Country Music Cowboy Page 6

  Gina looked her over with same intensity she used while sweeping a room. “Nice.”

  Nice? Loretta sank into the director’s chair, ready to cover her face with her hands—

  “Don’t! No touching,” the makeup assistant called out. “You don’t want to smudge anything.”

  “Right.” Loretta sat back. Not only had she changed dresses, they’d added some sparkle stuff to her cheeks and given her way dramatic smoky eyes. And tape—so much tape. She suspected removing the double-sided tape from her nipples would require substantial time in a steamy shower, but that was a small price to pay for her peace of mind. There was no way—no way—she’d have a wardrobe malfunction tonight.

  The makeup assistant pointed at the television screen. “Country Song of the Year is up.” Jace Black and relative newcomer, Becca Sinclair, were walking across the stage to the microphone. “LoveJoy is up for ‘Rain Down,’ right?” The makeup assistant started packing up her brushes. “It better win. I think it’s y’all’s best song ever.”

  I love “Rain Down” too. But it wasn’t considered a serious contender for the award. “I’m pretty sure Three Kings has it. ‘Blue’ was a huge hit.” It helped that Emmy Lou had written the song for her then soon-to-be fiancé. “It’s a good song.”

  “It is.” The makeup assistant nodded. “But ‘Rain Down’ is better.” She pointed at the screen again. “Isn’t your performance next? Shouldn’t you get out there? And you don’t just look nice. You look beautiful. Own it.”

  Loretta peeled her fingers from the arms of her chair, forced herself up, and marched to the door. I can do this. Gina held it open. “Thanks,” Loretta mumbled, then hurried from the door. It wasn’t about the dress or the makeup or the audience—it was about honoring Johnny in front of their peers.

  Own it. If owning it meant avoiding eye contact and heading straight to the wings of the stage without interruption, then she was totally owning it. Her and Travis’s performance was immediately after this award so, win or not, she was ready.

  Onstage, Becca Sinclair looked exactly how Loretta felt—ready to bolt. But Jace and his easygoing smile gave the younger singer the encouragement she needed to finish their scripted banter prior to announcing the winner. They went back and forth, reading the nominees and pausing long enough for a sample of each song to be played. When Becca tore open the envelope, Loretta glanced into the audience. There, in the front row, sat Emmy Lou and Krystal King, their guys on either side of them, holding hands and looking excited.

  “And the winner of Country Song of the Year is…” Becca waited for Jace to tear open the envelope. “‘Rain Down’ by LoveJoy.”

  Jace nodded, clapping hard, the envelope held in one hand.

  But Loretta couldn’t move. She couldn’t.

  “Loretta?” It was Travis.

  Where had he come from? Why was he here? Do something. Say something. Move.

  “They’re calling you.” He nodded toward the stage.

  She shook her head. They were calling LoveJoy. LoveJoy was gone. Johnny was gone. She didn’t want to do this alone.

  “If you want…” Travis cleared his throat. “You need a hand?”

  No. Not from him. He should be on the other side of the stage. Not here. She opened her mouth but her throat was so tight, she could barely breathe.

  He stepped forward and held out his hand.

  Was he serious? Was he after something or was she so pathetic that even he couldn’t leave her to flounder by herself? She stared at his hand. Did it matter? No. The sad truth was, as much as she didn’t want his help, she needed it. She stepped forward, gripped his hand in both of hers, and did her damndest to suck air into her lungs. I hope I don’t regret this. “Okay,” she murmured, letting him lead her out and onto the stage.

  It took forever to get to the mic. If it felt like all eyes were on her, it’s because they were. Jace and Becca. The cameras. The audience—all rising to their feet. Her hold tightened on Travis’s hand.

  “Congratulations.” Becca handed over the crystal award, leaning forward to give her a one-armed hug.

  The hug was awkward to begin with, but Loretta’s hold on Travis didn’t help. Not that she could let go. Let go. Let go. But her fingers did the exact opposite, gripping the sleeve of his designer tuxedo sleeve talon-style.

