“CMA Male Vocalist of the Year Awards?” he replied helpfully.
“Wives.” He shot her a look and shoveled in a forkful of jambalaya to keep from responding. It always came back to this. Arianne sighed. “More and more country artists are settling down and getting married, Tyler, and the fans are eating it up.”
Spearing a plump Gulf shrimp, he asked, “Whatever happened to women loving the single celebrity thing? The mystery and ‘no comment’ about personal relationships spiel. The fantasy they love to spin that we’re just sitting around, twiddling our thumbs, waiting for the right fan to rock our worlds?”
“Wrong genre.” She grabbed a nearby empty chair and dragged it in front of him. “Country music is a totally different beast than pop or rock. With those clients, I actually advise them to do just what you do. Attend events solo. Remain an eternal bachelor in the press. Spin that dumb fantasy. But those artists sell a different kind of fantasy. You write and sing about forever love, and committed relationships lend credibility.”
Relationships. Tyler set down his fork, the once flavorful rice now bitter.
Arianne rolled her eyes. “For the love of money, will you relax? I see you getting all riled up and twitchy. I’m not suggesting you get hitched to the next woman you see, but I am asking if it would kill you to go to an event with a date? Or let me at least leak a possible secret romance?”
He shook his head in irritation. It was the same song, different day. His management had been riding his ass about this for the last year—and they could keep riding it, because it wasn’t happening. Music and long-term relationships didn’t mix. You could ask his dad.
Other than music, Tyler liked things in his life to be easy. When he did have time for women, he preferred his interactions to be casual and without complication. He was an instant gratification kind of a guy. When he saw a woman who interested him, he went for it—but that was just it. He was rarely interested. There was no shortage of women trailing him, and they were all the same. Vapid, clingy, and superficial.
Across the crowded room, a side door pushed open, and a tiny brunette with crazy curves, purple-streaked hair, and sexy-as-hell lips strode through the entry, hauling a towering bucket of ice. Tyler froze.
“So, tell me, Ty, why should Suzy Housewife download your album instead of Luke Bryan’s, huh? He’s not hard on the eyes, either, and he’s married.”
Wisps of hair clung to the woman’s forehead. She set the ice down and swiped at her bangs with the back of her hand, causing the hem of her white fitted top to lift. Smooth, tan skin beckoned.
“Tyler, are you even listening to me?” Arianne huffed. “I’m saying that the competition is stiff, and this reporter is questioning if you even know what the hell it is you’re selling. We need a rebuttal!”
Looking up from that strip of skin, Tyler discovered a set of gorgeous hazel eyes. They widened, catching his stare before a lighting tech crossed the path between them, breaking the moment.
“Love is my life,” he said finally, transferring his gaze to his publicist. “Maybe not the act, but the feelings, the emotions. It consumes me when I’m writing. So, yeah, I’m a bachelor. So what? It doesn’t mean I’ve never cared about anyone.” He snuck another peek at the brunette, gratified to find her still watching him from across the chaotic room. “It doesn’t mean I don’t know what women want. And that’s what I give them. I don’t need to be in a relationship to do that.”
His publicist squeezed her forehead with a manicured hand. “It takes more than going on an occasional date to understand love. Real relationships are complicated. They’re messy. Something you would know if you’d ever actually been in one.”
At the sarcasm in her voice, Tyler’s jaw locked. Arianne winced. She was pushing it, and she knew it. Best in the business or not, this was his life she was talking about…and he controlled her paycheck.
The stirrings of a headache pulsed behind his eyes, which sucked, considering he had a show to do in less than twenty minutes. Rolling his shoulders back, he let out a breath and actually considered what she was saying. He wasn’t an idiot. Public perception could make or break a career, and if Arianne was this fired up, then that meant the article posed a real threat.
Unfortunately, this was one area where he refused to budge.
Complicated, messy, love…those three words had no place in Tyler Blue’s life. Especially since his life was his career. He’d done compromise and obstacles to overcome—that was his past. This right here was his time, and he planned to enjoy it.
