by Kim Loraine
God, I love this man. Easton catches his eye and smiles, excusing himself as he takes his wife’s hand and their little family approaches us.
“Is this Noelle?” he asks, looking from Langley to me.
Langley beams and wraps his arm around me. “This is my Noelle.”
Easton holds out a hand and I take it, trying not to smile like an idiot in the presence of someone so famous. “Nice to meet you. This guy hasn’t stopped talking about you since almost day one.”
“I’m Ireland,” Easton’s wife says, her smile bright and genuine. “From what I hear, you’re about to join our family.”
I blush, my cheeks burning. We’ve talked about getting engaged, but part of me wonders if that was all in the heat of the moment. “We’ll see.”
She cocks a brow and stares at Langley. “You’d better not let her get away. Not after everything Easton told me about you two.”
Easton gives her a glare and she throws one right back. I can’t help but laugh at their dynamic. Whiskey Sour seems like the right way to describe them. No wonder he wrote that song.
“Attention everyone.” The mayor of our little town stands in the center of the stage with a wide grin on his face. “I’m pleased to welcome you all to the Holt’s Tree Farm Christmas Celebration. We hope it will be the start of a new tradition here where we can all gather and celebrate the season by offering support to local businesses and causes close to our hearts. This year, it’s Holt’s itself. The Holt family has done a lot for our town, and now it’s time for us to pay them back. One-hundred percent of the money collected tonight will be put into a fund to help save our favorite farm.”
He looks to Langley’s dad and gives a tight nod. “Next year, Bill, you choose the cause. We’ll be here again.”
Bill gives a shaky thumbs up and smiles. So, he’s not so mad after all.
“Now, put your hands together and welcome our hometown boy, Langley Holt and his band, along with Easton Harrison.”
The crowd cheers and Langley presses a hard kiss on my lips before heading for the stage and picking up his guitar.
I watch him play in a daze. He’s gorgeous, and his voice is perfect as he joins in and sings harmony with Easton’s melody. Three songs in and I know if he wanted me to, I’d travel the world with him just to see him in his element.
“It’s addictive, isn’t it?” Ireland asks between songs.
“Yeah. It’s magic.”
She grins. “Like I said, welcome to the family.”
The mayor walks on stage and whispers something in Langley’s ear while they’re setting up for another song. I see it the moment he registers what he’s being told. A light goes off in his eyes. Langley heads to confer with the rest of the band and Easton claps him on the shoulder before taking a seat at the back of the stage.
My belly tightens as Langley takes the frontman spot and locks gazes with me. He clears his throat and says, “I know you’re all here to see Easton, but I’ve got something special I need to say. There’s a girl I’ve been writing songs about since the day I left here. I’ve been in love with her all this time, and I promised I’d never leave again. But she said I couldn’t ask her a very important question until we saved this farm.”
Oh God. My knees are shaking as he strums a few chords and winks. “First, I want her to hear the last song I wrote before I came home.”
The audience erupts into hoots and hollers as he starts. He sings about us, about what he wished we had and about the regrets that stayed with him all these years. My heart breaks and mends all at once. When he finishes, there are tears running down my cheeks and Ireland is holding my hand.
“Go to him,” she urges.
He hands Easton his guitar and hops off the stage, rushing to pull me into his arms. “Don’t cry, baby. Please don’t.”
“I just…it was beautiful.”
Then, he drops to one knee and pulls out a diamond ring. “I said I’d wait until we saved the farm. Well, we did that. The mayor just told me we exceeded the fundraising goal. Now, Noelle, will you marry me?”
I nod and laugh and cry all at once. “Yes. Yes, of course.”
He slips the ring on my finger and stands, wrapping me in his arms and crushing his lips to mine. The world around us fades away and all I see is him. The man I love. The one I always knew I belonged with.