  Travis’s hand rested atop hers, warm and strong and—dammit—comforting.

  As the clapping died down, Loretta scrambled for words—any words. “I’m in shock,” she said, her voice wavering. “People always say that, I know, but I…I mean it. I knew ‘Blue’ would win. I just knew it.” She glanced at Travis then. Travis—whose arm she had in a vice grip. “Sorry, I guess.” Laughter rippled across the audience.

  Travis winked.

  Looking at Travis was a bad idea.

  She stared down at the award. “This was… ‘Rain Down’ was the last song Johnny wrote. We never had the chance to perform it live…” She had to stop then, had to steady herself. “He said he wanted to write something that people could sing and be happy.” Her voice was shaking now, dammit. “He liked making people happy. And I think this means he accomplished that. I hope so, anyway.” She cradled the award against her. “I want to thank you. The fans. Our incredible manager, Margot Reed. And Wheelhouse Records. And Travis King for dragging me onstage.” More laughs. “So, thank you.”

  As the audience applauded, she forced herself to let go of Travis. “I guess I’ll let go now since you need to go that way and I’m this way.”

  “As long as you’re sure.” Those blue-green eyes swept over her face, a hint of a teasing smile on his mouth.

  “I’m sure.” She hadn’t meant to snap. And, really, it wasn’t even at him. She was mad at herself. She was the one noticing the smiles and the color of his eyes and the teasing. He was just being him.

  “See you out there in sixty seconds.” He was full on smiling then.

  Travis King needed to wield that smile with more care. He might not know it, but it was dangerous. Even in her rattled state she felt the power of it. Why? Considering how much she disliked the man, it was more than a little infuriating that his smile made her ache. Wait. No. It had nothing to do with Travis and everything to do with what had just happened. The song. The award. The standing ovation. All of it. Travis was just…there. She hurried off the darkening stage, handed the award to one of the waiting attendants, and tried to get her head straight.

  Positive thoughts. Eyes closed, she pressed her hands to her heart and tried to slow the thundering rhythm. This might be her first performance without Johnny, but it wouldn’t be her last. She had to do this. All that mattered was doing her best. For her career. Her future. And for you, Johnny. Her skin prickled, her nerves stretched taut just beneath the surface. I can do this. When it was over, she’d give herself the night—just one—to let it all out. After. She took a deep breath and headed on stage.

  Beneath the beam of the spotlight, she sang the opening verse with all the heart she could muster.

  Travis’s gruff and deep tone sent a ripple down her spine. “Hours pass, and there’s still no end in sight. Promised you, not to give up on the fight.”

  The song kept going, the lyrics taking shape without thought. Which was good, because it was taking effort not to watch the slideshow. She couldn’t. Not now, when she was so raw—so vulnerable…

  It was the way the light hit Travis King that stopped her from spiraling. Better to focus on him than publicly lose it. After all, there was plenty to focus on. The just-right fall of his too-long curly hair. The perfect fit of his tuxedo, stretched taut over his broad shoulders. The hint of yearning in his voice that tore at her fragile control.

  They kept singing, moving slowly, and moving closer—so close she could see the muscles working in his throat as he watched her sing. Focusing on him eased the hurt she’d been struggling wit
h, but it did nothing to calm her nerves. Now that he was standing beside her, there was no space between them and nothing to stop the growing hunger she had for this man. Her breathing was unsteady and, honestly, she was panicking over her total lack of resistance to Travis King. Resisting him was the last thing she wanted to do.

  She hadn’t expected the brush of his fingertips against hers. If she had, she might have managed to hide her reaction. No such luck. He didn’t miss her bone-deep shudder. She didn’t miss the tick of his jaw muscle—or the slight flare of his nostrils.

  What is happening?

  The music rose, building and rising, until they sang the final chorus together.

  So, I’ll hold you closer.

  Keep you warm in my heart.

  Your name is a whisper.

  Until we’re not apart.