“Look, I hear what you’re saying,” he told her. “But there weren’t any complaints on the last two albums, and there won’t be any on the next. This article will blow over, you’ll see.” Pushing to his feet, he stuck the damn thing in his pocket and handed Arianne his plate. “Here, finish this. There’s something I need to do before the show.”
Her lips pursed in annoyance, but she took the plate without a word. As he walked away, he felt her sharp gaze following him across the floor, but only one set of eyes interested him at the moment—hazel ones, currently lit in challenge.
From opposite the long table of food, the brunette gave him a blatant once-over as he came to a stop in front of her, twirling a strand of purple hair around her fingertip. When she reached his lucky belt buckle, her sinful lips twitched.
“If the words, ‘Come here often,’ leave your mouth, I swear I’ll laugh you straight back to roadie-ville.” Her words were harsh, but the smile that sprang free was playful, and Tyler found himself mesmerized by the familiar twang of her southern voice.
So much so that he’d almost missed what she said.
“Roadie-ville?”
“Sorry, do you prefer techie?” Her cute nose wrinkled as she stuck her hands in her back jeans pockets. “I heard someone else say that earlier, but I swear that sounds like a computer nerd.” She looked him up and down again, this time her gaze lingering around his hips. Slightly south of the belt buckle. Hot damn. “I think roadie fits you better. Sounds sexier.”
Tyler scratched the side of his jaw. Was she messing with him? He’d heard a hell of a lot of come-ons since making it to Nashville and had been propositioned in every way possible. But this was a first. The woman stared back, smiling that damn seductive smile, and he realized she honestly had no clue who he was. For some reason, he was in no hurry to correct that just yet.
He couldn’t recall the last time he’d gone anywhere without being recognized, much less his own concert. But since the room was swarming with crew, Tyler could understand the confusion…if she weren’t a hardcore fan, and clearly, this woman wasn’t. Tyler swiped a hand over his mouth, hiding a smile.
“Sugar, you can call me anything you like,” he drawled, laying it on thick even to his own ears. Her pretty lips parted, and he grinned. “And what can I call you?”
Her smile twisted into a smirk. “Who said you could call me at all?”
He laughed, shocked again, and for the first time in a long time, speechless.
She winked. “I’m Sherry.” When she said her name, she looked right into his eyes as if he should remember it, and he had no doubt that he would. The confidence pouring off her was sexy as hell. “And…you are?”
“Tyler,” he replied, glad she’d gone with just her first name so he could do the same. The rest of the world simply referred to Tyler as Blue, the front man for the band bearing his last name. Even so, he stood back and waited for a sign of recognition.
It never came.
When it became obvious she really had no clue who he was, nor would she guess anytime soon, Tyler felt a knot of tension release between his shoulder blades.
“So, Sherry, you planning to watch tonight’s show?”
She pulled a face. “I’m not much for country, other than the line dances. All those songs about trucks and trains and whiskey and dogs, though that last one I can forgive.” Her smile softened and Tyler moved closer, wanting to be nearer the genuine warmth of it.
“No offense to your boss or anything,” she added with a slight grimace. “I heard he’s pretty hot…even if he is the man-whore of country music.”
A shocked laugh burst from his lips. “Excuse me?”
She waved her comment away, as if she hadn’t just insulted him to his face—which, he guessed, she hadn’t really. At least not on purpose. “Just a theory I have. I’m sure he’s a perfectly adequate boss.”
Now, Tyler laughed for real. “Yeah, he’s…adequate.” Shaking his head, he propped his hip on the table. This was the most fun he’d had with a woman in months—and they both still had their clothes on. “So tell me, if you don’t like country, what do you like?”
“Mostly pop and dance music.” She bit her lip and studied him, lashes lowered as she scanned his body, before subtly nodding. Her smile took on a hint of seduction as she added, “And hot roadies.”
Breath left his lungs at the look in her eyes. Their message was clear. Tyler stared back, knowing he could easily lose himself for a night in the mesmerizing kaleidoscope of amber and green. In that sweet, southern voice that reminded him of home. And in the refreshing reality that this woman had no clue who in the hell he was.
