by Sandy James
With a shake of his head, he gently pushed her aside so he could get to his computer.
She’d lost him before she’d even asked for his help. To rescue the situation, she was going to have to lay all her cards on the table at the start of the game. This man wasn’t going to be charmed or cajoled, but maybe he could be convinced if she told him the real reason she was there.
The truth was that she needed him, she needed that rich baritone singing his parents’ biggest hit with her.
“I came to ask for your help,” Chelsea announced.
“Finally!” Ethan set a longneck he’d just opened on a tray. “She can answer a question.”
The snickering around them made her sigh. Was nothing in her life private?
“All right,” she said, a bit peeved at him and at the eavesdroppers. “I deserved that.”
“Yep.”
His superior tone grated on her. For a man everyone described as kind and helpful, he seemed to know exactly how to irritate her. “My father passed away last year.” The memory still felt like a knife to the heart.
“I’m sorry for your loss.” Those brilliant eyes found hers, and they were full of compassion. There was sincerity in his tone.
“Thank you.”
“What does losing your father have to do with me?” he asked.
“He died of cancer,” she replied. “I want to do something big to honor his memory.”
Ethan encouraged her to continue with a flip of his hand.
After a bracing deep breath, Chelsea said, “I’m putting together an album to raise money for cancer research. I’m singing duets with the kids of former Nashville stars, and I’d like for you to cover one of your parents’ songs with—”
“No. Way.” Turning on his heel, he stalked away.
Chapter Two
Chelsea blinked a few times before acknowledging that Ethan wasn’t coming back. She’d been prepared for Ethan’s initial resistance, but she sure hadn’t expected him to act like a horse’s ass. Had she hit some kind of nerve?
Most kids of stars had no problem riding their parents’ coattails. She’d heard Ethan was different, yet she didn’t think he’d be so opposed to singing with her.
There’s more than one way to catch a fish.
But was this particular fish worth the effort?
She had a sinking feeling he was going to require a hell of a lot of work.
The sad fact was that if she wanted the album to be a huge success, she needed him. With the exception of the rather cheesy pop tunes he’d released when he was a teenager, Ethan Walker had never recorded a serious song. Sure, there were some pirated copies of a duet he’d performed with Savannah Wolf on his own stage, but to get that man into a recording studio would be a coup that could help her earn a crap ton of money for cancer research.
Three more drink orders popped up on the screen. Her first inclination was to go back to her friends and get out of the place. It would serve him right to leave his customers waiting for their beverages. Maybe it would teach him a lesson about his rudeness. The problem was that if she stomped away angry, she’d lose any chance of Ethan ever changing his mind and singing with her and she’d look like a fool in front of the fans who were now crowed around the bar watching her intently. If she stayed and kept churning out drink orders, he might see it was a goodwill gesture and reciprocate by helping her out.
“As if…” The man hadn’t been even remotely coy in his refusal. Her mixing a few mai tais probably wouldn’t overcome his rather adamant refusal.
“As if what?” a man asked as he came up beside her.
She glanced up to find a real cutie, although he wasn’t her type with his blond hair buzzed into a military cut. His body was a bit too muscular, but his smile was sincere. He’d been talking to Ethan earlier and wore a red polo shirt with the Words & Music logo embroidered over his left pec, so she assumed he worked there.
With a glance back to the point-of-sale screen, Chelsea sighed. “As if the bartender is coming back. I think I pissed him off too much and orders are piling up.” She scrolled through the six new drink requests and sighed as flashbacks to her old job filled her mind. The scents of the booze and fried food filled her nostrils, giving her a touch of déjà vu. Rolling up her sleeves, she went to work.
The guy came around the bar and frowned at the screen. “Shit.” His blue eyes were full of worry when they locked with hers. “Think you can do these?” He glanced at the crowd. “With an audience?”
“I do everything with an audience.” She flipped the caps off two longnecks and set them on the bar. “I can do this, but I’ll need a little help to catch up. Know much about bartending?”
“I’m a bouncer, not a booze slinger.” After staring at the orders for a moment, he went to the small sink and washed his hands. “I’ll do what I can, but…the fancy stuff’s beyond me.”
Chelsea breathed a resigned sigh. Although he hadn’t asked in words, he’d practically begged with his puppy-dog eyes. At least this man would appreciate her help. “Fine. You take the beers and wines. I’ll do the rest.”
“Sounds good, Ms. Harris.”
As she grabbed the ingredients she needed for the first order, she addressed the obvious. “Call me Chelsea. Please. But you’ve got me at a disadvantage. You obviously know my name, but I don’t know yours.”
He let out a little snort. “Of course I know your name. My name’s Russ Green.” He set two drafts on a tray. “I’m one of the owners of this bar.”
“This place is amazing.” The blender drowned out any other conversation as she got down to business.
There was work to be done, and maybe, just maybe if she kept thing running and charmed his partner enough, she’d get a payoff in the form of Ethan Walker agreeing to sing with her.
* * *
All Ethan wanted was a few moments to let his temper cool, so he stalked to the office, went inside, and slammed the door behind him.
“You break the frame, it comes out of your salary.”
