She sets me down, pulling back to ask, “When did you get back? Are you already working? Where’s Bobby? Did you take him back? Holy shit, you should’ve seen him come barreling in here demanding that Hank tell him where you were. It was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”
She fans her face, and I swat her shoulder, ignoring all the other questions to answer the most important one. “Down, girl, he’s all mine.”
It feels good to claim him again because he is mine, and nothing or no one is going to change that.
“Yeah, he is.”
“Quit yer chitter-chatter and get to work, you two,” Unc says, sounding grumpy. But when I look over, he’s smiling, his happiness obvious on his lined face and in his bright blue eyes.
“Let’s go!” a loud voice calls out over by the pool table.
“Pull yourself together,” Unc hollers back, “or I’ll cut you off before the party even gets started, Willie.”
The young guy, who has a permed mullet—yeah, both hairstyles on one blonde head—isn’t the least bit chastised, flashing Unc two thumbs up and a big, open-mouthed grin.
My lips lift ever so slightly, fighting a laugh, because Willie’s not even drinking. It’s straight Coke in his glass, no Jack. He’s just excited because Bobby is playing tonight. He’s calling it his ‘return tour’, and while I’d been nervous that it was a coping mechanism at losing the deal again, he seems entirely okay with being home.
Surprisingly, we haven’t heard a peep from Jeremy Marshall, either. I worried that Bobby would hear from his lawyer. Bobby said he didn’t give a shit and would be glad to step in a room again with him to finish the job, but it’s been total radio silence.
The door opens and a whole party’s worth of people comes in—all the Tannens and Bennetts.
“Mama Louise!” I exclaim. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in here.”
That might be true, but she hops up on a stool like she’s a regular. “Oh, I get by every now and again, but I had to see Bobby’s return tour. Cooper’s at a friend’s house for the night, and Sophie got a babysitter for Cindy Lou.”
Bobby dares to come behind the bar, one of the few people Unc allows that privilege, and for one reason only. He catches me around the waist, his arms vice-tight at my middle and his body pressed to my back. His lips lay a soft kiss to my neck as he inhales me. I probably smell like sweat, beer, and lemons, but he doesn’t seem to mind. His stubble scratches at my cheek, but I turn into it, loving the feel of him against me.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he growls, peppering more kisses along my jaw.
I turn in his arms to kiss him back. It’s quick but meaningful. I don’t think I’ll ever take for granted the ability to kiss this man anytime I want to, especially since I’m the only woman who can do so.
“Hey yourself.” I smile and watch his eyes wander over my lips as though my smile makes him happy. “Your fans are ready for you again.”
“I only care about one fan. You ready for me?” His voice has gone deep, dark, and gritty, instantly turning me to mush.
“Always,” I whisper.
He groans, and neither of us are talking about his show anymore.
“We got the table!” Shayanne yells in celebration, as if she’s surprised at the ‘reserved’ sign on their booth.
“Go and sit down, relax for a bit. I’ll bring a round over.” Though he places one more groan-accompanied kiss to my lips first, Bobby does follow the rest of his family to the booth.
Before I can pull a pitcher, Mark is at the bar. He grunts at me as a way to catch my attention, and I lift my brows in question.
“Thank you for the picture of Katelyn,” he grits out, sounding like it pains him to have proper manners.
“Of course! Happy to do it.”
“Just to be clear, no one ever sees that picture. Burn the negative.” The order is clipped, allowing for no argument.
Except . . .
“Uhm, that’s not really a thing. It’s a digital file,” I explain.
“Then burn the computer. The whole fucking thing.” He seems to think that’s completely reasonable, and I can’t help but giggle at his all-consuming love of Katelyn, though I keep it inside, which makes my shoulders bounce. The girls were right. You get used to them, and it’s cute after a while.
“How about this? I’ll delete it, and the print you have will be the only one in existence.”
He thinks it over, then grunts, appeased. Grabbing a stack of glasses, he helps me deliver the beer to their table.