With Sherry, he wouldn’t have to be on all night. Wouldn’t have to fulfill a celebrity expectation or survive another conversation with talk of the industry and his musical inspirations. With this tempting waitress, he could just be Tyler, a Louisiana native, lover of Cajun food, and a man extremely attracted to the woman beside him.
Funny. Until that second, he wasn’t aware he missed that sense of normalcy.
Reaching out, Tyler brushed away a strand of dampened hair from her neck. The muscles under the silky skin of her throat moved against his fingertips. Chill bumps pricked her skin as she tilted her head back, eyes locked on his in a silent question.
That article in Country Music Weekly was right—he wasn’t a serial monogamous. But he sure as hell wasn’t a monk, either. The fiery glow in her eyes said that if he was interested, she would be his tonight. And he was definitely interested.
“Tyler!”
Sherry jolted at the intrusion, and the moment was gone. Reluctantly, Tyler turned toward the doorway, gritting his teeth. “Yeah?”
His bass player glanced back and forth between them. “It’s show time.”
Of course it is. Any other night, Tyler was like an ADD kid hyped up on sugar before a performance. The wall of adoration that hit him smack in the face when he took the stage, the hot lights pouring from above—that was where he thrived. But tonight was proving to be far from ordinary. “I’ll be right there.”
As if they could start without him anyway.
Charlie smirked as he nodded and retreated a few steps, waiting until he was out of Sherry’s sight to flash an opened palm. Whether that was code for five minutes or some sort of distant high-five was up for interpretation. Ignoring his idiot best friend, Tyler returned his focus to the woman in front of him.
The heat in Sherry’s eyes had dimmed, but it was there, and the air between them still snapped. “Boss man calls?” Her voice was slightly breathless, and there was no stopping the smile crossing his face.
“Something like that.”
He rocked back on the heels of his boots, delaying the inevitable. The feeling was apparently mutual because she asked, “Do roadies have to work the whole concert?”
A thrill of satisfaction warmed his blood as disappointment washed over her features. She didn’t want him to leave. Glancing at the table, Tyler could tell only half the crew had eaten. There was plenty of food left over, which meant she’d still be here when the concert ended.
“Yeah, generally roadies are pretty busy during a show.”
A slight prick of guilt hit him for continuing the ruse. But from what she’d revealed, the playful, simple way they were flirting would end the minute she learned his identity. It was selfish not to correct her. She’d probably be pissed as hell when she found out. But he wasn’t ready to relinquish that easy feeling just yet.
Knowing Charlie and the guys were waiting, Tyler slowly backed away. “But don’t you go skipping out on me. I’ll be looking for you after the show.” His gaze fell to her glossy mouth, and he almost groaned when Sherry bit the corner of one painted lip.
As excitement flared in her eyes, he turned on his heel. This was going to be the longest concert of his career.
Chapter Two
The moment Tyler’s heavy footsteps faded down the hall, Sherry did a little booty shake. She couldn’t believe her luck! This was exactly the kind of action she’d envisioned when she concocted her plan and begged to come here, and Tyler had just all but fallen into her lap.
Giftwrapped from above in one sinfully hot package.
Sherry threw her head back and smiled at the ceiling. Goodness, the things that man had done to her with one sizzling look of those bedroom eyes. Her knees were still weak, and her heart was doing the Cajun two-step in her chest. She’d always been the type of girl who jumped in feet first and fell in love at first sight—but this had squat to do with that emotion. This right here was chemistry, and precisely what the doctor had ordered. If a life with Mr. Boring and Dependable was to be her destiny, then a lust-filled weekend with Tyler-the-hunkalicious-roadie would surely fuel her fantasies for the next fifty years. Or longer.
Squealing into her palms, she turned around, eager to finish setting everything out so she could freshen up before Tyler returned…then jumped about a foot when she discovered she wasn’t alone like she’d thought. “Son of a biscuit!”
