Song for a Cowboy Read online

  “We feel strongly that these playful pictures will gain a larger audience—and provide a more personal connection. Especially since they did go to homecoming together.” Shalene paused, turning her focus to him and Emmy Lou. “Of course, if you two would rather not, we can skip them.”

  Skipping them would be his first choice. But after Shalene’s explanation, he kept his jaw clenched and his lips pressed shut.

  “That’s why we’re here.” Emmy Lou didn’t look at him. “Right?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Bring on the cheesy homecoming pose.” And just like that, the tension in the room dissipated and they assumed their pose.

  For the next five minutes, Brock ran plays in his head. Better to imagine tackling some self-righteous quarterback than acknowledging Emmy Lou in his arms, pressed against him. If he was reviewing runs and blocks, maybe he’d be less aware of her head—just below his chin—and the scent of her hair. Citrus? Grapefruit? Something like that. Light and fresh and all too familiar. Distracting as hell.

  The camera kept clicking away.

  He changed tactics, trying to remember the calendar updates he’d received from Connie this morning. A late-night television spot. An endorsement deal meeting with Alpha Menswear. Something about a date change for the DFLM kickoff event. Not that he could remember either date—the original or the new one. Especially now that the photographer’s assistant had stepped up and rearranged their hands. Now Emmy’s hands were covering his, which were holding the football.

  More clicks and flashes and the slight pressure of her hands against his.

  He smothered a sigh, his fingers digging into the roughened surface of the ball. The slight movement caused her fingers to slide between his, threading them together, and snapping some sort of mental tripwire. Flashes of memory assaulted him, rapid-fire and bittersweet. He and Emmy, the feel of her in his arms, the press of her hands on his bare back, the cling of her lips on his, the soft hitch in her breath when things got carried away between the two of them… She tossed her head, one of her long curls sliding slowly across his forearm and reminding him of all the things wrong with this whole damn photo shoot. His jaw was so tight it ached.

  “I think that’s good,” the photographer said, staring at the screen next to him.

  Brock dropped the ball and stepped back, needing space to breathe. Enough was enough. He really needed them to be done. Hands on hips, he stared at the photographer, doing his best to rein in his tension.

  “One more shot, and I think we should have everything.” The photographer nodded. “If you didn’t like that one, you definitely won’t like this one.”

  His attempt to control his expression must not have been very successful. Travis and Demetrius were laughing. The big guy in the black “King’s Guard” shirt seemed ready to stiff-arm him out of the way. And the girl with the giant glasses and tablet was all owl-eyed and frozen. Not to mention the rest of the room. And then Travis was taking pictures on his phone, whispering something to Demetrius.

  He didn’t bother looking at Emmy. Chances are she’d seen how unhappy this whole setup was making him, too. No reason to apologize for it. He was a football player—not a celebrity. Since his “comeback,” he’d gone out of his way to keep his personal life out of the media. Now, exploiting a memory he still treasured this way left a bitter taste in his mouth. Did he understand having Emmy Lou King involved was good for DFLM? Hell yes. But that didn’t make this okay. And it sure didn’t make the whole smile and proximity easy. Hell no.

  “Maybe that’s good.” Shalene forced a smile. “As is.”

  “The label sent this one.” The photographer straightened, staring at Shalene in disbelief. “And the DFLM director specifically requested it.”

  Brock ran a hand over his face. “Let’s just do it.” He ground out the words.

  “You heard him.” Emmy sounded legitimately fired up and ready to go. If she hadn’t glanced his way, he’d have believed her. But she did and, for a split second, he felt like a bastard. “Let’s do this.”

  He nodded, doing his best not to snap. “Yep,” he managed. Time to step up his game.

  The photographer was smiling from ear to ear, setting off all sorts of internal warning bells. “Sure. Good.” He nodded. “You need to carry her, draped over your shoulder.” He paused. “I’m sure you’re both familiar with the original picture.”

