Page 4 of Risking it for the Cowboy

He watched her perfect nails as their instruments warred. He was an idiot wondering how else they were skilled. He wanted to know why she’d tattooed daisies on her skin. He wanted to understand her bangles hanging on her ears. He wanted to strum her tresses like a beloved guitar. He wanted her to willingly fawn on him. He wanted his night with her. He wanted more than one—

No.

She needed to be a shit singer. There had to be one flaw about this beautiful wallflower. One good reason to send her off stage without any regrets. Nobody was that perfect. He nudged the mic toward her. The vocals were coming up—

“Light me up like a moonlit sky…” she sang, and … that voice!

“Jeezus,” he breathed, stepping back.

He dropped the guitar at the clean, high notes, hanging on the perfection sowing its roots into the moment. Smoky and yet, definite soprano. God strike him dead.

“Love me like it’s our last goodbye.

Pretty as a flower, kiss like a sin…”

A smile creased her lips, as if she wanted to love this but wasn’t letting herself, as he threw his head back and fell to his knees, slapping his hands on his heart and thumping them in and out as if it beat in and out of his chest. Her small smile grew as she tried to hide it with a shy downturn.

Naw, darlin’, you’ve got a God-given gift. Why hide it? Why muzzle it?

The crowd was so wild.

“Feels like my life’s about to begin…”

He glanced up at her, haloed in stage lights like an angel sent from Dollywood, face turned from the audience and yet, unmistakable worry as she lifted her gaze to his. Veiled eyes. Not seducing, which made him all the more enchanted. Not shy. Just … careful.

He shoved to his feet again. Brought his lips close to hers at the mic. Stared into jade gems, at the nuances of those lips he was already low-key obsessed with and traced her tattoo with his intensity. Daisies. Breathed in lilac. Sang together. Lips so close, he could smell her peppermint lip gloss and had half a mind to be a total bastard and make sure they brushed each other.

He dropped to the harmony. Let her carry the melody like the star she ought to be. They galloped over the finish line, double-strumming hard.

The crowd lost their minds.

He flung his guitar around his back, stripped the banjo strap off her shoulders as feedback whined, chasing the last hint of lilac, and slung his arms around her, breasts to chest, navel to navel, walking her backward as the crowd roared and he enveloped her in his warmth, swaying with her and inhaling that fresh garden scent.

Because if he could play “Last Goodbye” like this at the Homegrown Festival? He’d have a shot at winning. At finally getting before Ortega and Country Roads Records. And Hunter flaking on band practice, flaking on gig nights, wasn’t cutting it.

“Flower Girl, who the hell are you and where did you come from?” he murmured in her ear.

And hot damn, what if she…

They stumbled off the platform stage and into the hallway that led to the back exit, until her back and his hands collided with the unfinished wall studs. He buried himself into her embrace, straddling her thighs with his. Overflowing with restlessness, he had to work it out of his system, had to touch her, and damn, he couldn’t get close enough as he savored her botanical scent, such a comfort—

Shit. What the hell was he doing? “Sorry—”

Slender fingers tightened tentatively on his waist just as he was letting go.

He froze. Homed in on her expression to read it, then clamped down again, burying himself around her, because she might as well be giving him a hand job; the simple touch was electrifying and a shiver racked his frame, tentative lips brushing his neck as her grip strengthened on him.

He sifted his hands into her hair, knotted his fingers in gold spun tresses, and then his lips crashed down to hers.

Peppermint. Her lip gloss. Those soft rosebud lips were in fact a delicious dessert. Fuck was she okay with this?

“Baby—” he forced while devouring. “If you—” Her hands splayed up his back, pressing into him “Don’t want this—” He anchored her hair more tightly. “Tell m—tell me to stop—”

“Don’t stop, Trouble,” she replied against his lips, and he shivered.

Tearing free of her lips, he leaned back, arching a brow. She had a nickname for him, too?

“Trouble?” He relished her perfect smile, so quiet and uncertain. Then leaned into her ear once more, planting a kiss to her lobe. “How’s about I get you into some trouble?” he gruffed.