A woman in a power suit appraised her from a good distance away. The same one who had been talking with Tyler before he strode his sexy self over to speak with her. One hand held a heaping plate of food—seriously, how on earth did she eat like that and still fit into that form-fitting suit of hers?—and the other hand gripped her hip. Her lips were pursed in an unreadable expression, and Sherry swallowed a sudden lump, hoping she wasn’t Tyler’s woman.
But he came on to me first.
Clutching her chest, she muttered, “Sorry about that.” She smoothed back her hair and forced a confident smile. Warmth still spread across her cheeks, but she couldn’t do much about that. “Apparently, I’m a sucker for a man with belt buckles the size of Texas.”
Sherry waited, watching for a response, an indication the woman was angry, jealous, or simply staring because she’d shaken her butt and squealed like a moron. But the woman gave nothing. Motioning toward the full plate in her hands, she asked, “Can I get you anything?”
“No.” The woman lifted her pointed chin, her look turning inquisitive. “As you can see, I have enough to feed an army.”
Her lip curled slightly as she said it—not that surprising, since the chick probably never ate more than a crouton—and her whole vibe screamed polish and sophistication. Not at all whom she’d pair with the rugged roadie. That left the woman being a New York bigwig with a staring problem.
“I was curious about your catering company, though. The food seems authentic.”
Sherry beamed—though she couldn’t quite tell if the woman meant that as a compliment or not. “That’s because it is. My sister, Colby Robicheaux—well, Colby Robicheaux Landry—has an Italian restaurant here in Vegas”—the woman’s eyes flared with recognition—“which is how we got this gig, but our home base is in New Orleans. Our contact at the casino knew that and specifically asked for Cajun cuisine.”
A horrible thought struck her, and she glanced at the heaping trays of food with a frown. While she’d been setting up, her contact said that the band wouldn’t eat until after the performance. And to her knowledge, Blue hadn’t even entered the green room before they went on. She’d been semi-stalking the door, curious to see what the hype was about. But maybe she’d missed him. Maybe her contact had gotten it all wrong. Maybe Blue hated Cajun food.
“Why?” she asked, trying to keep the panic out of her voice. Colby was a control freak and usually handled a
ll the events, but Sherry had promised she had things under control. “Is Mr. Blue not happy with the selection?” She bit her lip again and took a quick survey of her ingredients. “My sister is the chef, but I can throw something else together if needed.”
Cooking for Sherry normally involved cereal bowls and microwaves, but she was 68 percent sure she could whip up a meal in a pinch. Whether or not that meal turned out edible would be the question.
The kitchen had always been Colby-the-wonder-chef’s domain. Even her brother had inherited their father’s cooking gene to a lesser extent. Sherry, on the other hand, could burn water. When it came to food, her heart just wasn’t in it to stay focused. Her specialty was customer interaction. Mingling, making people feel welcome. Working the front of the house at their restaurant was the closest she ever got to what she really wanted to do with her life.
“No, the food is fine,” Ms. New York said, thawing slightly. Her gaze darted to the door Tyler had disappeared through and her brows lifted. “Interesting.”
Okay. Obviously this woman was odd with a capital O. Something was churning in that über-polished brain of hers, but as long as it didn’t involve the food or the job, Sherry didn’t really care. She was just counting down the minutes until the woman left so she could get back to happy dancing over her future conquest.
“Well, if you’re sure you don’t need anything…” she said. The woman glanced back, blinking as if coming out of a daze, and Sherry jutted her thumb over her shoulder. “I have to make a run out to our van.”
Ms. New York smiled, the intent stare softening to almost friendly. The transformation pricked her suspicion, but she had no clue why. “I’m good, thank you.” She strolled forward, and now it was Sherry’s turn to stare as she dumped the barely touched plate into the trash. There goes twenty bucks. “It was a true pleasure meeting you, Miss…” Her gaze flickered to Sherry’s left hand.
“Robicheaux,” she confirmed distractedly. It always bothered her to see people wasting food. When the show was over, she was donating the leftovers to a nearby shelter. That plate alone could’ve fed two kids.
Accidentally Married on Purpose: A Love and Games Novel Page 2
