by Skye Jordan
Must be Wright
The Wrights
Skye Jordan
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Epilogue
Also by Skye Jordan
About the Author
1
Between this business and her boy, Gypsy Wright was running on fumes. And nothing reminded her of that more than having to man her own bar.
Gypsy grabbed a soda dispenser in each hand and topped off the alcohol-laden drinks with a spritz of soda water, then set them on the tray held by one of her cocktail waitresses.
Customers stood three-deep at the bar and called orders at anyone who would listen. Gypsy focused on a good-looking twenty-something sliding into a recently vacated sliver of space. The smile on his face told Gypsy exactly what he’d order before it came out of his mouth.
Even as the words “Hey, I know you probably get hit on all the time, but you’re so damn beautiful, I couldn’t help myself—” came out, she waved a hand in front of his drunk eyes to get his attention.
Once she had it, she pulled her shirt taut and pointed at the words across the front: I only have room for one man in my life. He’s three years old and not fully potty-trained.
When the guy’s brow furrowed, Gypsy rolled her eyes, reached beneath the counter, and pulled out one of the many signs she and the other female bartenders had created for themselves. With Mardi Gras-type beads for the chain and balsam wood as the message base, they’d painted every rejection they could think of, one for each sign. Of course, they were also decorated with enough bling to make a country girl proud.
“How ‘bout this one?” she said, hands against the bar, giving him one of her I-so-don’t-have-time-for-this glares. The sign read: NO. JUST NO.
The guy mumbled something and disappeared into the crowd. Gypsy immediately pointed at a young blonde woman. “What do you need?”
“One of those signs,” she said, grinning. “But I’ll settle for three white wines.”
While Gypsy worked on filling the woman’s order, she tried to figure out how she’d messed up the schedule so bad that she found herself stuck here instead of home, cuddling with her boy. She knew she was trying to juggle way too much, but she felt like if she dropped one ball, the rest would end up bouncing around her feet too.
With success came a unique set of pressures, for sure.
She needed a minimum of three bartenders to keep things running on a daily basis. She needed four to keep them running smoothly. And when the Grand Ol’ Opry had a grand slam lineup, she needed five.
For the last three nights, the Opry had been packing heat, and tonight, Gypsy was down two bartenders because she’d stupidly given two of her best the same night off.
Now her back hurt, her feet ached, and the live music was bringing on one doozie of a headache. Gypsy glanced at her watch, wondering how much longer it would be until she could shout last call and fall face-first into her pillow.
Midnight? How could it only be midnight? Her shoulders sagged, her eyes closed, and her head dropped back with a groan. On the bright side, she’d get to sleep in tomorrow morning. Her sister, Miranda, was watching Cooper overnight.
Gypsy took a deep breath and pointed at a young man who she doubted was old enough to be in her bar. Fake IDs just kept getting better and better. The kid ordered three shots of Jager, and Gypsy lined them up. Based on the fifty-dollar bill he passed her before disappearing with the shots, Gypsy was sure he’d already had too many.
She tossed the extra cash into the tip-collection water jug behind the bar while taking another order yelled at her from five feet away. Her hands moved automatically to mix the drinks. In her peripheral vision, she saw someone else push to the front of the bar just as she finished up the last order.
“What can I get you?” she asked without looking up.
“You can get me between the sheets, sugar, as soon as humanly possible.”
His voice tugged a familiar heartstring, and her stomach jumped. The drink called “between the sheets” had been around since the 1920s, but the only man who ever ordered it in her bar was Wyatt Jackson. Though, Wyatt could have ordered anything and she would have recognized his voice, along with half of America and untold other countries.
She looked up and found him grinning at her from the other side of the bar. His light-blue eyes glimmered, his perfectly straight white teeth lit up his face, and faint lines fanned out from the corners of his eyes. The sight literally made Gypsy’s knees weak.
She leaned on the bar to keep herself upright until she cleared her head, but the man was a breath of air so fresh, he made her dizzy. She should have controlled the grin on her face, even just a little, but she didn’t seem to have control over a lot of things when it came to Wyatt.
“You need a haircut worse than a drink,” she told him as she slid the wineglasses toward her other customer and took payment.
“I know.” He lifted his ball cap, ran a hand through his golden hair, and resettled the hat, tugging it low. “I’ll get one while I’m home.” He glanced at the sign around her neck. “That kind of night, huh?”
“Oh yeah.”
He reached across the bar and lifted the sign to read her shirt, then dropped his head back and laughed. “Last time I was here, you were jumping for joy he was out of diapers. That was only a couple of months ago.”
Nine weeks, to be exact. Longest stretch he’d been gone since Wyatt’s brother died last year. But she sure as shit wasn’t counting. “Premature excitement, but he’s close. We have an accident now and then.”
He chuckled. “Happens to all us guys.”
She snorted a laugh and flicked a look at his cap. “If you’re trying to go incognito, you might not want to advertise your band on your forehead.”
