by Terri Osburn
“Of course not,” she replied, turning wide eyes his way. “If I ever made you give up music, you’d hate me within a year. Probably sooner.”
Exactly the answer he expected. “Then what makes you think I’d ever do that to you? You’re great at what you do, and you should do it for as long as you want to.”
“But what if we had kids?”
Leaping off the wall, he ran a hand through his hair. “Whoa. Hold on now. Who said anything about kids?”
This was supposed to be a simple date. Maybe a little making out in the truck and a plan to see each other again. But she goes and drops munchkins into the mix? Dylan had a career to launch. He didn’t have time to be changing diapers. And babies spit up a lot, too, didn’t they? He definitely wasn’t ready for that.
Charley crossed her ankles, appearing way more relaxed about this subject than Dylan was. “Don’t you want kids?”
“Sure,” he hedged. “Someday. But not anytime soon.”
“I don’t, either,” she snapped. “I’m talking years down the line.”
Dylan exhaled. “What are you doing scaring a guy like that?”
Her laughter joined the rustling of the trees. “You act like I suggested we snip off your right nut. Get a grip there, buddy. I’m saying that you’re a give-up guy. A guy a woman would willingly give up anything for, and I don’t want to give anything up.”
“I don’t want you to give anything up.”
“And I don’t want to be in the spotlight, either.”
“What spotlight? I’ve released one single. I’m lucky if ten people know my name right now.”
“Come on.” Charley waved a hand up and down in front of him. “You’ve got the big time written all over you. Movie-star good looks. A voice half the singers in this town would kill for. And your album is amazing.”
Straightening, he said, “You’ve listened to my album?”
She crossed her arms. “I bummed a copy off John. I can’t stop listening to it.”
“You really think it’s good?” Dylan asked, returning to the wall.
“I said it was, didn’t I?”
“Yeah.” He smiled. “You did.” Dropping his guard, he admitted his fears. “I really need this thing to take off. I’ve already blown one shot, and there’s no way I’ll get a third chance at this.”
Charley bumped him with her shoulder. “The songs are great, Dylan. Even though I still think you should be using your own, there’s no denying you feel every lyric that you sing. The listeners pick up on stuff like that.”
“Clay says the same thing.” Including about using his own songs, though Dylan didn’t voice that detail. “Now I have to charm my way through a ten-day radio tour, and hope I land an opening gig for the fall.”
“I’m sure you will. And that’s another reason we don’t need to do this anymore.” She rose to her feet. “You’ll be leaving town soon.”
Dylan shook his head. “Not for eleven days, and I won’t even be gone two weeks.”
She crossed her arms. “But it’s only a matter of time before you are. You’ll be out on the road, fending off female advances, and I’ll be here sharing the latest big news about you with my listeners. As it should be.”
“Wouldn’t you like to get that news firsthand before everyone else?” he asked, rising and pulling her against his body. “We’re good together, Charley. Why not enjoy the moment and let the future sort itself out?”
“I’m a planner,” she explained, pulling away. “I like to know what’s coming my way.”
Dropping a kiss on her forehead, he lowered his voice. “You can plan on more nights like this one. All you have to do is say yes.”
Squeezing his arms, she rested her forehead on his chest. “Yes to what? You haven’t asked me anything.”
“Charley Layton, will you do me the honor of going out with me again?”
She sighed as she lifted her head. “I suppose after tonight, you’ve earned that much. I’ll be the mouthy Kentucky girl you dated until a supermodel came calling.”
Brushing his lips across hers, Dylan whispered, “I’ll take you over a model any day of the week.”
At exactly eleven forty-five, Dylan parked his truck in front of her apartment.
“Before midnight, as promised,” he said, pointing to the clock on the dash.
“Only because I turned down going back to your place twice,” Charley reminded him. The offer had been tempting, but the man’s persistence already knew no bounds. Revealing how difficult saying no had been would only give him more ammunition.
