More Than A Feeling, page 1
More Than A Feeling
Rockstars of Blossom Springs
Book Three
PJ Fiala
Contents
DEDICATION
Maps
Description
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Epilogue
Enjoy this book? You can make a big difference
Also By PJ Fiala
MEET PJ
Copyright
DEDICATION
I’ve had so many wonderful people come into my life and I want you all to know how much I appreciate it. From each and every reader who takes the time out of their days to read my stories and leave reviews, thank you. My beautiful, smart and fun Road Queens, who play games with me, post fun memes, keep the conversation rolling and help me create these captivating characters, places, businesses and more. Thank you ladies for your ideas, support and love. The following characters and places were created by:
* * *
Kerry Harteaker - Jamison (Jami) Hart - Lead Singer / Hero
Dana Zamora - Carlene Matthews - PR Manager/Heroine
* * *
To my family, my greatest blessing and unwavering support system. Your love, encouragement, and sacrifices have made this dream possible. And to my husband and best friend, Gene—thank you for standing beside me every step of the way. Your belief in me, your patience, and your love are the foundation of everything I do. Words will never be enough to express how much you mean to me, but I will spend my life showing you.
***
To our veterans and all those currently serving in the armed forces, police, fire departments, and as EMTs—your courage, dedication, and sacrifices do not go unnoticed. Thank you for your unwavering commitment to protecting and serving. It is with heartfelt gratitude and deep respect that I honor you here. You are the true heroes, and your contributions inspire every word on these pages.
Maps
Blossom Springs has always felt real to me—so real, I decided to put it on paper!
These maps are hand-drawn by me, showing every landmark, back road, and hidden corner of the town where my heroes and heroines find love and face life’s challenges.
Take a closer look and see if you can spot your favorite scenes from the books.
Because the maps continue to grow, I have them on my website. Click here and welcome to Blossom Springs.
https://www.pjfiala.com/blossom-springs-maps/
Description
USAT Bestselling Author PJ Fiala brings you steamy, small-town romantic suspense stories where outside forces threaten the peace and tranquility Blossom Springs was built on.
Jami Hart is living his rock and roll dream. Performing on stage and writing hit songs with Sean West has taken Hart & the Hurricanes to the top of the charts.
Carlene Matthews, a savvy marketing expert with a passion for rock music, is brought on board to boost the band's image. Her bold plan for Jami to hook up with a famous personality for publicity backfires, throwing both their lives into chaos.
As sparks fly and tensions rise, Jami and Carlene must navigate the tumultuous world of fame and find a way to strike the perfect chord in their relationship. Can they overcome the obstacles and find true harmony?
***
USA Today bestselling author PJ Fiala brings you the Rockstars of Blossom Springs series—heroes willing to sacrifice everything in service to their country, and for the men and women they love. A novel with no cliffhanger, no cheating, and a happily-ever-after guaranteed.
* * *
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Chapter One
The air inside Miami Stadium buzzed with sound and heat, lights pulsing like a heartbeat, the scent of sweat and perfume mixing with beer and adrenaline. Forty thousand people on their feet, hands lifted, the crowd’s roar pressing against Jami Hart’s chest hard enough to rattle bone.
He gripped the mic stand, every muscle thrumming. “Born to Be My Baby” hit its final chorus, Sean’s guitar screaming beside him, Livia and Maddyn’s harmony soaring above. The women in the front rows sang the words back at him, faces turned up, eyes closed, hands reaching. For those four minutes, he was exactly who he’d always wanted to be, center stage, part of the sound that made people feel something.
The last note rang out, and Jami held it, feeding off the crowd’s thunder. Then the lights dimmed, and the applause rolled like surf breaking.
He turned, sweat sliding down his neck, and caught Sean’s grin. Sean clapped him on the shoulder. “That’s how you open a damn show.”
“Hell yeah,” Jami said, voice rough from singing. The adrenaline left him light-headed, but the good kind.
Axel lifted both drumsticks overhead. “We love you, Miami!”
The roar proved that Miami loved them back.
They filed offstage together, hearts still pounding. The corridor behind the curtain felt colder, darker; the sudden quiet after the storm. By the time they hit the greenroom, the energy had splintered into laughter, chatter, and the hiss of opened bottles.
Livia launched herself at Tony. He caught her, spun her once, kissed her hard, then grinned at the rest of them. “Great set. All of you. Drinks, bathrooms, ten minutes, you’re back out there.”