“It’s reverse psychology. No one would ever expect someone wearing a Fifth of Jack hat to be part of Fifth of Jack. Now, let’s talk about you and me getting between the sheets.”
She wrinkled her nose, pretending the image of their naked bodies tangled in crisp white sheets didn’t make her bones soften. “You know I hate rum. What do you say to a blowjob instead?”
“Sugar.” His voice dipped, and heat slid into his eyes. “Don’t make me embarrass myself in public.” His gaze lowered to her mouth. “I’ll take your blowjob and raise you a creamy pussy.”
All her attention took a direct path between her legs. She wasn’t surprised their banter made her wet, but she was disappointed their meetings were little more than an exercise in frustration. There had been a time in her life when she jumped into bed with men whenever it pleased her. But that all changed four years ago.
She tossed her hair over her shoulder and wiped her damp brow with the back of her hand. “Sorry, Rockstar, I don’t stock tequila rose.”
Someone yelled for three cosmos, and Gypsy started mixing the drinks.
“All right, then.” Wyatt’s tongue slid along his bottom lip. “I guess I’ll have to settle for a tight snatch and a royal fuck.”
She’d been fantasizing about him for too long, because snapshots of royally fucking this rock star immediately burned into her brain. “Settle, huh? Is sex on the road getting monotonous? All
that hot young flesh boring you?”
His grin grew. Gypsy wished time would stop. She wanted to study that grin, those sparkling eyes, that square, heavily stubbled jaw.
“I detect an edge of jealousy in your voice, sugar.”
“Ha. In your dreams, Rockstar.” She exchanged the cosmos for payment and pulled a lowball glass from the rack. “In your dreams.”
“That is a fact,” he said, sobering. “One very real, painful fact.”
Gypsy was fluent in flirtation, whether it came from the drunk, the desperate, or the determined, but she rarely ran across men with the kind of authentic talent, confidence, and swagger Wyatt possessed.
She often forgot he was the lead singer and guitarist of a band that shot to the top of the charts five years ago, then stayed there, right along with the likes of Jason Alden, Blake Shelton, and Giselle Diamond. But around here, locals were used to seeing Luke Bryan at the gas station and Taylor Swift at the mall. In Nashville, there was an unspoken expectation of respect and privacy for these stars, allowing them to roam free among mere mortals without much trouble. At least not from locals. Tourists, on the other hand, were a whole different matter.
After three years as VIP customer service for a top club in Miami, Gypsy knew exactly what went on in the private suites of the rich and famous. The drugs, the women, the parties. Country music and hip hop might be entirely different animals, but the music industry was the music industry. Money was money. Fame was fame. And men were men.
She added a shot of vodka, a shot of peach schnapps, orange juice, and cranberry juice, and topped it off with ice. She slid it across the bar to him and met his eyes directly. “There’s your tight snatch. You just let me know when you’re ready for the royal fuck.”
He wrapped his hand around both the glass and her fingers. His touch was warm and strong and created tingles through her skin. She didn’t pull it away immediately, because she didn’t want him to know just how intensely he affected her.
Instead of whipping out another snarky comeback, his gaze softened and scanned her face. “How are you, sugar?”
His sincerity touched her. Their friendship had developed slowly over the last three years since she’d bought the bar. The previous bar owner, a man who’d been Miranda’s surrogate father and had become the same for Gypsy, had an understanding with the regulars and locals. Whether they were stars who made millions or the local trash collector who struggled to pay his bills, Marty treated them with the same warmth.
After Gypsy bought the bar, many regulars had gone in search of quieter settings. Wyatt had stayed, despite his initial cantankerous relationship with Gypsy. Over the years, they’d become friends, and she always got a thrill when Wyatt came back to town.
“Better now that I’m here, huh?” He shot her a wink and held on to her hand, using the other to lift the drink to his mouth. “What about our little man? How’s he doin’?”
Our little man. Wyatt had learned exactly how to slip under her barriers. Nothing thrilled Gypsy more than someone asking about her boy. Just the thought of Cooper made all her rough edges smooth. Still, she pulled away from Wyatt’s touch.
“Getting big and raisin’ hell, I bet. I’ve seen the terrifying threes,” he said, referring to his niece.
“He’s doing his level best to keep up with Belle.”
“I’d expect nothing less.”
She ignored the customers yelling for service. Tuned out the live band and the noise. The only two people on the planet who could draw her focus like this was Cooper and Wyatt.
“You look amazing.” His gaze was so intimate, heat stung her cheeks. “Love your hair long.”
“It’s a lot of work.” She pulled a strand forward and glanced at the ends. “I was just thinking about cutting it.”
“Short and sassy suits you too.” Wyatt downed the rest of his drink in one long swallow, stood, and gestured her out from behind the bar. “Come on, sugar. Get your sexy ass on one of these stools.”
She straightened and started on another drink order. “Way too busy.”
Wyatt pressed his hands to the bar and gave her a deliberate look that bubbled through her blood. “Come out, or I’m coming in to get you.”
