Backstage — Madison Square Garden
The concert had ended less than fifteen minutes ago, and the air backstage still hummed with leftover adrenaline and the faint smell of whiskey and cologne. (Y/N) Winters kept her camera strap tight around her neck as she wove through crew members hauling cables and cases.
She was here for work, not star-chasing. That’s what she told herself, anyway.
A low voice cut through the chaos. “You lost, darlin’?”
She turned and froze. There he was—Glen Powell. The Glen Powell. Six-foot-something, hair damp from the stage lights, shirt clinging to his chest, still holding the guitar strap like it belonged to him and him alone.
(Y/N) swallowed. “Not lost. Just working.” She lifted her camera like a shield.
He grinned, slow and lazy. “Ah, press.” His gaze swept over her, lingering just long enough to feel dangerous. “You got your shot out there?”
“I got a few,” she said, adjusting her lens. “But most of them are probably useless because you kept smirking like you were in a toothpaste ad.”
That made him laugh—really laugh—and she caught the way it softened his face.
“Guess I’ll have to hire you to teach me how to look serious,” he drawled.
“Not sure you’re capable,” she shot back, bringing her camera up again. Through the viewfinder, she caught the exact moment his smirk turned into something else—something slower, sharper.
He didn’t move, didn’t look away. “What’s your name?”
“(Y/N) Winters.”
He rolled it on his tongue like he was testing the sound. “(Y/N) Winters,” he repeated, with that Southern molasses in his voice. “Well, (Y/N) Winters from… let me guess… New York?”
Her brow arched. “Was it the lack of cowboy boots that gave me away?”
He chuckled, and she swore his eyes held her a beat too long.
“Maybe,” he said. “Or maybe it’s just that I’ve never met anyone from here who looks at me like they don’t already know my whole story.”
Before she could answer, one of his handlers called him away. He gave her a nod, a look that promised this wasn’t the last conversation.
And Emma, despite herself, knew she’d be thinking about that smile all night.
Austin, Texas — Two Weeks Later
(Y/N) still wasn’t sure why she’d said yes.
The email had been short and vague—Glen’s team would like to fly you out for a project. Travel covered. Details on arrival. That was it. No mention of what kind of “project,” no idea why they needed her instead of the dozens of photographers already in Texas.
Now, stepping out of the Austin airport into heat that clung like a second skin, she wondered if she’d lost her mind.
A black pickup truck rolled to the curb. The tinted window slid down, and there he was—sunglasses, ballcap, a crooked smile that said he was enjoying himself far too much.
“Well, if it isn’t Miss Winters from New York,” Glen drawled, leaning an arm on the window frame. “Hope you packed somethin’ besides all black.”
She lifted her suitcase in mock defense. “What’s wrong with black?”
“Nothing,” he said, grin widening. “But you might stick out a little ‘round here. Get in, darlin’.”
She hesitated only a second before climbing in. The cab smelled faintly of cedar and something warm—him.
“So…” she started, buckling her seatbelt. “Am I ever gonna find out why I’m here?”
Glen shifted the truck into gear, his hand easy on the wheel. “You’ll see.”
“That’s not an answer.”
He smirked. “It’s the only one you’re gettin’ for now.”
They drove past stretches of golden fields and scattered live oaks, the city fading into wide-open country. She caught him glancing at her once or twice, but he didn’t say much.
An hour later, the truck turned down a long gravel driveway, leading to a sprawling ranch house with wraparound porch and wind chimes tinkling in the warm breeze.
(Y/N) stepped out, blinking in the sunlight.
“This is… yours?”
“All mine,” he said, then tilted his head at her.
“Thought you might like to see where the songs come from.”
Her pulse kicked up. She’d expected a photoshoot. She hadn’t expected this—him inviting her straight into his world.