It all started in Vegas…

After a wild and tumultuous beginning to their relationship, Evelyn Thomas and her rock star husband David Ferris have been happily married for years. Nothing needs to change, their life together is perfect. Which means that change in the shape of an unexpected pregnancy is bound to shake things up some. But could it be for the better?

Every 1001 Dark Nights novella is a standalone story. For new readers, it’s an introduction to an author’s world. And for fans, it’s a bonus book in the author’s series. We hope you’ll enjoy each one as much as we do.

Series:

Stage Dive

Can be read as a standalone

Excerpt: The Rhythm Method

Chandeliers twinkled overhead, and a string quartet played Led Zeppelin. All while our friends and family ate and drank and made merry. Out the nearest window you could see the Eiffel Tower all lit up for the night, and I couldn’t have been happier if I tried. The hotel suite was wonderful. Everything was perfect. Just perfect.

“Here you go,” said my husband, David, passing me a Moscow mule. “Happy seventh wedding anniversary, Mrs. Ferris.”

“Right back at you, Mr. Ferris.”

He pressed a kiss to my lips. “Who the hell would have thought?”

“We had a rough start.” I smiled. “But I sure am glad we persevered.”

“Me too. This dress you’re wearing…” His fingers traced down my spine in a thrilling fashion. My back was bared by the low square cut of the short, black Hervé Legér fit and flare dress. It also had a plunging v-neckline, and my man definitely noticed. “Have I said how much I appreciate the easy access?”

“I may have learned a thing or two about how you like it,” I said coyly.

“We are in the city of love.”

“Hmm.”

“It’s not like we’d be missed.” He nuzzled the side of my neck, making my toes curl. “What do you say, baby?”

“You want us to sneak out of our own party?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time.”

I nodded. “True.”

“Did I mention we’re in the city of love?” he asked, nibbling on my earlobe.

“Yes. I believe you did.”

We were in France because Stage Dive was doing a world tour. It started three months ago and would continue on for another ten. A whole year and a bit on the road with one of the biggest rock bands in the world. From North America to Europe, Asia, Australia, New Zealand, South America, and then back home again. Not all of the family would be on the whole tour. People had lives and children had school and so on.

But tonight they were all here. Just for this. For us. And the celebration of our seven years together. I’d intended it to be a casual get-together, but this was so much better. Everyone dressed up to the nines and was having the time of their life. Touring was hard work with constant stresses, and we deserved some fun.

“Coming through,” hollered Mal, the blond drummer.

David and I separated to allow the dance line to pass. Because even fancy parties in France needed a dance line, apparently. First came Mal bopping along with his two-year-old son, Tommy, on his shoulders. Followed by five-year-old Gibson and his dad, Ben, the tall, bearded bassist. Behind them came the band’s lead singer, Jimmy, with his twin girls. They were almost six and would in all likelihood be taking over the planet any day now. Hooray for strong women. Their father couldn’t have been any more delighted with their energy and enthusiasm for life. Jimmy might have been the slick bad boy of the band back in the day, but he’d grown into a good man and a great father.

At the very end of the line was Sam, our head of security. Clad in his usual black suit with a poker face few could match, he nodded briefly as he danced past. “Excuse us, Mrs. Ferris.” As hard as I tried, I couldn’t get him to call me by my first name.

“Not a problem, Sam.”

“Lovely night.”

I grinned, saluting them with my drink. “It sure is.”

When Tommy noisily demanded to be put down, his father complied. The small child immediately ran past the buffet, swiping several macaroons, before disappearing behind the chaise. This excellent idea was seized upon by all three of the other children, and soon enough, the macaroon tray sat empty and the kids grew increasingly hyper.

“They’re going to be on a sugar high for days,” said David, cozying up to me again.

“Lena’s flying home with the girls tomorrow. Can you imagine all that energy in a confined space?”

He grunted. “Terrifying.”

“That’ll be us one day.”

“In about five years,” he agreed, taking a swig from his bottle of beer. Because you could take the rock star to Paris and dress him in a three-piece suit, but he still wouldn’t be sipping champagne. Thank you very much.

“That’s the plan,” I said.

“And you do like your plans.”