You're Still the One

by Rachel Harris

  Be daring.

  Chapter Two

  Charlie stretched his neck, psyching himself up to steal another glance around the room.

  It was risky.

  One accidental eye graze could send the wrong signal, giving one of the waiting women ammunition to approach. On the other hand, Charlie was falling asleep where he stood. He’d already mentally played through Blue’s entire back catalog plus the new stuff they’d been working on. If Stone didn’t show in the next twenty minutes, it was possible Charlie would die of boredom. Or stupid tie strangulation.

  Decision made, he committed to the glance, making one long sweep so he could be done with it. That’s when he spotted her.

  “Sweet Jesus.”

  The woman was a stunner. Tall and slim with a dancer’s body, she had long, dark hair he could almost feel slipping through his calloused fingers. His hand actually fisted at his side as he envisioned wrapping the soft strands around his palm. He knew he should look away, told himself that this definitely counted as sending a signal, but damn if he could find the energy to do it. The woman’s doe eyes held him in a trance, focused entirely on him as she stealthily sashayed her way across the dance floor.

  Charlie swallowed hard. His earlier vow of chastity flitted through his brain, and he brushed it aside like an annoying gnat. He wasn’t doing anything scandalous—he was simply admiring feminine beauty. And damn was this woman beautiful.

  The rest of the room faded into the distance as her glossy lips parted on an exhale. Charlie’s stomach tightened, the ghost of her breath teasing him, and he imagined what it tasted like. Cinnamon, if he had to guess. Spicy, addictive, and hot.

  Gaze trained on her mouth, he watched as those soft-looking lips closed again, only to reopen a half second later. The pattern repeated, and he realized they were moving in a steady rhythm. A rhythm that seemed almost chant-like, brushing and parting to form the same short phrase, over and over.

  Touch, part, open, pucker, close…touch, part, open, pucker, close.

  The screech of an old-school record reverberated somewhere as the blood pooling south froze in his veins.

  Nothing good ever came from chanting.

  A whispered secret of the industry most people didn’t discuss in mixed company? Nutcase groupies were a legit concern. Charlie could handle silly, vapid, and really, really enthusiastic; actual psychotic women scared the shit out of him.

  Crazies hid behind cute clothing, deceptive in their innocence, and he’d been burned one too many times. A fact his best friend and front man Tyler brought up whenever possible to bust his balls. But it was because of Charlie’s past hookup screw-ups that he’d learned a couple tricks of the trade to help spot the crazies early on.

  Mumbling and randomly chanting in public? That’d be red flag numero uno.

  Tuning in to the music pouring from the speakers, Charlie hoped the woman was singing along with the words. Unfortunately, Sam Hunt’s lyrics were way too fast-paced for the slow, controlled movement of her lush mouth.

  Strike one.

  Still, it was possible he was reading into things that weren’t there. Projecting his anxiety over his impending meeting with Stone on a woman who could just be an eager fan. One thing in her favor was that her eyes were clear and bright, and her gaze didn’t dart around like she was jacked up on jelly beans—or hearing multiple voices in her head. Unlike Crazy Number Two.

  Breaking eye contact, he casually took a half-dozen steps to the left. Cowardly, perhaps, but a relatively sane woman would read the message loud and clear: he wasn’t interested. Gorgeous or not, this was a Belle Meade event, and he couldn’t have a potential nutcase cause a scene in front of photographers. Tonight was about minimizing the negative press, not adding to it.

  Only, when Charlie glanced back, the woman hadn’t gotten the message and moved on.

  A wrinkle had formed between her brows, but she’d altered her path to mimic his own.

  Also, she was still chanting.

  Strike two was in her stride. Now that he was cataloging her traits for a possible future lineup, he noticed her steps were unsure, sort of halting. Like Bambi first learning to walk. It was as if with every other footfall she half considered retreating back to her table. No bueno.

  The third and final blow came when he raised his gaze again. Up her long legs, past her slender waist, and over the slope of her graceful neck, to the home of those stunning, innocent doe eyes. There was a softness to the woman’s features, an innate grace and inherent sweetness. She had the face of an angel. Strike three.