  He knew exactly which photo. Aunt Mo had a whole photo collage dedicated to that game. Senior year. State playoffs. The win had been hard-won, and he’d been on an adrenaline high. When Emmy came barreling across the field to him, he’d lifted her up—a little too high. He hadn’t intended to drape her over his shoulder, but he’d been laughing, and she’d been laughing, and he’d wound up carrying her off the field that way. Once they’d reached the tunnel leading to the locker rooms, he’d put her down and kissed her. Long enough to have left them both panting. Hard enough that she’d known how bad he wanted her. And sweet enough that she’d never doubt she was his whole world. He remembered it, all of it, like yesterday.

  The photographer held up one finger. “We need a minute to adjust lighting.”

  He risked a glance her way.

  She was rolling up onto her toes, tapping her fingers on her thighs—like she was playing an imaginary keyboard—nibbling on the inside of her lower lip. Which meant she was anxious. Her gaze shifted his way and she whispered, “You won’t drop me?”

  Damn her and her green eyes. His voice was low, gruff. “I won’t drop you.”

  She stopped chewing on the inside of her lower lip and stared up at him. “That’s a relief. If you did, I’m not sure I’d survive the fall.” A slight smile grew. “You’re like fifteen feet tall now.”

  Up close, it was hard to miss… She hadn’t changed much. “Almost.” The word was thick.

  “Might need a ladder? I’m not sure I’ll be able to get up there otherwise.” Head cocked to one side, she seemed to be calculating her odds. All cute and perky and…familiar.

  He sighed, running a hand along the back of his neck. “Pretty sure I bench more than double what you weigh.” No, she hadn’t changed. Dammit.

  Her brows rose. “I guess that makes sense. You’re like a human mountain.” She pointed at the guy in the black “King’s Guard” T-shirt. “Sawyer, my security guard, looks teeny-tiny next to you guys.”

  Sawyer continued to stare him down. Big or not, the man looked capable of handling himself in a jam. The question was, why did she need this Sawyer guy? “You always have security with you?” Why do I care?

  She nodded, chewing on the inside of her lip again.

  “We’re ready.” The photographer already had his camera up.

  Emmy was staring up at him again. “So…how do we do this?” She rolled onto her tiptoes again.

  He closed his eyes. “I’m picking you up…”

  “Okay.” She went rigid.

  Was she breathing? He wrapped his hands around her waist and lifted her. She weighed next to nothing, even resting on his shoulder. Since she was draped over his shoulder, he was basically eye level with her butt. Not that he was complaining. It was a nice-looking butt. Always had been. Especially now, showcased in tight jeans—a pink glitter flower embroidered on the back, right pocket. Pink and glitter—something else that hadn’t changed about Emmy Lou. He took a deep breath. “Let’s both pretend that this isn’t weird as shit.”

  “What’s weird?” Emmy’s laughter was nervous. “I mean, this is my preferred way of travel. I get carried around like this all the time.”

  Maybe it was his nerves, but he had to laugh then.

  “Look this way.” The photographer was snapping like crazy. “Good. Nice smiles.”

  He wasn’t smiling—he was laughing. Dammit.

  “I’m pretty sure this is one giant step back for the female empowerment movement,” Travis King said, hi
s opposition voided by the fact that he was taking pics or recording this mess with his phone. “Way back. Like dinosaurs and cavemen.”

  “Cavemen and dinosaurs didn’t live at the same time, Travis,” Emmy said, her hand pressing against his back. “Your muscles have muscles.” Her fingers pressed against his back once—then again. “His muscles have muscles.”

  Demetrius clapped his hands once and burst out laughing. “That’s a new one.”

  “I’m serious,” Emmy continued, poking his back, then his side.

  Which was a mistake. He was ticklish. Very ticklish. “Emmy.” But her poking continued. He shifted, trying to stop her. The more she poked, the more he arched away from the poking. The more he arched, the closer she was to the edge of his shoulder. When she slid off, the poking ended—and he caught her easily.

  “I’m sorry.” Her hand rested against his chest. “I forgot.”

  Because she knew he was ticklish. It was how she used to tease him. He set her on her feet and stepped back, removing her hand and easing the pressure on his lungs.

  “I think we’re good here,” the photographer said.

  About damn time.