  When the music ended, it was the audience’s applause that jolted her back to the present. As in, on a stage, in front of hundreds of people, while being broadcast to millions of televisions worldwide.

  Don’t freak out. No one noticed. It was nothing. It is nothing.

  She was the one who took his hand, smiling into the darkened auditorium, as they took their bow. Travis was the one who pulled her into his arms and pressed a kiss to her cheek. It was just a kiss. On my cheek. The slight stubble of his cheek against hers. The tantalizing scent of mint and leather. The brush of his breath against her temple. The press of his hand against her back. None of those things should register. But they did. And all those unnerving and delightful things were still registering when they left the stage to follow one of the stage assistants to the press room. As performers, they had one final appearance. A recap and final questions moment. Inside the room, a large IMA step-and-repeat would serve as the backdrop. The two of them would pose for a few pictures, answer a couple of questions, and they’d be done. As in, she would never have to deal with Travis King again done.

  If only it could be that easy. Since pictures were being taken, bright lighting in the press room was a priority. And, after they’d each had a handful of pictures taken, the first reporter got right to the point.

  “Miss Gram, let’s talk style. Who dressed you this evening? First the blue dress was striking.” The woman gestured at Loretta, her eyes round and her eyebrows high. “Now, this one. You normally shy away from sparkles.”

  Loretta wasn’t sure whether she should be offended or flattered that this was the first question for her. “Both dresses are originals by Juliette Rousseau that she selected for me.”

  “You look incredible,” Travis sounded off.

  Loretta glanced his way. Hilarious.

  But he wasn’t teasing—and he wasn’t staring at her with his patented Travis King charm. He was looking at her. And, now, he was smiling at her. That dangerous, lung-emptying, it’s-pointless-to-resist smile she could not afford to get caught up in.

  She stared blindly at the reporters, desperate to get this over and done with.

  “Tonight’s performance was emotional for you both, I’m sure.” Another reporter jumped in. “How do you think Johnny would have felt about the win tonight?”

  That lump was back, lodged in her throat and damn painful to swallow down. “He’d be pleased, of course. He said there was no greater compliment than having someone enjoy his music.”

  “You two have chemistry on the stage. That was an unforgettable tribute. What are the chances of you two working again?” asked another reporter.

  “Oh, no. I don’t see that happening,” she answered quickly. Maybe a little too quickly.

  “I’d be honored to work with Loretta again.” Travis glanced down at her. “If the situation ever arose.”

  Which was a far more professional answer. Her gaze darted his way. Beneath the fluorescent lights, his eyes were shockingly aquamarine. Which has zero relevance to what’s happening right now.

  “How about we get a couple of pictures of you two together?” A photographer waved them closer.

  With each new pose, her awareness of Travis King grew to an alarming level. Little details. The mole on the side of his neck. The scent of spearmint on his breath. One especially long curl that hung onto his forehead. Like a blond Superman. He had a slight bump in his nose. His hand was warm against her back. The gravel timbre of his voice. The more he smiled, the more she wanted to grab him and… Push him far, far away.

  She didn’t exactly push him, but she made sure to put space between them just as soon as the pictures wrapped up. With a smile and a wave, she was out of the press room. She wasn’t exactly sure where she was going—only that she needed to get Travis out of her head.

  She glanced at the sign on the wall, turned, and headed for the dressing rooms. If Bree was there, she’d change and attempt a quick exit.

  “Loretta,” Travis called out.

  No. At this point, there was nothing left to say. Don’t look back.

  “Hold up.” He was getting closer—his voice was getting closer.

  Pretend you don’t hear him. Keep moving. But she glanced back. What are you doing?

  “Please.” The corner of his mouth kicked up. Now, he was going to be charming? Why? There is nothing left to say. “It won’t take long.”

  Fine. In spite of her worst fears, he hadn’t let her down. If anything, he’d kept her on her own two feet. Even if his motivation was questionable, he had helped her do what needed to be done. A few more minutes wouldn’t hurt anything. She slowed, then came to a stop, waiting for him to reach her before she asked, “What?”

