by Skye Jordan
Wyatt was thirty-six. That fact always blew Gypsy away because she always felt like he was closer to her age, twenty-six. He was so vibrant and active, it seemed unfathomable that he was ten years older. She’d always seen guys in their thirties as settled and solid. But Wyatt was still sowing oats. The man should have a million acres of oats by now.
Losing his brother had taken a toll on Wyatt. Between the loss, the stress and the touring, he’d ended up in the hospital with pneumonia. He’d told Gypsy that experience pushed him into a lifestyle change. No partying, no late nights, no booze, no drugs. She distinctly remembered he hadn’t said no women.
“I’m home for Belle’s birthday,” he said. “Are you free Saturday?”
“To hang out with toddlers? No thanks, I do that at home every day.”
“Belle has made it very clear that she is not a baby anymore. She’s a big girl now. Five going on twenty-five.”
Someone came up behind Gypsy and ordered a pitcher of beer. Wyatt picked up a glass pitcher and tossed it in the air. She winced as it turned end over end just before he caught it and slid it under an open tap.
She let out her breath. “You stop my heart every time you do that.”
“Don’t worry, I have a few tricks up my sleeve to give your ticker a kickstart if needed.”
Oh, she just bet he did.
A woman pushed forward, elbowing Gypsy in an effort to get her boobs up to the bar. “Oh my God,” she said in that sickeningly sweet high-pitched fangirl voice. “I love your music, Wyatt.”
Wyatt’s smile was practiced and charming, but not real. Not like the ones he gave Gypsy. She shouldn’t feel so damned thrilled about that. “Thank you, darlin’. What brings you to town?”
Another fact that pleased her was that in all the time she’d known him, he’d never called another woman—including the hundreds of fans he’d interacted with at the bar over the years—sugar. Stupid, she knew, but when he was the closest thing she’d had to a crush in the last four long years, she deserved a break.
While the woman babbled about coming into town with friends for a bachelorette party, Wyatt handed the pitcher to the other customer and took the payment. He cashed out the amount for the beer and tossed the rest in the tip jug.
When he turned back to the bar, he cut a look at Gypsy, who feigned a yawn and patted her mouth, making Wyatt snicker, all while the tourist was caught up in her own star-sputtering glee.
Wyatt made a quick cosmo and slid it across the bar to the fan. She stopped talking, glanced at the drink and back to Wyatt.
“For the bride-to-be,” he said, “with my congratulations. I’d love to talk, but we’ve got a thirsty crowd.” He placed a coaster on the bar, grabbed the nearest pen, and signed his name, offering it to the woman. “Thanks for stopping by.”
Gypsy waited to see how the woman reacted to Wyatt’s assumption that she wanted an autograph when she hadn’t asked for one. But he obviously knew his fans, because the girl sputtered gratitude after gratitude and took both the coaster and the drink off to her friends while Wyatt started on another drink order.
She rolled her eyes. “Oh. My. God.”
He smirked. “That’s what she said.”
“Ha.” Gypsy shook her head, sipped her drink, and waited for a lull in the crowd to ask Wyatt the question that first came to mind when he’d mentioned his niece. “How is Belle doing with your brother being gone?”
“They say kids are resilient, and I guess they’d be right, because by all accounts, Belle is doing well.” A little spark left his eyes. “I wish adults could be the same.”
Gypsy had tried to bring up the loss of his brother a couple of times over the last year, but Wyatt always deflected, hiding behind that good-ol’-boy façade. She hoped he could talk with his bandmates about it, because there was nothing easy about losing a family member to suicide.
“You know,” she said, trying to keep her voice level so he didn’t think she was pitying him, “if you ever want to talk about it, I’m here.”
Right before her eyes, the authentic, grounded Wyatt she adored morphed back into the rock star playboy who enjoyed pushing her every last button. “How about Saturday night?” He crossed his arms on the bar, leaned in, and looked at her as if he could barely keep his hands to himself. “Wear that off-the-shoulder ivory number that stops just below your amazing ass and those mouthwatering suede thigh-high, high-heeled boots.”
