they weren’t dating anymore. And, old friends or not, the guy was still a tool.
“What’s the deal at the Stagecoach Inn on Saturday night?” Ian asked.
“They’re having a local talent night. Our gig would just be a few songs—thirty minutes at the most. Will you please sing with me?”
“Now it’s playing and singing?”
She held out the brownies, offering him the entire plate, and smiled.
But it wasn’t the brownies that caused his resolve to waver, it was the beautiful blonde whose bright blue eyes and dimples turned him every which way but loose. He’d had all kinds of women throw themselves at him, and he’d never lost his head, never forgotten that there were some who weren’t interested in the real man inside. But there was something about Carly Rayburn that reached deep into the heart of him, something sweet, something vulnerable.
“Damn it, Carly. I’ll do it. But just this once.”
“Thanks, Ian. You won’t regret this.”
She was wrong. They were going to have to practice together every evening from now until Saturday. And he was already regretting it.
Carly couldn’t believe how talented Ian was on a guitar—and how good they sounded together. Of course, that hadn’t made practicing with him any easier. In fact, over the past few nights, each session seemed to have gotten progressively harder to endure than the last, with this being the most difficult yet.
The air almost crackled with the soaring pheromones, the heady scent of Ian’s woodsy cologne and the soft Southern twang of his voice as they performed on the front porch of his cabin. Still, she sang her heart out.
As the music flowed between them, the words of the love songs they’d chosen taunted the raw emotion she’d once felt whenever she’d been in his arms. And it seemed to be truer now than ever, since this was their last chance to practice before singing at the local honky-tonk.
“Let’s try ‘Breathe’ one last time,” Ian said. “Then we can call it a night.”
“All right,” she said, but she feared that if she sang the sexy lyrics of that particular song once more time, she’d refuse to call it a night until she’d kissed the breath right out of her old lover. And then look at the fix she’d be in.
She stole a glance at the handsome cowboy and caught a sparkle in his eyes. The crooked grin tugging at his lips suggested that he knew exactly what he’d done. And that he’d planned all along to suggest the Faith Hill hit as their wrap-up tonight.
Darn him. He probably thought that after singing about the heated desire they shared she’d be more likely to suggest one last night of lovemaking—for old times’ sake. But she couldn’t do that, even though the idea was sorely tempting.
She had half a notion to scratch that particular song from their list. And she would have done it, too, if they hadn’t sounded so good together.
When the song ended, she reached for the glass of water she’d left on the porch railing and took a sip.
“We should be ready for tomorrow night,” Ian said, as he placed his guitar back into its case.
Had she been wrong about his intentions?
It appeared so, and while she should be relieved, she tamped down the momentary disappointment.
“Thanks for agreeing to sing with me,” she said again.
He didn’t respond, which suggested that he still wasn’t happy about being forced— No, not forced. She’d only encouraged him. But he’d given his word, which meant he’d follow through on the commitment.
Carly glanced near the front door, at the spot on the wooden flooring where Cheyenne lay curled up asleep. She would have stooped to give the puppy an affectionate pat before leaving, but she hated to wake her.
Instead, she tucked her fingers into the front pocket of her jeans. “I think we’re going to knock ’em dead at the Stagecoach Inn.”
“You might be right,” Ian said, “but keep in mind that it’s only a one-shot deal.”
That’s what they’d agreed to, but she hoped it was actually their first of many performances. She kept that to herself. At this point, there was no need to provoke him any more than she had.
Once he performed with her, she knew the audience would convince him that they were a perfect duo. And then maybe Ian would finally come to the same indisputable conclusion she had—that their amazing chemistry went beyond the bedroom and was destined to light up the stage.
* * *
Ian had been in more than his share of honky-tonks during the early days of his career, and the Stagecoach Inn was no different than the others.
Once he crossed the graveled parking lot, climbed the wooden steps and opened the door, the smell of booze and smoke, as well as the sounds of a blaring jukebox and hoots of laughter, slammed into him, taking him back in time to a place he no longer wanted to be.
He stood in the doorway for a moment, watching the people mill about and chatter among themselves.
When he’d been known as Mac McAllister, one of Felicia’s Wiley Five, he’d worn his hair long. A bristled face had given him a rugged look he’d favored back then.
Hopefully, no one would recognize him now that he’d shaved and cut his hair in a shorter style. He was also dressed differently, opting for a white button-down shirt and faded jeans, rather than the mostly black attire he’d worn on stage before.
It wasn’t until a couple came up behind him that he finally stepped inside the honky-tonk. With his guitar in hand, he made his way across the scarred wood floor to the bar, which stretched across the far wall. In the old days, when he’d played with the Wiley Five, he’d relied on a couple of shots of tequila to get him through the performance. But that wasn’t his problem as he headed toward the bar tonight—his throat was just dry.
He was also annoyed at Carly for forcing his hand—or maybe he was just plain angry at himself for rolling over and agreeing to perform with her. He didn’t normally do anything he didn’t feel like doing.
So why had he agreed to do it for her?
Why here? Why now?
And why had she asked him to meet her here instead of riding over together? Something didn’t quite seem right. She might say she hadn’t played her daddy, but that wasn’t true. And while she might think she could wrap Ian around her little pinky, too, that definitely wasn’t the case. After tonight, it wouldn’t happen again.
The thirtysomething bartender, a busty brunette in a low-cut tank top, leaned forward across the polished oak bar and offered him an eyeful. “Can I get you a drink, cowboy? It’s happy hour. Draft beers are two for one.”
“No, thanks. I’m not looking for