Langley
One year later:
“Happy anniversary, baby,” I murmur against Noelle’s soft hair. I run my palm over her hip and around to cup the gentle swell of her belly. She’s six months pregnant with our first child and I can’t wait to meet our little girl.
She sighs and rolls over in bed, her gorgeous smile my favorite thing to see in the morning. “Do you have a present for me?”
“I do. Actually, I have two.”
“Two?” There’s mischief in her tone. “Does one get me an orgasm?”
“Absolutely,” I whisper, nuzzling her neck. My dick is hard and ready for her, and she’s been so needy since she got pregnant.
I slide my fingers up her thighs and groan when I find her bare under her nightgown. Her answering cry of pleasure sends sharp need through me. “You’re so wet and ready,” I groan.
Her hand slides down my chest until she reaches my dick. I nearly lose it then and there. “I need you inside me.” She straddles me, not taking any time before she slides me inside her and, God, the friction is delicious.
I slide my hand over her belly as she rocks her hips, chasing her release. She’s so responsive and sensitive because of the baby. Her brow furrows and I feel it start, that familiar pulse and clench of her walls around my cock. It goes on and on, her cries getting louder as the prolonged orgasm takes her. “Fuck, baby,” I moan. “You’re going to make me lose it.”
“Yes,” she says.
That’s all I need. I spill my climax inside her, toe-curling pleasure racing through every nerve-ending in my body.
We lie together in the warm glow of our lovemaking and she trails her fingertips over my bare chest. “That’s one down. What’s my other present?”
I chuckle and kiss her temple. “It’s under the tree.”
She sits up and gives me a quizzical look. “It’s not Christmas until tomorrow.”
“But I married you on Christmas Eve, so you get a present today.”
Her lips quirk up in a smile and I stand, not missing the hungry look in her eyes as she takes in my naked body. I feel the same about her. I could have her every day and it still wouldn’t be enough.
Her stomach growls, the sound filling the room.
“Hungry?” I ask.
“Pretty much always these days.”
I laugh and tug on some pajama bottoms. “You get cleaned up, I’ll start the pancakes.”
She sighs. “My hero.” Then she gets out of bed and saunters to the bathroom, the sound of the shower starting making me wonder if she’d be willing to go another round and get a little dirty before we both get clean. “Bacon too,” she calls from the open door.
Okay, so maybe feeding the pregnant woman is a better idea. I head downstairs and whip up the pancake batter, turning on some music as I cook. When she comes down, she’s dressed in a soft cream sweater and black leggings. Her baby bump is on full display in the fitted sweater and a rush of pride hits me at the evidence of our love.
I slide a plate of bacon and pancakes across the table and while she’s pouring syrup atop them, I grab her gift. She meets my gaze and places her fork on the table before taking a single bite.
“What did you do? This is a tiny package. Expensive things come in tiny packages.”
I laugh. “Just open it, wife.”
She tears into the paper and opens the blue velvet box. Her eyes glisten with tears as she pulls out the custom made mistletoe necklace. “Mistletoe.”
“It doesn’t have to be Christmas for us to have magic. I want you to always keep this reminder of us and how we came back together. That way, even when I’m on to
ur, you don’t forget how important you are to me.”
She pushes back her chair and walks around the table to me. “You are in so much trouble, Langley Holt.”
“Why?” I laugh and hold her to me.
“It’s not nice to make a pregnant woman cry.”
“I love you, baby.”
I take the necklace from her and fasten it around her neck.
“I love you too,” she says.
“You know what?” I ask.
She offers me a questioning glance. “What?”
“You’re under the mistletoe right now.”
Her grin sends thrilling happiness through me and I cup her jaw as I drop my lips to hers in just one of the uncountable kisses I know we’ll share throughout our lives together.
His Whiskey Sour
Want to know Easton and Ireland’s story? Keep reading to check out the first chapter of His Whiskey Sour.