Sean’s wife, Gloria, darted in a few seconds later, still filming for her podcast, her phone light glowing on her smile. “That crowd is insane! Jami, you should see their faces when you hit that first note.”
“Yeah?” He tried to match her grin, twisting the cap off a water bottle. “Good energy.”
“Good?” she laughed. “Try electric.”
He nodded, but already the high was fading. Happens every show, the slide from wild euphoria to a quiet kind of ache. He poured electrolyte powder into the bottle and watched it swirl. Axel and Maddyn were huddled together on the couch, foreheads touching, whispering, and laughing. Tony and Livia were sharing a protein bar, eyes only for each other. Sean and Gloria were still wrapped in each other’s orbit.
Everyone had someone.
Jami took a long drink, the cold water cutting through the dryness in his throat but not the hollow feeling curling in his gut. The stage filled him up; backstage always emptied him out.
Tony’s voice broke through. “Where’s Carlene? She was supposed to watch this set for marketing notes.”
Jami blinked. “Haven’t seen her.”
Tony frowned at his phone. “Figures. We hire one of the top marketing minds in the business, and she ghosts the biggest show of our tour.”
Jami shrugged, though irritation prickled. He’d read Carlene Matthews’ proposal, liked her directness. Polished. Sharp. Maybe too sharp for their scrappy band roots, she’d done great with her first campaign. “She probably hit traffic,” he said, not believing it.
Maddyn appeared beside him, a towel draped around her neck, eyes still bright from the stage lights. “You okay?”
“Yeah. You?”
She laughed softly. “Never better. Married to Axel, writing songs that chart, performing to a sold-out stadium? Sometimes I think I’m dreaming.”
“You earned it.”
She gave him a searching look. “You will, too. Just need the right thing to come along.”
He managed a grin. “Pretty sure I already have it.”
She arched a brow. “You sure? Because it looks like something’s missing.”
Before he could answer, Tony clapped. “Five minutes, people!”
The band regrouped near the stage stairs. The thunder of the crowd built again, a living thing. Jami rolled his shoulders, stretching out the tightness in his chest. You’ve got this, he told himself. This was what he’d worked for, years of smoky bars, one-night gigs, small-town festivals. All leading here.
Axel jogged ahead, slapping his drumsticks against his thighs. Maddyn winked at Jami over her shoulder. Sean squeezed Gloria’s hand once before stepping out.
When Jami followed, the sound hit him like sunlight. Thousands of fans screaming, lights sweeping, the floor trembling under his boots. He threw his arms wide, and the volume doubled.
He lived for this moment, the first breath before the first note, when anything felt pos sible.
He pulled the mic from its stand, and the crowd fell silent in anticipation. His voice came out low and raw on the opening lines of “One More Night”, a new ballad he and Sean had written. Maddyn and Livia joined in on the chorus, their harmonies weaving. Axel’s drums rolled in, slow then stronger, and the sound built until the whole stadium moved with them.
Jami’s chest expanded, his heart syncing to the rhythm. Out here, the loneliness didn’t exist. Just music, lights, and connection.
Halfway through the set, he spotted familiar faces in the front rows, fans they’d seen city after city, waving handmade signs. Gratitude filled him. Every dream he’d had as a kid was right there in living color.
When the final song started —a ballad about finding your way home —something tugged at the edge of his awareness. Near the barricade, spotlight haloing her hair, stood a woman he didn’t recognize at first. Polished black dress, confident posture, eyes locked on him like she was measuring every beat he gave.
Carlene Matthews.
She’d shown up after all.
And damn if she didn’t look like trouble wrapped in perfection.
The song’s last notes lingered as he smiled into the crowd, pretending the sudden hitch in his breath was part of the performance. The roar rose again, lights flaring, confetti drifting through the air.
He lifted the mic and gave the fans that grin they came for, but his mind wasn’t on the encore anymore.
It was on the woman watching him from the front row, the one who might be about to change everything.
Chapter Two
The next morning, Blossom Springs woke slow and golden, the kind of Florida morning that made even work feel like a vacation.
Carlene Matthews didn’t have time for that kind of thinking.
Her rental car crunched up the long gravel drive leading to Jami Hart’s property. The farmhouse rose ahead, sunlight glinting off the modern metal roof, a careful blend of new and old. A wraparound porch, white columns, warm cedar siding, rustic charm wrapped around sleek lines and big windows. Not exactly what she’d expected from a rock star.