She couldn’t tear her gaze away from the flaming heat in his own, but she managed a narrow-eyed look. “How, exactly, do you even know I own such an outfit?”
A slow, smoldering smile drifted across his handsome face. “Instagram.”
Gypsy’s lips parted, but nothing came out. Her mind was spinning around the idea that Wyatt Jackson, hottest country singer on the map, stalked her Instagram page.
Fear pinged somewhere deep in her belly. This man had just sauntered into real trouble territory. She’d been able to resist him this long because she’d never taken his flirtation seriously. But casual interest didn’t include following her on social media when he had an untold number of women willing to fall on their backs for him with an instant’s notice.
Gypsy purposely took another long drink of her Shirley Temple, draining the glass to get the time required to refocus. “My answer is the same as it’s been for the last two years.”
“Actually, sugar, we’re going on our three-year no-date anniversary.”
“And my answer is still no. Besides, Saturdays are my busiest nights.”
“You win.” He straightened and pressed both hands to the bar and gave her a grin that hammered her good intentions. “Saturday it is. Right here in our special spot. I wouldn’t mind twirling you around the dance floor.”
Gypsy dropped her head into her hands. “Jesus Christ.” She drew a deep breath, lifted her head, and met his gaze before taking the sign still resting against her breasts—NO. JUST NO.—and putting it directly in Wyatt’s line of sight.
When she dropped the sign, his eyes were narrowed and his head tilted. “Is that a hard no?”
“It’s a bless your heart no.”
Wyatt dropped his head back and laughed long and deep. The sound skittered down her spine, swirled in her belly, and melted between her legs.
“Damn, I love the way you make me laugh, sugar.” He straightened and swept the bar with a towel. “Saturday night it is. I’ll come in and entertain your customers. Our date can begin as soon as the bar closes.”
He did love to twist words around to his benefit. “Sorry, Rockstar, I already have somebody booked to play Saturday.”
He delivered a comically shocked expression.
She stood and carried her glass back behind the bar, dropping it into the dirty dish bin. Then she faced him, one hand on the bar. “Thanks for the break. Now get out.”
“Who could you possibly have playing that I couldn’t replace?”
“Savage Justice. You recommended them, remember?”
Wyatt grimaced. “Ah, yeah.” He nodded, staring at the floor. “They’re good.”
She gestured toward the swinging door that led out from behind the bar. “Git.”
Instead, he planted one hand on the bar and jumped. But this time, he didn’t vault. He pulled one of those rock star moves and stood on the bar.
“Jackson.” Gypsy smacked his leg. “Get the hell off my bar.”
He set his boots wide, put two fingers in his mouth, and whistled so loud, Gypsy covered her ears. The music stopped, the bar quieted, and all eyes turned to Wyatt. He took off his hat and ran a hand through his hair. His name instantly fluttered through the crowd.
“How are y’all enjoying my friends Blacksmith?” Wyatt called to the crowd as if he were on his own stage.
The customers cheered, and Wyatt saluted the band, who greeted Wyatt in return.
“What an awesome crowd.” Wyatt waited as they quieted. “I hear y’all are going to be introduced to another great band Friday—Savag
e Justice. If you haven’t heard ’em play, make sure to come on out, because, like Blacksmith, they’re hot.”
They applauded the suggestion.
“I made your pretty little bar owner here another proposition, but she’s shootin’ me down, so I decided to take my idea to the masses. I’m proposing that I play for y’all Saturday night, maybe warm y’all up for Savage Justice. What do y’all think about that?”
Gypsy covered her ears just in time to block the whistles and claps and shouts from everyone in the crowd. They were still chanting “Wy-att, Wy-att, Wy-att” when she smacked Wyatt’s leg again. “Fine, you can play. Now get the fuck off my bar.”
Wyatt jumped down, landing directly in front of Gypsy. “I knew you’d come around.” He leaned in way too close, and lowered his voice. “Admit it. You like me.”
“I like making money. One set before Savage Justice plays, and you’re doing it pro bono.”
His grin cut through her barriers like a knife through butter. “Sugar, all I hear is yes.”