Perfect Whiskey Sour
2 ounces of Bourbon (top shelf if the guy is hot)
3/4 ounce of lemon juice
3/4 ounce of simple syrup
Garnish with 1/2 an orange wheel
Top with a cherry (bonus points if he can tie the cherry stem into a knot with his tongue)
Combine all ingredients in a cocktail shaker. Fill shaker with ice and shake like your life depends on it.
Strain into ice filled old-fashioned glass and add garnish.
Serve it up with sass. If he doesn’t like it, steal the drink and take his heart with you.
Chapter 1
Easton
"This is a terrible idea," I say into my phone as my driver pulls up to The Millennium Hotel.
The lights of the Vegas Strip permeate the car through windows tinted so dark they're black. I need quiet and calm, not slot machines and showgirls. How the hell my manager expects me to write another number one record while I'm surrounded by the non-stop party life, I'll never know. The rest of my band is here already. They caught an earlier flight, but I stayed back, hoping for a few more days at home.
"Easton, you need to get your head out of your ass and live a little." Franco laughs over the line. "I can't believe I'm telling a rock star to party. Usually it's the other way around. Stay off the drugs, stop getting tanked in public, don't sleep with hookers." He clears his throat. "But, seriously, don't do those things."
"You know I don't touch that shit." I'm probably too harsh with him, but there's a reason I don't drink or do drugs. A fucking good one.
"I know. Sorry. How's he doing?"
Franco's getting personal now. I'm not ready for personal. "When do we start rehearsing?"
He coughs and I hear a deep intake of breath as though he's taking a drag from a cigarette. "Next week. Show's in two weeks, but this is a big production. Vegas isn't like going on tour. They'll want to make it a whole experience."
The driver is standing outside my door, waiting for me to signal him that I'm ready to get out. "Fine." I open the door and the guy scrambles to get it for me. It's his job, but I hate being pandered to. I wave him off and go around to the trunk to find my guitar and bag. "Franco, I need you to promise me this'll be worth the time. I've got an album to write so we can record."
"It's going to buy you some time. In case... well, in case you're still blocked after this."
"How so?"
"You'll be riding high on the publicity. We can afford a delay as long as you're still relevant."
Still relevant. God, what a fucking fickle industry. "I could always get married while I'm here."
He chokes and I hang up before he can respond. I love fucking with him. The driver has my stuff ready for me and after I tuck my phone into my pocket, I hand the guy a twenty and thank him. The hotel lobby looms and that familiar buzz of anticipation builds in my gut whenever I go somewhere new. Taking a deep breath, I walk through the doors and step inside The Millennium.
I'm immediately greeted by my own personal concierge. She's eager, too eager, and her smile is too wide.
"Mr. Harrison. Welcome to The Millennium. I'm Hannah, I'll be your contact during your stay. Anything you need, just ask." She presses a business card into my hand. "The penthouse is ready for you and we've taken the liberty of assigning a security detail to your door at all times." She speaks quickly, her breathy voice making me worry she's going to pass out on me.
"It's Easton, just Easton. And I don't need security. Where's the rest of my band staying?"
Her eyes go wide. "The three of them are in room 1127. It's a two-bedroom suite. Is that a problem? Your label made the arrangements."
I fight a sigh of frustration. These guys may not be the face that goes with the name on my records, but they've been with me since my first album. "How many bedrooms are in the penthouse?"
"Four."
"Right. Do me a favor, Hannah?"
She nods but doesn't say anything.
"Have my stuff put in their suite and move those guys to the penthouse. Give them anything they need."
"But... I—"
"Hannah?" I say her name with a little growl I know will get her attention.
"Y-yes?"
"You said you were my personal contact. Anything I need."
She nods again.
"I need you to do this for me. No questions asked."
"It will take a little time."
I cast my gaze around the lobby, the sound of slot machines catching my ears unappealing. "There somewhere I can go have a bite to eat?"
"Oh, yes, of course. We've got a five-star restaurant, a coffee bar, and our famous LBD cocktail bar."