  Emmy Lou headed toward the young woman with the glasses and tablet, taking a long sip from the pink water bottle she was offered. More pink. Of course. She might not know he was watching her, but her brother did. So did Demetrius. And Sawyer.

  He ignored them all and stooped to pick up the ball from the ground. Get a grip. It’s over.

  “Thank you all so much,” Shalene was saying, all smiles. “We’ll get the pictures and marketing material to your publicists this week. We’re going to change lives.”

  That was why he was here. This program was important to him. He’d worked hard to be free of the drug-induced haze that had taken over his life. Staying on track, to center himself and remember what was important in life, was a daily struggle. Photo shoots, marathons, auctions, and telethons were all ways to raise money for these programs. The more, the better. He’d barely survived his addiction and he’d had every available resource available to him. Unlike the kids he was trying to help. They were what mattered. Not staged, phony prom pictures, the laughter of his teammates, or the scent of Emmy Lou’s shampoo.

  Chapter 3

  Emmy sang the new lyrics softly. “And all I know is here we go. Ooh-hoo. Back to the start, straight to my heart. Ooh-hoo-hoo—”

  “And then I was thinking of some sort of…zippy kind of chorus?” Krystal said, leaning toward the computer screen. “You know, toe-tappable?”

  “Is that a word?” Emmy asked, scanning over the music. “I can only see half of your face.”

  Krystal turned her computer. “Better? Okay. Now, focus.” She was sitting cross-legged on her rumpled bed.

  “I am.” And what Emmy saw made her happy: her sister, caught up in the throes of creativity and getting back to the things she loved. Krystal deserved nothing but love and happiness. “And I like it.” She paused. “Is it for me?”

  “Uh, yes.” Krystal’s brows rose. “I mean, if you like it. You know it won’t hurt my feelings if you don’t.”

  Emmy shot her sister a seriously? look. “When have I ever not liked one of your songs?”

  Krystal grinned. “There’s always a first time for everything.” She flipped her long hair over her shoulder and leaned back on the stack of pillows. “You’re looking a little skinny, Em.” Krystal stared at her. “Like, too skinny…”

  Emmy shrugged. “I know you’re seeing things.” Maybe she had lost a few pounds, but she couldn’t help it. “Stress.”

  Stress. As much as she loved her family, and she did, her childhood home was filled with constant tension. Since she was the peacekeeper, she did her best to defuse things—but she could only do so much. And Momma…well Momma wasn’t making things easy.

  From the house renovations to the constant back and forth about the new tour costumes, Momma had her hand in everything. Everything. From Emmy’s wardrobe to her schedule, Momma weighed in. Diet was a big part of that. Every bite Emmy took, or didn’t take, was followed up with one of Momma’s concerned reminders about the dangers of stress eating and ways to stay trim. She meant well but…

  Krystal sighed. “You know, you have to take care of yourself. And when I say take care of yourself that means eat.” She frowned. “Promise me you won’t…”

  “I’m eating.” Emmy Lou interrupted. Yes, there’d been a time when she’d starved herself over every unflattering picture or “Is she pregnant or getting fat?” tabloid magazine article. But she knew better now.

  “Emmy Lou.” Krystal’s eyes locked with hers.

  There was no point arguing with her twin. She hadn’t been eating. Intentional or not, it was the truth. “Fine. I’ll eat a pie as soon as we’re done.”

  “Right. Sure. And while you’re feeding me lies to keep me happy—how was the photo shoot?” Krystal drew her legs up to her chest and rested her chin on her knees, staring at her. “Might as well spill—I’ll keep asking.”

  Tell me something I don’t know. Krystal was like a dog with a bone. Not just relentless in the pursuit of what she wanted but also in protecting the bone. Emmy, in this case, was the bone.

  “It was a professional photo shoot.” Aside from the breathing difficulties she’d had when they’d made initial eye contact. Or when they’d touched. Or when she was hanging over his shoulder. Not that anyone noticed. Rather, she hoped no one had noticed. “I think the shoot went well.” One thing was certain, the years hadn’t eased the more visceral connection between them. Not for her, anyway.