  Even overlooking the chanting, and assuming she wasn’t crazy, this woman was clearly not for him. The only kind of woman he spent time with these days were bold and confident and only seeking one night. The rest were way too dangerous.

  Charlie turned on his heel. It sucked that Stone hadn’t shown. Leaving without speaking to him seemed sort of pointless and counterproductive to his goals, but he’d have to find another way to butter up the man.

  Making an effort to keep his steps measured and calm, Charlie headed straight for the nearest exit. The one he’d used earlier was on the opposite side of the room, but there had to be some sort of door on this end. An alley would do. All that mattered was getting away. For whatever reason, this woman was triggering every stay away alarm Charlie had in his head.

  Ducking into the darkened hallway, he quickly sized up the options. Failing to see the back exit he’d expected, he selected the next best thing and, with the sound of quickened footsteps behind him, wrapped his hand around the handle and darted behind the heavy door.

  What happened next he couldn’t have predicted.

  And again, he was somewhat of a reluctant expert on crazy women.

  Not five seconds after the marked door closed, it pushed open again. Charlie’s gaze collided with the brunette’s in the mirror. She blinked a few times, adjusting her eyes to the bright lights, and her lips pursed in confusion as she spied the row of porcelain sinks under the mirrors. She looked beyond his shoulder to the line of urinals attached to the wall, and her mouth dropped open in a sound he assumed only dogs could hear. And then…

  “Oh. My. God!”

  A voice like honey, smooth and thick and echoing off the tile floor, curled around him as any sense of bravado faded, and the woman slapped a hand over her eyes. Blindly, she spun around to leave…and accidentally rammed headfirst into the solid oak doorframe. They both winced.

  Red flags wilting, alarm bells silencing, intuition told Charlie that the woman wasn’t as dangerous as he’d once thought. With the determined slope of her shoulders now slumped, she seemed mostly mortified, so he tried to do the gentlemanly thing.

  Strolling forward, he went to help her with the door. “Here, let me.”

  Only, she turned at the same time, following the sound of his voice, and her forehead crashed into his chin.

  Shit.

  “Holy mother of crud nuggets!”

  A surprised laugh broke past the stinger. “What did you just say?”

  Slowly, the brunette opened her fingers and peeked at him through the slats. Her wide brown eyes were wet and filled with too many emotions to name, but one was for sure embarrassment. Behind them, the men’s bathroom door opened again, and a balding gentleman lumbered through. He stopped short after two steps, taking in first the woman, then Charlie, and then her again, before glancing at the sign posted on the door. With a dismissive shrug, he continued on, strolling straight into the corner stall.

  The beauty’s fingers slammed closed again.

  “Only me,” she whimpered. “This would only happen to me.”

  Charlie grinned. So that explained it. She wasn’t so much crazy as in over her head. More than likely innocent, too, a general no-go in his book, especially with his current troubles, but for now, he could deal with it. It sure as hell beat boiled rabbits.

  Relieved that his inner crazy-alarm was off for once, Charlie tugged open the door and took her slim shou
lders in his hands. “Come on, sweet thing,” he said, steering her around. “Seems like you could use a drink.”

  …

  Was it possible to die of embarrassment?

  If so, Arabella was dangerously close to kicking the bucket. As Charlie’s fingers held her elbow, gently guiding her toward the shadowed bar at the rear of the club, she scrolled back through tonight’s hideous highlight reel.

  Had she seriously followed him into the men’s room?

  Actually, followed wasn’t even the right word. More like stalked. And though she’d done it by accident, not bothering to pay attention to her surroundings or, you know, marked doors, it was still incredibly cringeworthy. The icing on the mortifying cake, however, was that a random stroll past the urinals wasn’t even the worst of it.

  Nope, the worst part was that Charlie Tucker had no clue who she was.

  Ella kept waiting for a spark of recognition. A question about her father, perhaps, or the last time they saw each other, which, granted, was almost four years ago. But they never came. The only emotions in his soulful hazel eyes were humor, curiosity, and, if she wasn’t mistaken…or seriously reaching…a hint of interest.