Katelyn stands up, Mark sits down in the seat she just vacated, and then he pulls her into his lap. See? Cute.
This time, they’re not the only ones being extra touchy-feely, though. We’ve gotten so busy, and there are so many of them, that the girls are all perched on their guys’ laps as everyone talks.
I set the drinks down, pop another kiss to Bobby’s cheek, and get back to work before I put Olivia in the weeds.
Impossibly, we get even busier. I’m prepping Girly Beers, Unc is pulling drafts, and Olivia is running them around as fast as her legs will carry her.
But I pause for a preferred customer. “What can I getcha, Sophie?”
“Four Girly Beers and a water with lime.”
“Mama Louise keeping it light tonight?” I ask, assuming the drink distribution.
Sophie blinks, staring at me and not saying anything for a long second. “Uh . . . No, we told her she had to try the Girly Beer.”
“Okay.” I don’t get the importance until the weight of her silence makes me pause. “You drinking water?”
She still doesn’t answer, but her smile is answer enough.
“Congratulations,” I whisper.
“Shh,” she orders, and I lock my lips, promising her that I won’t say a word.
She holds the handles of the beer mugs, dancing her way across the floor to take them back to their table. Curiously, I wonder which one of them will come up next to tell me something private. Perks of being a bartender . . . I know what’s on everyone’s mind and heart.
Like now.
Everyone is ready for Bobby, though it doesn’t take a brain trust to figure that out because the crowd has moved from doing walk-bys to chanting his name and telling him, “Come on, man. Get up there.”
Before the crowd gets too carried away, Bobby takes the stage. The hoots and hollers get louder and louder, and his smile gets wider and brighter.
Instead of his usual introduction, he goes off-script. “Thanks everyone. I know you thought I might have something to tell you tonight.” The crowd quiets, hungry for news. “Well, it looks like you’re stuck with me. Assholes out in Nashville—”
“Language!” Mama Louise shouts, and everyone laughs.
Bobby looks to the ceiling as though praying for patience. “Sorry, Mama Louise. I meant, the people in Nashville weren’t what I thought they’d be, and most importantly, Willow’s here. And wherever she goes, I go.” His shrug is easy, as if that’s the most obvious thing in the whole wide world. His eyes lift from the crowd to meet mine across the room. “Love you, sweetheart!”
“Love you, too!” I yell loudly.
“Aww,” several female voices sound out.
It’s a sweet moment until a deeper, masculine voice shouts, “Fuck those city boys! Stay here with us, Bobby!”
Hats wave around, hands lift beers in the air, and a general sense of laughter washes over the crowd, though I see a few raised brows. I’m betting those are the tourists from the resort.
Amazingly, not too long ago, I was a tourist, a short-timer planning to stay for a few months. Now, I’m one of the locals. This town is my home. That man on stage is my home. He said he’ll go wherever I go, but the opposite is true too. I’d follow him to the ends of the Earth and enjoy every step of the journey at his side.
He sings all my favorites, both his own and covers. His gravelly voice hits me soul-deep, and I fall a little more in love each time I hear him. I dance my way around behind the ba
r, singing along quietly with him as I fill orders.
“This is a new one I wrote recently. One of those Nashville people told me that a broken heart can be the best inspiration. I hate to admit this—you have no idea how much I hate to, though some of you might’ve seen the fallout of that—but he might’ve been right. Though it’s a theory I’m not willing to test again.” I can see the pain he went through written in the lines of his frown. “Anyway, may you never feel this way.”
Gave you everything, I was yours.
Took your heart because you were mine.
Standing in the tatters that you left behind,
I still love you.
Each word is laced with tortured heartbreak, slicing through me and bringing tears to my eyes. “Oh, Bobby,” I say softly, clutching my bar towel to my chest.
He finishes the song on a long, mournful note that holds the entire audience in rapture. And then there’s a quiet heartbeat before the crowd claps and cheers.