Unhooking his seat belt, he shrugged. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.” With a wink, he dropped to the ground and crossed around the front of the truck.
Charley considered opening the door herself, but she didn’t want to ruin his chivalrous streak. Once he pulled it open, she took the hand he offered and climbed out.
“You don’t have to walk me to the door,” she said as he fell into step beside her. “It’s less than twenty feet, and you can see me the whole way. If anyone tries to mug me, I’m sure you could step in.”
“Walking you to the door has nothing to do with preventing a mugging,” Dylan assured her. “I’m holding out for a proper goodbye. Or were you hoping I’d nod off and you’d sneak away again?”
She shoved him away. “You’re such a jerk.”
“And you’re beautiful,” he muttered, as they stepped up to the door. “Thank you for coming tonight.”
“You’re welcome. Thanks for one of the most amazing and unexpected encounters of my life.” She laughed, tugging on his T-shirt. “And for the visit to Centennial Park. I wouldn’t have gone on my own.”
“Stirring up painful memories was not my intention.” Dylan took her in his arms and tipped up her chin with strong fingers. “Are we good now?”
Charley wasn’t good at all. She was confused and anxious and in way too deep for her own comfort. If he could crash so far through her walls in only two dates, she was bound to be utterly besotted after a month. Which meant if she were smart, she’d make this goodbye a permanent one.
But then she looked up into his eyes and goodbye was the last thing on her mind. “Yeah, we’re good.”
Dylan twirled one of her loose curls around his finger. “I’ll have your name on the list at the door for Friday night. We go on at nine, but if you come early, I’ll bring you backstage to meet the guys.”
During their walk in the park, Dylan had described his bandmates as family. Which made meeting them akin to going home to meet his mother.
“I have a remote from five to seven, so I’m not sure what time I’ll get there.” A valid excuse since the remote was in Mount Juliet, outside the city.
“No problem. Text me when you get there, and I’ll come find you.” He tucked the curl behind her ear and ran his hand down her arm. “Guess this is goodnight.”
Nodding, she watched his eyes drop to her mouth. “Yep. This is it.”
“One kiss before I go?” Dylan asked, his lips hovering above hers.
“Just one,” Charley breathed, rising on tiptoe.
The moment his mouth closed over hers, a sigh rolled through her body, followed by a trail of budding heat. She threw her arms around his neck and put every ounce of longing into the contact, proving how little control she had where this man was concerned. His hands squeezed her bottom, and she mewed in response, sucking on his tongue while the stubble along his jaw turned her cheeks cherry pink.
When he pulled away, she followed, moving on instinct as her lungs filled with air. “I’m not sure I can let you go,” Dylan mumbled.
“Then don’t,” she replied, flattening her palms against his chest, feeling his body heat through the thin cotton.
“Is that an invitation to come in?” He nibbled her bottom lip, pulling her close enough for her to feel his erection against her core.
“Oh yes,” Charley uttered, but the porch light flickered on and off. “Or maybe not.”
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sp; Dylan exhaled into her neck. “Looks like your roommate is home.”
“We agreed this wouldn’t happen, right? So she’s saving us from ourselves.”
His head rolled from side to side. “I don’t want to be saved.”
Charley chuckled as she planted her hands on his cheeks and lifted his face. “I’ll see you in a couple days.”
“That’s a long time.”
“You’ll survive.” She pushed against his chest. “Go on. Before she opens the door and huffs.”
After a hard kiss on her mouth, he stepped back. “Is she your roommate or your mom?” Cringing, he sighed. “Forget I said that.”
“It’s okay.” Sobering and definitely a mood killer, but okay. “Be careful driving home.”
Dylan backed his way to the truck. “Keep saying stuff like that and I might think you like me.”
“Nah,” she said. “I like the truck and don’t want to see anything happen to it.”
He pressed a hand to his heart, “You’re a mean one, Charley Layton.”