  He chuckled. “I wanted to make sure you were…okay?”

  It wasn’t an unreasonable question. Less than ten minutes ago, she’d nearly torn off the sleeve of his tuxedo. “I’m okay.” Easy enough. “So, we’re good?”

  He shook his head. “No.”

  She waited, arms crossed, staring him down. Now he’d reveal his true colors, she could go back to hating him, and there be no loose ends.

  But the minute she crossed her arms, his gaze shifted. To her dress. More specifically, her chest. With her arms crossed and the roll of tape securing her chest, she’d just presented him with an alarming amount of cleavage.

  If he clenched his jaw any tighter, he might break a tooth.

  She wanted to be angry—offended even. Instead, she felt empowered.

  He cleared his throat. “I wanted to clear something up.” He sounded angry.

  She uncrossed her arms. This should be interesting. “Go ahead.” She was curious in spite of herself.

  His gaze locked with hers. Travis King was angry. “I don’t know where you’re getting your information, but I’ve been sober for eleven months and twenty-eight days.” He broke off, stepping closer. “It’s hard work. Work I take seriously. In this industry? You have no idea. I guess that’s why I’m wondering what gives you the right to say otherwise?”

  His declaration of sobriety had been a surprise. So had the very specific lie about the length of his sobriety. What is he hoping to gain? “I saw you.” She lowered her voice, wondering why he’d choose to have this conversation here. “In the recording studio. Not just drinking but taking pills too.”

  “That’s what you saw?” He ran his fingers through his hair and those blue-green eyes narrowed. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” His smile was tight.

  “No? I saw you.” She was beyond infuriated at this point. “You’re denying it?” She’d expected him to lie about it—all of it. Why, then, was she so upset? Travis King was everything she’d expected. Charming, entitled, talented, deceitful, and more handsome than any man should be. It didn’t make sense for her to be so…so disappointed.

  ***

  Travis was at a loss. Pissed off, turned on, and generally frustrated. One minute she was holding onto him like her life depended on it, the next she was spitting fire and braced to fight—like
now.

  “You want me to deny what you think you saw? To explain myself to you?” He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Someone who doesn’t like me, doesn’t know me, but is all too willing to accept the worst?” He shook his head. “Why the hell would I do that?” Why the hell am I standing here, arguing with her? His gaze swept over her face. Those topaz eyes were blazing—at him. But that’s not what derailed him. It was her mouth. Full, red lips. Lips parted just enough to make him forget whatever else he’d planned to say.

  Not that she’d offered up anything else. Instead, she kept staring at him—flushed and breathing hard and so damn beautiful he ached to touch her. To pull her close and taste that mouth…

  Two sound techs hurried past them pushing a cart full of rattling cords and equipment.

  What the fuck? This wasn’t why he’d come after her. Where the fuck did this even come from? It had been a hell of a long time since he’d thought about sex, but here he was—in the middle of a goddamn public hallway—very definitely thinking about it. Not just sex. He was craving her. Loretta. The very woman hell-bent and determined to make him into a lying asshole.

  He tore his gaze from hers, needing to think—needing to breathe. “You’d made up your mind about me long before you walked into the studio that day. You don’t know me well enough to dislike me as much as you do. I get that your pissed off, but I didn’t do a thing to you so save all the hostility for someone else.” He sucked in a deep breath. “I’m not interested.” Which is a damn lie. He was interested in Loretta Gram. Which made him a damn fool. He turned on his heel, heading to the dressing room.

  His father was up for Best Country Album of the Year and his mother was bound and determined to keep the King family drama front and center in the tabloids, so Travis needed to get his shit together. Since his father was presenting an award, Travis hoped to catch up with him. He wasn’t looking forward to being the bearer of bad news, but he couldn’t send his father out there blind. His father needed him. So, no more thinking about Loretta, those soulful eyes, that damn dress, or her full red lips—