Bobby flashes that cocky grin. “Don’t y’all go thinking I’ve gone soft. The next one I’m working on is called Willow, Get Your Ass Over Here and Love Me.” He laughs, and the audience laughs along with him. Mama Louise doesn’t even try to correct his language this time. And I shake my head, knowing that here, there, or anywhere . . . I love him.
I have no problem holding my head high this time as I cross the room. Nope, I walk right up to that stage, catch his eye, and crook a finger at him. He winks at the audience, but when he turns to me, he’s my Bobby, sweet and emotional, bossy and possessive, sexy and dirty-mouthed. When he bends down, I wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him like he’s my air, right there in front of the whole audience.
“Woohoo, getcha sum!” a shout goes up from the crowd.
“I love you,” he whispers against my mouth, just for me to hear.
“Love you too.”
I might do a little happy dance back across the floor to the bar, and I definitely sing along louder as Bobby goes into his next song.
I’m in the kitchen, waiting for the coffee maker to do its job on Sunday afternoon, when a sight out the window catches my eye. A cloud of dust is visible coming down the driveway, billowing out behind a silver sedan.
“Hey, Bobby, you expecting someone?” I holler up the stairs. “There’s a car outside.”
I hear a scrambling thud and then several more as he crosses the room above me. He bounds down the stairs and peeks out the window in the front living room. “Who the fuck is that?” he mutters.
The car pulls to a stop and a guy gets out. He’s young, early thirties, maybe, with brown hair peeking out under his straw cowboy hat. He’s got on Wrangler jeans and boots that look like they’ve seen a few miles.
“Stay here,” Bobby tells me, opening the door to go outside and greet the stranger.
“You here about a horse, looking for Luke?” Bobby questions. It’s not a typical greeting, but it’s a fair assumption. “He’s next door at the Bennetts’. Back out the gate and go left to the next one.”
He’s clearly telling the guy to get the hell out of here.
Never one to leave Bobby alone, I sneak my way out the door and to his side just in time to hear the visitor say, “Actually, I’m here to see you, Bobby.”
Instantly on alert, Bobby pushes me behind him protectively and crosses his arms over his chest. Tension shoots through him as though he’s ready to throw down at any perceived provocation. Maybe I shouldn’t have come out here because he’s only this quick-tempered when he thinks I’m in danger.
“Leave.”
The guy doesn’t move toward the car but holds a hand out to shake. “I’m Stephen Wheatley from Outlaw Records. I saw you in Nashville at the Bar and liked what I heard. It sucks when someone as good as you are is already signed with another agency. But word travels fast, and I hear you’re not represented by NCR?”
He’s talking fast, getting his spiel out as quickly as possible, likely having heard of Bobby and Jeremy’s last ‘conversation’ if he’s heard as much as he says he has.
“Get off my property.” Bobby’s not leaving any room for misunderstanding.
Just as I thought, Mr. Wheatley adds, “Also heard you put Jeremy Marshall in his place, made him piss his pants.” He seems amused by that, which takes him up a notch in my estimation, but not Bobby’s, apparently.
“Three, two, one . . . Brutal!” Bobby yells and then gives a loud whistle. “Fair warning, that ain’t my dog, it’s my brother. You should go before he gets here.”
Mr. Wheatley chuckles, an easy smile on his lips. “You’re going to sic your brother on me?”
“No, he’s coming to help me load your body in the truck after I kill you for trespassing,” Bobby deadpans.
“I’m here to offer you a deal. Not one like Marshall’s. A real deal . . . for the real you.” Mr. Wheatley has a fire lit under his ass now, stepping a little closer to his car and talking quickly.
I swear a growl is rumbling in Bobby’s chest.
“Wait,” I say to both men. To Bobby, I appeal, “Hear him out. It couldn’t hurt.”
“Yeah, hear me out,” Mr. Wheatley agrees with me.
“I could make it hurt,” Bobby threatens.
I don’t want a record deal for Bobby if it means all that stuff Jeremy was trying to pull. The manipulations he was almost successful with nearly ruined everything. But that doesn’t mean that Bobby should give up on his dream entirely. We’re home, and we’re happy, but it truly doesn’t cost anything but a few minutes to hear this guy out. Best case scenario, it’s worth considering. Worst case, we’re five minutes later with getting our coffee.