I raise an eyebrow. "LBD?"
She smiles. "Little Black Dress. No showgirls in here. Our waitresses are beautiful without sequins and feathers. There's a VIP room I'm sure they'll be glad to entertain you in as well."
"Is it quiet?"
"It can be. They'll cater to your needs."
I offer her a curt nod and head into the cacophony of the casino floor. I see it immediately. Purple neon proudly announces Little Black Dress over the backlit doorway. I'm not sure about this, but the last thing I want to do is gamble.
"Omigod, do you see him? It's Easton Harrison." I hear the squeal as soon as I'm recognized.
More murmurs of my name catch my ears and I pick up my pace. VIP room, here I come. I'll text the guys when I'm safely concealed behind a velvet rope. I rush through the door and into the upscale bar. The first thing I notice is the rich wood-paneled walls with lighting meant to create an intimate feel in a large space. It works. There's a handful of patrons sitting around tables, but it's early in the evening and most people are still out exploring the Strip or gambling. I give it two hours before this bar really gets going.
"Are you just going to stand there or did you want to order a drink?" The woman's voice catches me off guard, and her tone is bordering on annoyed. Turning my gaze toward her, I have to stop myself from letting my mouth fall open.
She's fucking gorgeous. Big blue eyes, flawless skin, long dark hair that tumbles over her shoulders. Oh, this woman is my kind of cocktail waitress. I forget all about the VIP room. I want to be right here, at the bar, with her.
"Well?" she asks, cocking one hip and staring at me.
Her dress is tight at the top, the black fabric hugging high, firm tits without showing any cleavage. But it tucks in at her tiny waist before flaring out around her hips and stopping mid-thigh. She's got great legs encased in sheer black stockings. My mouth runs dry.
She rolls her eyes and lets out a groan. "God, can you be any more obvious? Take a picture, it'll last longer."
Turning on her heel, she gives me a view of her back. The dress is completely backless all the way to her waist. The only thing holding it on is a bow tied across the tops of her shoulders. Oh, Jesus. And her stockings. They've got a dark line running up from the heel of her foot all the way to the hem of her dress. Maybe I should take a picture.
I'm not ashamed. She's a work of art. I appreciate art. "You're gorgeo
us."
Her cheeks turn pink, but she scoffs. "And you're a real wordsmith. What are you drinking?"
Does she not know who I am? She's standing there, hands on her hips as she waits for my answer. I say the first thing that comes to my mind. "Whiskey sour."
She lifts one eyebrow and looks me up and down. "Can I give you my cherry?"
"What?" My ears must be playing tricks on me.
"I said, can I get you a cherry?"
Shit, I definitely need to be better about wearing hearing protection on stage. Either that or nearly a year without sex is getting to me. But I needed time away from women after my last break up. I used it to write, to make something meaningful, to learn about myself. And it ended up winning me a Grammy. This girl is making me think I'm ready to end my dry spell.
"Do you have a cherry?" I ask, only a slight bit of innuendo thrown in for good measure.
"If I did, I wouldn't let you have it."
She's too much. I love it.
"What's your name?"
"Ireland."
"Really? Like the country? I'm... Harrison." Shit, I just lied to her. Kind of. Harrison is technically my name if we're going by last names. But I love that she doesn’t seem to know who I am, isn’t fawning over me like the other girls and I don't want to break the spell of anonymity I've somehow cast.
"Really? Like the movie star?" She mimics my stupid response to her name with sweet sass. "I guess you've got a little Han Solo thing going on." Then she walks around the bar, hips swaying with her movements.
I watch her mix my drink and when she bends down to grab something, I have to fight my groan. The tops of her stockings have little black bows on them. Honestly, I think this woman could be wearing yoga pants and a baggy sweatshirt and I'd want her. She slides the drink across the bar and offers me a wink. "Han Solo was always my favorite."