  Was she really that forgettable?

  Ella had built up their meetings in her mind, memorizing and reliving each glance and offhand comment, searching for a deeper meaning. A sign that he saw her as a woman. Three and a half years ago, she could’ve sworn they’d had a moment at the label’s twenty-fifth anniversary party. Evidently, that had been as made-up as the fan fiction she’d written about him in high school.

  On the one hand, this did make the fiasco slightly better. If she wanted to, she could cut her losses now. Slip away, avoid Charlie for another three years, and no one would be the wiser. Well, no one other than Lana, but at least she didn’t know about the men’s room debacle.

  On the other hand, Charlie not recognizing her made everything so much more pathetic.

  Arabella had fantasized about him forever, went so far as to chase him down in a nightclub like a deranged groupie, and he didn’t know her from a cocktail waitress. If she’d ever wondered how memorable she was to the male species, she had her answer now.

  “Take a load off.”

  Charlie tugged a stool out from beneath the bar, and she hesitated. She’d worn this uncomfortable dress to prove she’d changed from the awkward girl he’d so clearly forgotten. Why bother hanging around?

  He lowered his head so he could look into her eyes, and a soft smile curved his lips. “Still with me?”

  Arabella released a breath. For now, the attention he was giving her was reason enough. “Yeah, sorry.” Shaking her head, she returned his smile and subtly studied the man in front of her.

  The tailored suit fit his body like a glove. Ella was used to his laid-back style of low-slung jeans and fitted black T-shirts. Occasionally, she’d see a photo of him performing in a white tee, arms ripped out to display his tattoos, holding his guitar with a goofy grin. Bad boy country was a look Charlie Tucker wore well. But, as her eyes lingered on the smooth lines of expensive fabric, and the thick bulge of muscle even a suit couldn’t hide, she decided Charlie probably wore every look well.

  “I’ll go get you that drink,” he said, and Arabella snapped her gaze back to his. His mouth hinted at a smirk as he smoothly divested himself of his jacket and hung it over the back of the neighboring chair. “What’s your poison?”

  “Chardonnay, please.” Honestly, after the bathroom disaster, she could go for a shot of the hard stuff. But then she’d be swinging from the rafters, and one social faux pas was her limit for the night. Grabbing hold of her dress, alongside what was left of her dignity, she scooted up onto the seat. “Thank you.”

  “Buying a beautiful woman a drink isn’t a hardship.” Charlie unleashed the full force of his grin, and a dark curl fell onto his forehead as he winked. “Be right back.”

  She barely withheld a whimper. When she was fourteen, the man’s signature grin had been her downfall, and today the effect was every bit as lethal. Combined with him calling her beautiful, she was practically a puddle of swoon.

  Having seen her to her seat, Charlie headed toward the other end of the bar, and Ella scoured the packed room for Lana. A floating thumbs-up hovering over a familiar raven-black ponytail revealed her location a few tables away, and Arabella nodded in acknowledgment. She could only imagine what her best friend thought about this development. Whatever it was, it was definitely sexier than the truth.

  Where did she go from here? Approaching Charlie tonight had taken every ounce of bravery she had. She’d been prepared for his concern over her dad, hesitation over her age, or even polite disinterest and a friendly pat on the head. But starting the conversation from ground zero…?

  They needed to write guidebooks for this sort of thing. The Idiot’s Guide to Flirting With the Man of Your (Literal) Dreams Who Clearly Doesn’t Know You Exist. Bonus material could include how to handle disastrous meet-cutes in the john.

  Arabella shook her head in disgust. It took a moment for her slightly inebriated thoughts to catch up with her brain, but when they finally did, a tiny laugh escaped her throat.

  Charlie Tucker didn’t know who she was.

  This was actually perfect.

  If he didn’t know who she was, then he didn’t know who her dad was, either. He didn’t associate her with the young teenager with an unforgiving case of acne, or the girl he’d once seen sporting headgear at the dining room table. There was absolutely zero history between them, no preconceived notions. Heck, there were no expectations at all.