“This place is crazy town right now. Don’t you dare—”
He pressed his hands to the bar, lifted himself halfway, then swung his legs over like a freaking gymnast. No matter how often he did it, the sight always shocked Gypsy.
He landed right next to her, smiling triumphantly, and she couldn’t help but laugh. “I don’t have time for this. I’m two bartenders down.” She pulled the bar towel off her shoulder and snapped him with it. “Get out.”
Wyatt grabbed the bar towel midsnap, and Gypsy found herself in a ridiculously childish tug-of-war. The challenge in Wyatt’s eyes hooked into Gypsy’s competitive streak, and his lopsided smile told her he damn well knew it.
The regulars chose sides and started cheering. Wyatt was going to win. She didn’t have the energy to put her all into this game, even if she wanted to. Gypsy let go, and Wyatt flew backward, hitting the floor ass first. A rousing cheer cascaded around the bar.
Wyatt bent his knees and rested his hands behind him, grinning up at Gypsy. “You weaselly little cheater.”
“You can’t cheat if there are no rules. I didn’t hear any rules.” She lifted her hands to the customers sitting around the bar. “Did anyone hear rules?”
A round of shaking heads and negative responses rolled through the regulars.
Gypsy smiled and shrugged. “No rules. No cheating.”
He lifted a hand. “Help me up.”
She laughed and put both hands behind her, stepping back. “I wasn’t born yester—”
He lunged for her. Gypsy squealed and stumbled backward, but Wyatt wrapped his arms around her waist, lifted her off the floor, and threw her over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry.
Shock stole her breath. “Oh my God.” She laughed and hit his back with her fists. “Wyatt, put me down.”
He carried her out from behind the bar to the whooping approval of customers. Hanging upside down, annoyed and embarrassed, she wasn’t sure how she had time to notice how good he smelled. A little spice, a little lemon, and a lot of masculine Wyatt.
“Dammit,” she said, breathless with her stomach against his shoulder. “I’m trying to run a business here—”
With one arm on her thighs, he planted the other at her waist and finally lifted her from his shoulder, dropping her feet to the floor. Then he pushed her onto a barstool. When he stepped back, he pointed a stern index finger at her, his brows raised in a don’t-challenge-me expression. “You stay put.”
On his way back behind the bar, he lifted his chin at a man waiting to order. “What do you need, brother?”
Before the customer answered, Wyatt pulled a highball glass from the rack, added ice, 7-Up, a splash of grenadine, tossed in a cherry, and slid it in front of Gypsy.
She looked at the drink, still deciding whether she should take a break or take back control of her bar.
“Rest your dogs, sweetheart.” Earl was in his late sixties and had lived in and around Nashville all his life. He was another regular who’d stayed after Gypsy bought the bar. “You know by now he ain’t coming out until he’s damn good and ready.”
Gypsy sighed and got comfortable on the stool. Earl was right. She and Wyatt had been playing this game for years. The regulars had followed the progression of their friendship, and everyone wanted them to stop “pussyfooting around each other” and get together already.
Gypsy told everyone the same lie—that Wyatt Jackson wasn’t getting anywhere near her heart.
“Aren’t you supposed to be somewhere in middle America right now,” she asked, “having bras and panties thrown at your feet?”
“I’ll elbow Blacksmith off that stage in a heartbeat,” he said, pouring liquor with both hands, “if there is even the slightest chance you’d throw your panties at me.”
She smiled and glanced at the band. “Thanks for hooking me up with them. They’re always a big draw.”
“Glad to hear it. They’re good guys.”
Wyatt had helped Gypsy grow the business over the years by throwing her tips from other successful bars he’d visited, giving her contacts for the hot up-and-comers, and putting a bug in their ear to play at the bar.
Now he took orders and delivered drinks with the speed of two bartenders.
“Let me know if this singing gig ever dries up for you,” she said. “Maybe I’ll find a place for you here.”
His smile heated, and he tipped his head side to side, his gaze on his work. “You as a boss? That’s a sexy idea.”
Now that she was sitting down, Gypsy let herself relax. Her feet throbbed, and she leaned down and slid her hand into her boot to massage her calf.
Wyatt was so efficient, he cleared the customers waiting for drinks on this side of the bar within fifteen minutes, all while carrying on casual conversation with the regulars.
It didn’t take long for the tourists to start whispering. If Wyatt heard, he didn’t acknowledge. Instead, he pulled an IPA for himself and returned to Gypsy. Leaning one forearm on the bar, he stared directly into Gypsy’s eyes as he sipped his beer.
It took all her willpower to keep her gaze off his lips. “Seriously, don’t you need to be on stage somewhere?”
“Only place I need to be is right here, right now.” He put his drink down and pressed both arms against the bar’s edge. His forearms, exposed beneath the rolled sleeves of the shirt he wore over a white tee, were tight and tan.
“Looks like you’re still working out,” she said.
“Gotta take care of myself. I ain’t getting any younger, and touring ain’t getting any easier.”