She parked beside the sleek black truck in the drive and just sat for a second, taking it in. The faint smell of citrus trees floated on the breeze.
Beautiful. Peaceful. Absolutely not her style.
She adjusted the strap of her designer tote, grabbed her laptop case, and stepped out. Heat kissed her skin instantly, the Florida humidity wrapping around her like silk. She squared her shoulders and walked toward the converted barn that served as the headquarters for Hart & the Hurricanes.
Inside, the air conditioning hit her like a blessing. She stopped just inside the door, scanning the space. Polished concrete floors, four leather sofas set in the shape of a square, exposed beams, and instruments displayed along one wall. The place screamed deliberate success, modern, functional, and oddly personal. Every photo had been placed with intention. She remembered her first time here, and this time she was just as impressed. Carlene exhaled slowly. So the rumors were true. These weren’t careless rock stars stumbling from party to party. The band meticulously planned everything: their brand, their business, and their image. Tight. Controlled.
Until last night.
She set her bag on the coffee table and powered up her laptop. The headline on her newsfeed glared back at her:
Hart & the Hurricanes Set Miami on Fire, But Is Jami Hart Burning Out?
Her lips pressed together. The article praised the band’s performance but called Jami’s stage presence distant and detached. The accompanying photo showed him mid-song, expression fierce but eyes unfocused. She watched the attached clip, and the realization sank in.
He looked perfect.
He sounded perfect.
But something about him didn’t feel perfect.
Her pulse ticked faster. That was the problem. It wasn’t the music, it was the connection. Fans could forgive a flat note or a missed lyric, but not indifference.
Carlene had spent years building brands, fixing careers on the brink. She knew when a public image was cracking. And Jami Hart was showing fissures.
The studio door swung open behind her, and sunlight spilled across the polished floor.
“Carlene Matthews.”
The voice — deep, smooth, and confident — rolled through the space like velvet and steel.
She turned.
And there he was.
Jami Hart in daylight was a unique creature, different than the man who’d stood onstage under stadium lights. Barefoot, jeans riding low on lean hips, a plain white T-shirt clinging to him. Hair damp from a shower, faint stubble catching the light.
He looked every inch the star, and completely unaware of it.
“Morning,” she said, smoothing invisible wrinkles from her blouse. “I didn’t expect to see you here this early.”
He smiled, slow and lazy. “Didn’t think I'd see you at all last night.”
Her spine straightened. “I was there.”
“I didn’t see you until the last song.” His gaze dipped briefly, unapologetically, before meeting her eyes again. “Figured maybe we’d hired a ghost.”
Carlene refused to rise to the bait. “I prefer to observe unnoticed. Gives me a clearer read.”
“On what?”
“On you.”
The silence that followed thrummed like a bass line.
He tilted his head, intrigued. “And what’d you see, Miss Marketing Expert?”
“That your crowd adores you,” she said evenly. “They’d follow you anywhere. But there’s a gap between what they feel and what you give back. That gap’s dangerous, Jami.”
He crossed his arms, and muscle shifted beneath the cotton. “Dangerous how?”
“Fans start noticing when a performer stops connecting. They don’t call it burnout; they call it boredom. You can’t afford that narrative.”
He studied her, a flicker of something unreadable in his expression. “You always talk like a press release?”
Her jaw tightened. “You hired me to make sure your image stays strong.”
“Maybe,” he whispered.
That quiet tone threw her off balance. She turned to her laptop, pretending to focus on the screen. “I’m here because your manager wants this tour to feel personal again. You’re the frontman. You drive the story.”
“And I’m not enough of a story anymore?”
She looked up. “You are for now, but with the distance, you won't be. And that's dangerous. If fans think you don't care, why should they spend their money coming to see you?”
He laughed, a low, husky sound that curled through her stomach. “That's true.”
“Public connection,” she said briskly. “Fans need to see you living the music. They love authenticity, but they also love a fantasy. We can use that.”
His amusement faded into something wary. “You’re talking about PR stunts.”
“I’m talking about visibility,” she countered. “Photos, appearances, maybe...” she hesitated, then pressed on, “...a relationship storyline. Something to remind fans you’re still emotionally engaged.”
He stared at her for a long moment. "What makes you think I'm not emotionally engaged?"
She turned her laptop toward him. She watched as his eyes read the headline. He sat heavily on the sofa to her right. "This is what makes me think that. And what I observed and overheard last night from fans in the audience. We need to make fans believe you believe what you sing."