  “I wasn’t worried about the photos. You have never taken a bad picture, Em. There are about a million on the internet to prove my point, too.” She paused. “Was it super…awkward with him there?” Her nose squinched up. “Without kicking him in the balls or something, I mean? Because he so deserves a good knee to the—”

  “No.” Emmy was laughing again. “Not really. I concentrated. You know, on the reason I was there? Raising awareness for youth and teen drug addiction. All that?”

  Krystal blinked, her eyes narrowing and her lips pressing flat.

  Emmy was just as adept at reading her sister as Krystal was… maybe it was the whole twin thing. But the shift in expressions was telling—in a not so good way. “What’s happened?”

  “Momma called.” Krystal’s tone was flat.

  It was Emmy Lou’s turn to blink. Their mother had reached out to Krystal? “Oh.” Why? Momma had promised to leave Krystal alone. She’d promised to give her daughter space—space they both needed to heal. Then again, this was their mother. She wasn’t always the most honest or forthcoming when it served her purposes—a fact Emmy was only beginning to fully grasp. “I thought… I hoped…”

  Krystal shook her head. “I don’t understand why she doesn’t get that I…I can’t deal with her. Not yet.”

  The rift between their mother and Krystal had always been a mystery to Emmy Lou. Had been. Past tense. Now? Emmy understood all too well. Learning the damage their mother’s hidden drug addiction had inflicted—deliberate or not—had shaken the very foundation of their family. Recovering would take time. “Then don’t. Not yet.” The sheen in her sister’s emerald eyes deflated Emmy’s lungs.

  “Maybe not ever.” Krystal cleared her throat, sitting up, her spine stiff, and the defiant lift of her chin her standard defensive posture. “Maybe that makes me a coldhearted bitch, but…well, then I’m a coldhearted bitch.”

  “Whoa, whoa.” Jace Black’s voice came out of nowhere. Seconds later, he was crawling onto the bed and reaching for Krystal, grabbing her leg with a wide smile on his face. Krystal’s laughter rang out, her attempts to get away halfhearted at best. Krystal wound up flat on the mattress, beneath Jace, breathless with laughter. “Negatory. Nothing cold about you.” He was staring down at Krystal with the sort of heat th
at made Emmy Lou clear her throat loudly.

  “Hey, Emmy. Didn’t see you there.” He chuckled and sat back, running his fingers through his floppy hair. “Guess we’re talking about the photo shoot?” Jace frowned. “Travis said he was a dick.”

  “Tool,” Krystal whispered, taking his hand.

  There was a knock on Emmy’s bedroom door. “Emmy?” Juliette Rousseau peered inside. “Am I early for our fitting?”

  “No.” She waved in her brilliant costume designer. “I’m just wrapping up with Krystal. Juliette is here.” She turned the camera so Krystal could see the woman.

  “Hi, Juliette.” Krystal waved.

  Juliette waved back. “I’ll be back with the clothing. Set up in here?” Once Emmy nodded, she left.

  Krystal twined her arms around Jace’s neck. “I’ve been thinking. Now that you’re hanging out with a bunch of manly men, maybe you’ll find one worth taking a chance on?”

  No way. “Maybe.” Travis’s nun-of-country-music comment resurfaced. She didn’t want to be alone. But she couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt a flicker of interest. Not true. Didn’t want to remember was more like it. If she continued to hold on to Brock Watson and the idyllic time they’d had together, no other man stood a chance.

  A lingering glance between Krystal and Jace left a hollow ache in the pit of her stomach. The love her sister and Jace had found in each other was impossible for her. They’d taken a leap of faith and it had paid off. Emmy would never take that leap again. Not that she was going to say as much to Krystal. Instead, she held up the sheet music. “While I’m considering all these new manly options, you can send me the rest—with the chorus.”

  Jace scooched up on the bed, sliding his legs around Krystal to peer over her shoulder at the sheet music. He hummed a few notes. “Chorus?”

  Krystal nodded.

  He hummed it through again. “No fighting this. No stopping fate. Third time’s a charm. My heart can’t wait?” Jace sang, his tone deep and husky.