call me Lewis. Mr Davies makes me feel like I’m in trouble.

Aren’t you? Are you supposed to be fraternising with the newbie? I teased, emboldened by the whiskey and his easy charm.

If this is trouble, I’ll gladly take the punishment. His gaze raked over me appreciatively, setting my skin on fire. How did you get from South Carolina to opening for us? Where did Lily find you?

That’s two questions. I took a sip of my whiskey, the liquid courage warming my veins. Where do you want me to start?

The beginning, he said without so much as a beat of hesitation. I have this overwhelming desire to know everything about you.

I blushed again. I had to get a grip on my reactions to him, and fast.

It all started with a dream and a beat-up guitar.

The same guitar my granddaddy taught me on, the one with the scratch on the body from when I’d dropped it trying to master my first G chord.

He chuckled, nodding in understanding. The best things always do.

I told him about my granddaddy and his stubborn-as-an-ass attitude, how he held me to my fleeting wish to learn and wouldn’t let me stop. Not even when my fingertips were raw and bleeding, when I wanted to throw that guitar out the window and never look at it again. 

That is until he died not long after I turned fourteen. Grief nearly drove me to put the guitar down for good, but with my mother’s unwavering encouragement I pushed through. She’d sit with me for hours, listening to me stumble through chords, never once complaining about the noise.

I didn’t tell him about The Brightside’s part in my journey.

I moved to Nashville as soon as I graduated high school. The memories flooded back. My mother crying buckets as she helped me load my stuff into the beat up truck my granddaddy left me. The truck I sold as soon as I got to Nashville to help with rent. Figured if I was going to make it, that was the place to be.

I’ve spent my share of time in Music City. Played some of my first U.S. gigs in those honky-tonks on Broadway. It’s a special place. His expression softened, a look of understanding shining in his gaze. Those hazel eyes seemed to see straight through me, to the heart of my hopes and aspirations. Like he knew, bone-deep, the hunger that drove me, the need to pour my soul out in lyrics and melodies. 

It wasn’t easy, making a go of it. I shrugged. I worked at just about every bar and restaurant in town, trying to make ends meet while I chased my dream.

I know that grind all too well. The late nights, the endless hustle… He groaned. We did it while in school. Didn’t make us all that popular with our teachers, but I’m sure they’ve changed their tune by now.

I have a long list of ex-bosses. My smile slipped and my voice quieted, the words almost getting lost beneath the new artist performing on stage. I can’t tell you how many open mics I played, hoping for my big break. Sometimes to a packed house, sometimes to an audience of one very drunk, very uninterested patron. I shuddered at the memory. The stale smell of spilled beer, the drunken heckles, the soul-crushing indifference. It was enough to make anyone question their life choices.

But you kept at it, he said, his tone laced with admiration.

I shrugged, a small smile tugging at my lips. "Giving up wasn’t an option. Music… it’s all I’ve ever wanted