“Yeah, yeah,” she replied, lingering at the door long enough to watch his taillights fade in the distance.
The flashing porch light had been a sign. Matty was pissed and ready for a fight. They’d had one minor argument since Charley moved in, not counting the disagreement at the station on Monday. On a groggy Sunday morning, she’d used the last of Matty’s skim milk in her coffee and nearly lost her head when Mount Matilda went off. Since then, Charley had taken great care to use only the groceries she purchased for herself.
This situation was different. Charley had done nothing wrong by going out with Dylan, nor did she need Matty’s permission to do so. With her hand on the doorknob, she braced herself, prepared to remind Matty of these important facts. But when she stepped inside, her roommate was nowhere to be seen. Slightly deflated, she dragged off her boots and set them on the bottom step before heading to the kitchen for a bottle of water.
When she flipped on the switch, Charley nearly leaped out of her skin at the unexpected figure standing in front of the sink.
“What did you do?” Matty asked. “Send him upstairs without you?”
Struggling to calm her racing heart, Charley crossed to the fridge and jerked it open. “That wasn’t cool, Matty. You scared me half to death.”
Voice snide, she said, “Just trying to be a considerate roommate.”
Charley took a drink of water before responding. “Dylan is on his way home, and I’m going to bed. Goodnight.”
“Are you going to see him again?” the blonde asked, following her from the room.
She’d agreed to spend more time with Dylan until he went on tour, which was sure to happen soon with the single taking off on radio. But Charley hadn’t decided how far to let herself fall, and she wasn’t ready to discuss the situation with a person who’d already made her opinion abundantly clear.
“That’s none of your business,” she replied as diplomatically as possible.
“Jesus, I’m your roommate, Charley.”
“That’s right. My roommate, not my guardian,” she clarified, spinning at the base of the stairs. “I get it. You don’t like Dylan, and you don’t have to like him. But I do, at least enough to spend a little more time with him. And I don’t need your permission or approval about who I go out with.”
Tugging her robe tight across her chest, Matty tapped a foot on the beige carpet. “I’m trying to look out for you. I’m trying to be your friend.”
“Then be my friend,” Charley exclaimed. “Not my big sister.”
Slamming her hands through her hair, Matty dropped onto the arm of the couch behind her. “This has disaster written all over it.”
Anger gone, Charley set her water on the end table and took Matty’s hands. “Not every guy is like Tristan. Once you stop seeing him in every man you meet, you might fall in love again.”
A month after Charley had moved in, she’d learned the story of how a wide-eyed girl from Cookeville had met a guy online and pulled up stakes to be with him in Nashville, only to end up paying the bills while he played the bar scene, sleeping his way through half the town.
Matty shook her head. “They’re all the same in the end. Every last one of them.”
Bitter and cynical were a sad combination.
“You know that isn’t true.”
Ice-blue eyes met Charley’s. “Every guy I’ve dated, Charley. Every one of them cheated. That means either they all cheat, or they only cheat on me. Either way, I lose.”
Charley suggested an alternative. “Is it possible that you’ve been picking the wrong guys?”
“What are the odds I’d pick the wrong guy nine times?”
That was a troubling statistic.
“Nine, huh?” Charley mumbled, doing some quick math. “When you consider there are a hundred thousand or so options, that’s really not a bad percentage.”
She caught the throw pillow before it smacked her in the nose.
“I’m going to bed,” Matty said. “If you’re going to keep seeing him, at least have your dates on weekends like normal people. I can’t keep staying up this late on a weeknight.”
“You didn’t have to wait up,” she reminded the mother hen.
“Someone has to look out for you, Charley. I dropped the ball on your birthday, and now look where we are. Your one night with a hot piece of ass has turned into you breaking your own rules.” She lingered at the foot of the stairs. “You’re the one who said he was dangerous.”