2
Wyatt stood on the sidewalk in front of his brother’s house in Franklin, Tennessee, a suburb of Nashville. The front door stood open, and the laughter and squeals of young girls poured through the screen door, out of the house, and through the front yard.
Wyatt had moved heaven and earth to share this day with his family, and the event should have filled his heart with joy. But it was wrong. All wrong.
Brody should slam that screen door open and tell Wyatt it was about time he got there. Offer him a beer. Ask when they were going fishing while Wyatt was in town.
Pressure built in Wyatt’s head, sadness in his heart, tears in his eyes. He looked up at the crystal blue sky and blinked back the sting. A gorgeous spring day for a little girl’s birthday party. Would have been perfect if that little girl had her father here.
It had been almost a year since Brody drove himself to one of their favorite fishing spots on the Cumberland River and put his Colt Classic semiauto to his head.
He’d done it while Wyatt had been on tour—because Wyatt was always on tour. He hadn’t been there to talk his brother off the ledge. To support his parents when they’d found out.
He turned his back on the house and rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand. When would this pain and guilt ease up?
“Uncle Wyatt! Uncle Wyatt!” The screen door did slam open then, and Brody’s little girl ran out onto the porch, her shoes clapping on the deck. “Mommy, Uncle Wyatt’s here.”
Wyatt took a deep breath, pushed his face into a smile, and turned to face Belle, braced to catch her. She flew down the porch steps, her yellow dress billowing behind her petite frame, long hair like her mother’s flying on the breeze in a dark tangle, and jumped into Wyatt’s awaiting arms.
It was their way. And now, with Brody’s daughter in Wyatt’s arms, a sliver of the pain eased. He hugged her tight. “Hey, monkey. Man, it’s good to see you.”
Instead of starting to jabber like she usually did, Belle kept her head on Wyatt’s shoulder, one arm tight at his neck. This was not their way.
“Happy birthday, little girl.” Wyatt leaned away and tried to get a look at her face to see if he could read her expression. “What’s going on, sweetheart?”
She lifted her head, gaze downcast as her small hands played with Wyatt’s three-day-old scruff. “Daddy’s not here.”
A knife jabbed Wyatt’s ribs. He ran his hand down her hair and kissed her forehead. “I know, baby, but I promise he’s thinking about you. He loves you so much. The day you were born was the best day of his life.”
Movement on the porch caught Wyatt’s eye. Francie, Belle’s mother and Wyatt’s sister-in-law, stepped out of the house, arms crossed. She wore a pretty light-blue sundress, but her expression exposed just how hard this day was on her. “Belle, it’s time to cut the cake.”
As if someone flicked a switch, Belle’s expression brightened. She turned her head to look at Francie. “And then presents?”
Francie nodded.
“Speaking of presents…” Wyatt said, setting Belle on her feet.
She jumped on her toes, sadness over her father’s absence gone. “What did you get me, Uncle Wyatt? Did you get me a pony?”
He pulled the envelope from his back pocket. “Not a pony of your own, but lots of ponies to share.”
She gasped and tore open the envelope. Someone from Wyatt’s support staff had created a flier with a picture of horses and the simple large words “Horseback Riding Lessons,” so Belle could read it herself. A brochure from a local horse ranch was tucked into the flier along with a gift certificate for a year’s worth of lessons.
“Oh my gosh.” Her voice was comically adult, her eyes big, mouth hanging open. She spun and held up the flier. “Mommy, Uncle Wyatt’s taking me horseback riding!”
“Uh, well, honey,” Wyatt said, scratching his head. “They’re just for you. I can’t go. I have to work.”
Disappointment dimmed her excitement, and something unsettling scrambled in his gut. “But when I’m not on the road, I’ll definitely go with you.”
She wrapped his legs in a bear hug. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, honey.”
She released him and ran inside, yelling, “Uncle Wyatt’s going horseback riding with me!”
Wyatt laughed. He wasn’t the only person in his family who only heard yes.
He’d gone back to the bar for the last three nights, but Gypsy hadn’t been there. Which was for the best. He was too old for her. His travel too extensive. His schedule too unreliable. Their priorities too different. Unfortunately, reminding himself of these realities didn’t keep him from wanting her.