Holding his hands up in a placating gesture, Mr. Wheatley pleads his case. “I like who you are, where you come from, and what you represent. A real cowboy, a working man, a family man. I don’t want to change you into some poster boy for bad boy country. I want you to write what you want, sing what you want, be authentically you. That’s what I liked at the Bar and at Hank’s last night.”
“Look, I’ll leave this here. I’m staying at the resort until Tuesday. Come see me if you’d like to talk. If I don’t hear from you, you’ll never see me again. Good luck to you, Bobby. You’ve got a real gift.”
Mr. Wheatley bends down, setting some paperwork in the dirt driveway. He picks up a nearby rock, adding it to the top of the stack so it doesn’t blow away. He doesn’t seem to care that his pristine white papers are smeared with dust and grime now. Somehow, that already seems like a better sign than Jeremy Marshall’s slick approach.
True to his word, he gets in his car and pulls away without so much as a wave.
Bobby turns for the front door, not even picking the papers up, but as he disappears into the house, I grab them. He should at least check them out. Just because his dream blew up last time, doesn’t mean it has to be that way this time. What if there’s still a chance for him to have his dream and for us to still be together?
Chapter 27
Willow
“You sure about this?” Bobby asks me. His hand is in mine, his eyes locked on me as if we’re the only two people at the table. Actually, with the intense way he’s scanning me, it’s more like we’re the only two people in the room.
I nod, biting my lip to keep the smile from beaming too broadly. He’s going to get his dream, after all. And I don’t have to lose him for him to get it.
“We can stay right here, work the farm and Hank’s, play music and take pictures, and live a good life. I can give you a good life, Willow. Full of love and happy days, with the occasional fist fight with my brothers or a Bennett.” His lips quirk. “Just keeping it real.”
I cup his cheek, the stubble scratching my palm as he tilts into my touch. “We could do that. And it would be a wonderful life. But you have this gift and a fire in your belly. I know you need to see if this could go somewhere. I’m good with that. Let’s do it together, you and me. There will be time enough to come home and work the farm and Hank’s. And I
can take pictures anywhere.”
We’ve talked this through several times already. I had picked that contract up out of the dirt, set it right on the kitchen table, and started reading while Bobby had made our cups of coffee. The deal was good, better than good. It’s an amazing offer.
Bobby had still said no, justifying it by claiming that Brutal needs him and Unc needs me. I didn’t tell Unc’s secret. It’d seemed needless considering he’s on the road back to health, but I had shared that Unc might not need me quite as desperately in the coming days other than prime fishing days with Doc. I’d smiled in relief that I meant actually fishing and not fishing.
“Fuck, you’re amazing,” Bobby growls as if it’s still just the two of us. He kisses my palm, searches my eyes once more, and then holds my hand tightly as he tells Mr. Wheatley, “Okay, run it down again. Every detail.”
Dinner that night is different. There’s no special meal with Bobby’s favorites, there’s no sign in the doorway, and we don’t turn off the lights and shout ‘congratulations’. It’s low-key, more like Bobby and his family. Down to Earth, hard-working cowboys and their women.
Like me.
Somehow, I do fit right in with this motley group of people. I’ve spent so much time alone, introverted and keeping to the perimeter, an observer to any action. I get lost in the shadows, both literally and figuratively, sticking to my photography as a way to keep the camera between me and others. But here? Around this dinner table with these people, I’m simply one of them.
We can talk about cattle and crops, the resort, legal cases, school, rodeo, animals, town gossip, cars, drag racing, and so much more. And everyone listens and cares, regardless of interests.
But tonight, the floor is all Bobby’s.
“I did it. Signed right on that dotted line. Well, it was a solid line, but I signed it!” His smile is almost blinding, his dark eyes alight with joy, and his tone still one of disbelief. “I got a record deal.”
Rough Country (Tannen Boys Book 3) Page 35
