Eight years later, the crowd is screaming my name.
Bass shakes the floor. Heat presses in. The lights are no longer blinding. They’re mine.
My makeup artist’s brush stops mid-air. Sylvia straightens, mouth quirked in concentration, her pixie-cut red hair trembling with the chaos onstage. The Cherry Picks, the opening band, wail the last lines of their encore.
“Ready to show Valor Springs how it’s done?”
I chuckle, cocking my head. “Not sure if that’s possible. This place is…”How do I put it nicely?“Off the beaten path.”
“And filled with adorable cowboys. Have you looked out at your audience?” she asks, drawing closer, cheeks flushed and voice vibrating with excitement.
“Had my fill of those by Nashville and Houston,” I lie, corners of my mouth turning down.
“Unlike you, Mia, I don’t think I’ll ever get enough.”
I don’t doubt her for one moment.
The gray suits circle, and Sylvia steps back, eyes darting to mine for one breathless moment.
Edwin says, his tone nasal. “Your parents’ extra security is … underfoot.” He looks down his nose at one large man with a military bearing. “Shall I say overkill?”
I shrug.
“Still no clue what got into them?” he asks, eyes scrutinizing me. “Estranged for years, and now they suddenly care—conveniently?”
“Who knows?” I answer, tired of him posing questions I can’t answer. “Could be their little way of saying ‘sorry for abandoning you.’”
His eyebrows waggle.
My stomach knots, and I lick my bottom lip, eyeing my parents’ unexpected contribution to tonight’s show. A wall of cowboy hats, muscle, grim faces, and shiny boots and buckles—the last thing I need. One man steps forward, jaw sharp enough to cut glass, eyes narrow and steely.
“Grayson. I’m lead.”
My eyes glance past him to the crew. One guy’s got dark blond hair and moss green eyes, striking against his tanned skin. A snake tattoo wraps around his arm, beading perspiration in the heat of the Texas evening. Another—tall, intimidating, with a short beard—frowns, tattoos peeking from the V of his button-down. But it’s the man next to them—lethal, quiet—who I remember.
Ebony hair, earth-toned eyes, quietly watchful. A well-trimmed beard and mustache frame his angular face, and high-cut, sculpted cheekbones seem almost too intentional for his rugged face. Like his lips—too perfect for me to stop staring, though I never should’ve started.
Edwin clears his throat, and I come back to it all. The dry heat of the Lone Star State night, the dust hanging in the air, thick like the tension before taking the stage. Boots pound the ground, the crowd chanting, “Mia! Mia!”
“Thank you for your help tonight,” I say curtly to Grayson, wheeling around so my back faces him and his team. No point fraternizing with the paid help. I’ve seen far too many faces to remember names. Besides, if I were being honest—if I were allowed to give my real opinion—I’d admit to uneasiness about the extra brawn tonight. Everyone in this business knows additional security means trouble.
My eyes snag on the man with black hair, though his eyes never meet mine. Too cold. Too aloof. Yet, something about the cut of his jaw, the way he stands cagey and confident, ebbs away lingering anxiety.
Edwin grabs my elbow, pulling me to the side. “Received notice from the legal team about somebody who’s been sniffing around, asking too many questions.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Know anything about it, Tiger.”
Tiger. I hate that nickname.
I ask, “What are you implying?”
“Shhh,” he says, raising his hands. “No need to make a scene. I just need to know whose side you’re on.”
“My own,” I say by rote.
He cracks a smile. “And who’s on your side?” He smiles. “The only one in your corner?”