Wyatt turned his attention back to this difficult situation. He exhaled long and slow as he ascended the stairs.
Francie had tears in her dark eyes and, much like her daughter, walked straight into Wyatt’s arms, holding him tight. “Thank you for coming. I know it wasn’t easy for you to get away. It means so much to us.”
A boulder sat on Wyatt’s chest. He’d known this would be difficult. All the firsts after someone’s death were. First holiday, first anniversary, first birthday. But it felt even harder than he’d expected. Francie had lost weight since he’d last seen her. She felt small and fragile. “Hey, are you doing okay?”
She sniffled and pressed her cheek to Wyatt’s chest. “You know I loved him, right?”
The out-of-the-blue comment didn’t surprise Wyatt. He knew exactly how the sight or sound of something could trigger memories of Brody, and with it, the stabbing pain of his loss—like seeing Belle. He had no doubt that he was the same trigger for Francie. “Me too, honey. Me too.”
“I mean, he’d missed every one of Belle’s birthdays, including the day she was born, but there was always a card, a phone or Skype call. Not getting that connection with him today… It’s been hard on both of us.” She pulled away and looked up at him. Her dark hair was long and straight, her warm brown eyes wet. “Hard on all of us.”
Wyatt nodded. “How are Mom and Dad doing?”
She gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Better than me, it seems. They’re out back.”
Wyatt stood there an extended moment, just in case Francie needed to talk more. But she exhaled and wiped her eyes. “Would you mind keeping an eye on things? I need to go get more ice cream. One of the girls is allergic to eggs. Another is allergic to dairy.”
Wyatt frowned. “There are eggs in ice cream?”
“Evidently some brands.” She shook her head and huffed a laugh. “Who knew, right? And if anyone asks, yes, the cake has gluten.”
He almost asked if she wanted him to go instead, but it was clear she needed a break from the festivities. “Of course, you got it.”
“Thanks.” She took a step toward the stairs. “Watch yourself. It’s Single-mommy Central out there, and I’ve heard more than a few whispered hopes you’d make an appearance today.”
Shit. “Hey, do you want me to go
?”
She gave him a wan smile. “Never thought a few women would scare you.”
“It’s just…” He looked at the ground with an undefinable fear tightening his gut. “I don’t want to upstage her day is all. This should be all about Belle.”
Francie smiled reassuringly. “It will be. The moms might all have their eyes on you, but the kids are just kids. They just want to play. And Belle isn’t shy about working the attention when she needs to. Guess she got a few of your genes in the mix.”
Wyatt smiled, but when Francie turned away, he dropped the fake expression. That harmless comment hit a little too close to the wound Wyatt had been nursing since Brody died.
Francie paused at her car and stared at Wyatt a long moment, as if she was having a hard time leaving. “I love you, Wyatt. You’ve been so good to us. So good for Belle. You’re just…such a good man.”
A fresh wave of concern rolled through him. “I love you too, honey.”
He pulled in a breath to ask if he could do anything for her, but she dropped into the driver’s seat. He watched the SUV disappear around a corner with a mental note to sit down with Francie while he was here. See if there was anything more he could do to help her. Maybe pay for counseling or get her into school. She was just twenty-six. She’d gotten pregnant at twenty-one and married his brother right before he shipped out to boot camp. Theirs was a hit-or-miss relationship, only seeing each other for short stints between Brody’s deployments. That was a lot of pressure on someone so young.
His mind veered toward Gypsy. She was also twenty-six. She might be more mature with moxie and fire, but still just twenty-six. He shouldn’t be thinking about messing around with someone ten years younger. He didn’t even particularly care for women Gypsy’s age. The majority of them seemed too flighty and narcissistic for his taste. The mature, responsible, loving women in that age bracket were a real find.
Which made Gypsy one hell of a gem. A gem he couldn’t wait to see tonight.
Wyatt climbed the steps and wandered through the house toward the backyard. He’d bought this house with his first big paycheck. At the time, it seemed perfect for Francie and Brody’s growing family, but now, with just Francie and Belle here, maybe it was too big. Maybe it was too much for Francie to handle on her own. He’d have to ask her if she wanted to downsize or move into a different house.