  When was the last time she could say that? About anyone?

  She’d left her apartment in the hopes of experiencing a stolen night, and Charlie had presented her with the perfect opportunity. With him, she could be anyone she wanted to be. Fun and fearless, bold and confident—or a woman who randomly followed men into bathrooms.

  Ella laughed at her ridiculousness, but this time, a genuine smile curved her lips.

  “Chardonnay for the lady,” a husky voice murmured near her ear, and Arabella startled before turning in her chair. Charlie grinned at her as he set the wineglass on the bar and claimed his seat. “What’s so funny?”

  A blush warmed her cheeks as his hazel eyes held hers. Flirting wasn’t something she did very often—more like never—but that was the name of the game tonight, and thanks to her newfound cloak of anonymity, her chest suddenly felt lighter.

  “You mean other than the memory of that guy’s face in the bathroom?” she asked, widening her eyes playfully. She was rewarded with a chuckle, a deep rumbling sound that tickled low in her belly. “I think it’s safe to say he’ll remember me for a while.”

  It was a dumb thing to say. Charlie had taught her just how forgettable she was, but Ella quickly brushed that sad truth aside and pressed on. “Actually, I was wondering how many women were cursing me for sitting with you.”

  A dimple ignited in his cheek. “Cursing, huh? That’s a heck of a lot better than boiled rabbits.” When she raised an eyebrow in confusion, he shook his head. “Never mind.”

  Placing his forearm along the smooth mahogany bar, he swiveled his chair to face her. “Besides, I’m pretty sure I’m the one getting nailed for taking your time.” He motioned to the room with his beer bottle. “I guarantee you every man in this room has noticed that fantastic dress of yours, sweetheart. They’re all plotting to steal you away from me.”

  Ella hid her smile behind her wineglass. She seriously doubted anyone, other than her ambitious waiter and the few acquaintances she’d caught gawking at her wardrobe choice, had even noticed her presence. But it was nice to pretend otherwise.

  Behind the bar, an Elvis clock caught her eye, its second hand taunting her. She was running out of time. Her dad was the master of late entrances, preferring to let his artists steal the spotlight before he arrived at events, but even he showed up before midnight.

  The King’s hips swiveled again, an
d the hour hand landed on eleven.

  “Steal me away, huh?” She took another quick sip of wine. “Well, that’s impossible.”

  Her fingers tingled as she set down her glass. As much as she’d love to sit and flirt all night, pretending that this was real—it wasn’t. This was a fantasy, a blip in time until Charlie realized who she was, and the interest faded from his eyes. If she was going to cross off the first item on her top-ten list, she had to do it soon.

  Charlie’s head tilted for an explanation, and she sat up tall before declaring, “I came here tonight for you.”

  Boom! Mic dropped.

  A surge of adrenaline hit Arabella’s empty stomach and the tips of her ears burned hot—but she didn’t regret her words. She’d finally done it, she’d put herself out there and taken the all-important first step. Now all she could do was wait and see how Charlie responded.

  He didn’t disappoint. His hazel eyes grew intense, the golden brown irises sharpening under the club’s neon lights as his tongue worked the pocket of his cheek. He dropped his hand into his lap and, when his fingers rasped along the stiff fabric of his pants, Arabella’s gaze fell to follow the movement. A rush of heat flooded her core.

  Charlie’s legs straddled either side of her chair, and the position pulled the material of his suit pants taut against his strong thighs. Tree trunks were smaller than this man.

  “How did you know I’d be here?” Charlie asked, and Ella peeled her gaze away from the intoxicating V of his legs.

  New rule: no more glances south of the border.

  “Call it a hunch,” she replied breathily, actively trying to regain control of her thoughts. They were derailing faster than she could shake. “I, uh, heard you were back in town, and knew this was your label. I rolled the dice.”

  She swallowed hard and forced a smile, not wanting to arouse his suspicion. In reality, she’d asked her father’s assistant, who was in charge of the guest list, but admitting that would give away her identity—and that would bring an end to their flirtation.