Page 120 of Risking it for the Cowboy

That whiskey soprano, playing fiddle on his heart, sent goose bumps up his arms.

“I didn’t want that night to end.”

His hand groped for hers, clenching hard as she poured everything she felt for him into this moment, this declaration and apology she was making in front of the world. He brought her fingers to his lips, a well of emotion cracking within him.

“I’m begging for Trouble all over again.”

Silence rang supreme.

He hardly noticed the glaring stage lights as he leaned down and whispered, “Careful what you beg for, baby.” He pressed his lips to hers, staked a claim in front of his audience.

He pulled their intertwined fingers up to his neck and deposited her hand there, palming rise of her rear, the other snaking up to her nape to clench her gold-spun tresses, to feel each pretty inch of her.

He laved his tongue possessively against hers, earnestness for their future to start unfolding. He was going to go all in, all the way. Saltiness dampened the seam of their lips. Tears? He lapped them up, dipping her backward, instrument and all—

Whistles cut through the trance.

He grinned against her lips, clearing his throat. He pulled her upright, relinquishing her nape to brush his thumb across her ruined lip gloss like a proud trophy as he spoke throatily into the mic.

“Y’all, I had to work so damn hard, but I got the girl.”

The room exploded in applause, celebrants cheering their hero. A bold statement flung far and wide as cameras snapped pictures.

“Oh God, will this end up in the paper?” she murmured.

He chuckled. “It better.”

She buried her face into his chest as he nuzzled her hair. Felt her breathe him in and press a kiss to her crown.

“We went outta order,” he murmured into her ear. “So you got a break for a bit, but don’t vanish on me, Flower Girl.”

And then he kissed the cut on her forehead, buried in concealer.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Charlie’s face burned as she walked off stage. Lips burned. Blood in her veins? Burning.

She hurried through the side door down into the theater house, slipping along the edges to the back. A few people noticed her, smiling, nudging each other and pointing. But no one was jeering. Maybe what Thad had said about that obnoxious fan page was true. They weren’t the real fans who showed up at shows. These folks were making way for her like she was a princess walking down her red carpet.

She edged up to the bar. Noticed Thad tracking her through the crowd and offering her his reverent grin.

“What’ll it be?” the bartender asked, abandoning his other customer.

“Tonic and lime, please,” she requested, reaching into her pocket—

“On the house, Flower Girl.” The bartender grinned as he sprayed the bubbly water into the glass and slid the wedge of lime onto the rim, sliding it across the counter to her.

“He could go all the way … good stage presence … good energy…” the men next to her were saying.

She sipped her drink.

“Wonder how we missed him years ago…”

“Who knew this guy’s been hiding in Nacogdoches, Texas, all along…”

One wore pressed jeans, leather shoes, and a crisp button-up, cuffs rolled up with a Fitbit at his wrist. Another in a heavy, manicured beard, wore a sport coat and a belt buckle the size of Nashville. They weren’t in the T-shirts or western shirts, Stetsons or trucker caps of the other guys in the audience.

Arms folded, they kept critiquing.