Her feelings hadn’t changed on that front, but Dylan had allayed her fears enough to make dating him feel less like tap dancing through a minefield. There’d been no talk of rings or till-death-do-you-part, after all. So why not enjoy his company for a little while?
“I’m not breaking my rule so much as making an exception.”
Matty tilted her head. “Does that mean you’re toying with the possibility that you could have the man, the dream, and live happily ever after?”
Could Charley have it all? Love. Happiness. Professional fulfillment. Or were those all just promises made on the cover of a magazine? She really hoped not.
“I don’t have a definite answer on that, but maybe.”
Tapping the tip of her nose, Matty said, “And that right there is why you need saving. Keep your feet on the ground, woman. Or else you’ll land on your ass eventually.”
“That’s almost poetic,” Charley quipped.
“Just because I work with numbers all day doesn’t mean I can’t put pretty words together.” The mother hen kissed Charley’s forehead. “Night, girlie.”
Her roommate trudged up the stairs, and Charley meandered to the kitchen for a late-night snack. Sitting at the table with her bowl of cereal, she considered Matty’s advice. Practicality ruled every decision Charley ever made, until she’d walked away from the only home she’d ever known to chase a dream in Nashville. Even then, she’d resisted the urge to move before finding a job and a place to live. Hence, practicality still played a part.
There was nothing practical about dating Dylan Monroe. Or dating any musician at all, but especially not one on the verge of making it big. Charley didn’t like to make sweeping assumptions, but pickers and singers weren’t exactly known for fidelity.
However, based on her limited time with the man in question, plus the word of his female roommate, Dylan was not the sleep-around kind of guy. Which to most women would be a plus, but not to Charley. He was long-term. The real deal. The kind of man a girl could hitch her wagon to. But hitching would bring her right back to the initial issue of following in her mother’s footsteps.
In the end, that was the deal-breaker—giving up her own dreams to jump on board someone else’s. So as long as they both agreed that this was the line they’d never cross, Charley’s reasons for avoiding Dylan went away. Mostly. There was still the matter of trusting that he meant what he said.
Putting the now empty bowl in the dishwasher, Charley headed off to bed feeling
cautiously optimistic about her newfound romance. Whether she’d feel the same come morning was anyone’s guess, but if the smile on her face was any indication, the chances looked good.
Chapter 13
Clay Benedict traversed the concrete floor of Marathon Music Works to reach the bar on the far-left side. “Jack on the rocks,” he informed the female bartender. The room wasn’t as packed as he would have liked, but the show didn’t start for another forty-five minutes. He spotted Mitch Levine at the other end of the bar, staring into a glass.
Mitch’s battle with the bottle was the stuff of Nashville lore, and Clay knew full well he’d recently fallen off the proverbial wagon. Once upon a time, the older man had managed some of the best-known acts in the business, and he’d made a fortune for both them and himself along the way. Most of the money had gone down his throat in the form of alcohol, but he’d managed to pull things together often enough to keep himself financially afloat.
Unfortunately for him, the Nashville music scene operated like a nosy small town, where everyone knew everyone else’s business, and transgressions could scar a member for life. Somewhere in the last decade, Mitch had become a pariah of sorts, with few labels willing to work with him or any of his artists.
Essentially, signing with Mitch Levine Management had become a death sentence for any artist, and more than one had missed out on promising opportunities because of their connection with the unrepentant drinker.
When Clay had found Dylan singing in a bar in Printer’s Alley, he’d known the boy had star potential. He also knew that he’d signed a previous record deal, but as was typical of the business, it hadn’t worked out. Likely, shortsightedness on the part of some exec who wouldn’t know a Dobro from a mandolin.
After sitting through the entire show, Clay had worked his way through an impressive crowd of adoring females to reach his potential new artist. As soon as he’d expressed interest, Dylan had shared the name of his manager, which gave Clay second thoughts. But Mitch had been clean and sober at the time, and he’d deployed well-honed negotiating skills that landed Dylan a deal any artist would be happy to have.