Scowling at his other partner, Brad Maxwell, Ethan flopped on the couch since the desk chair was otherwise occupied. “I don’t get a salary, jackass.”
“Okay, your profits then, numb nuts.”
The comment didn’t deserve a reply. Money wasn’t a problem for Ethan. His parents’ legacy was more than he could ever spend, even if he was extravagant, which he wasn’t. Hell, they sold more records since their deaths than before, especially since the car accident that claimed their lives had seemed so damn tragic. Two of Nashville’s biggest stars dying at the same time? Reporters drooled for stories like that.
Ethan scowled at the memory. Had his father not been trying to get away from some bastard photographer, the accident wouldn’t have happened. For once, Crawfish wanted a bit of privacy instead of feeding the monster press, and it cost him and his wife their lives.
Fucking reporters. Still running stories after fifteen years—stories about the mess they made.
Had it really been that long? He’d bought the horse farm for himself when he was twenty, only a few months after he’d lost his parents. He was never able to show his father that he could make it on his own.
That thought soured his mood even more.
“What’s got a bee up your ass?” Brad asked. “You look ready to bite someone’s head off. What happened?” He shot a worried glance at the door. “And who’s minding the bar?”
Ethan shrugged. “Beats me.”
Brad raked his fingers through his hair. “Now, I know I’m only one of the owners of this place, but it seems to me you might’ve gone to the effort to get someone to fill in if you needed a break.”
“Cut the sarcasm.”
“I can’t, and you know it. Seriously, Ethan…who’s tending bar?”
“Maybe that woman will keep it running.” That thought made Ethan smirk. No way would a superstar like Chelsea Harris bail him out—especially after he’d turned down her request.
Brad pitched
his pen on the desk. “That woman? I should’ve known. Did you already sleep with whoever it was, or do you just want to?”
“Stop being so judgmental, you sanctimonious—”
“Oh, come off it. You know you’re a player.”
With an acerbic chuckle, Ethan said, “Takes one to know one.”
“Not anymore. I’m a happily engaged man now, as you know.”
Dismissing his partner with a wave of his hand, Ethan had better things to think about.
Such as Chelsea and why she irritated him like a bad case of poison ivy.
Women never got under his skin. Never. Love ’em and leave ’em and don’t look back. That had always been his philosophy. And Brad’s for that matter…The two of them had enjoyed a wild ride through their twenties.
Twenties?
No, their collaboration as the biggest players in Nashville went all the way back to high school. They’d been best friends. Handsome, charming, and damn popular with the girls. Ethan had never seen a reason to change.
Brad had—even before Savannah had waltzed into his life. Now, he seemed devoted to her, loved her daughter, and had become the most boring man on the face of the planet.
It was enough to make Ethan want to hurl.
“So are you ever going to tell me what whoever she is did to piss you off?” Brad asked. “Do you even know her name?”
“As a matter of fact I do. Chelsea Harris.”
Silence stretched between them for a few stilted seconds. “Did you just say ‘Chelsea Harris’?”
“Yep.”
“The Chelsea Harris?”
Ethan nodded.
“You slept with her?” Brad’s question ended on a high squeak that made him sound like an adolescent in the middle of a voice change.
“I just met her,” Ethan admitted.
“Your point…?”
“Stop being a dick.”
The insult didn’t seem to faze Brad. “So you didn’t sleep with her. Then you’re telling me that the hottest singer on the planet is in our restaurant tending the bar?” He pulled his phone out of his pocket and started tapping the screen.
“I don’t know if she’s working the bar or not.”
“But she’s here? We should get some pictures for the website.”
Ethan shook his head. “Leave her be.”
Brad glanced away from the screen and let out a laugh. “You really left her to pour drinks?”
That comment got a chuckle from Ethan as he pictured her becoming frantic trying to deal with the demanding waitstaff and insistent customers. If she had stayed, she’d be in well over her head by now. “Yeah, I suppose I did.”
“I’ll be damned,” Brad said after a few more taps of his phone. He held up a picture from Twitter “At least the post mentions our bar, so it’s good publicity.”
Ethan barely glanced at the picture.
“Savannah’s been trying to get me to write a song for her—for Chelsea, I mean.”
“You don’t write for anyone but Savannah,” Ethan couldn’t help but point out. Once upon a time, Brad had been the hottest songwriter around. But after a dry spell, he’d begun writing again when he’d met the woman who would soon become his wife.
“What can I say?” Brad grinned. “She’s my muse.”
“You used to write for everyone, Hitman.” The nickname would set Brad off, but that was an integral part of their relationship—teasing unmercifully.
“You know I hate it when you call me that.”
“The press calls you that all the time.”
“You know better, though. They’re assholes,” Brad said.
Done baiting his friend and feeling much less hostility toward the cheeky Ms. Harris, Ethan got to his feet. “I better get my ass back down there. I imagine the servers are hopping mad that I abandoned them.”
“I imagine the servers are probably ogling her. But you never told me why Chelsea Harris ended up behind our bar.”
“She was trying to con me into singing a duet with her, so I walked away,” Ethan said.
“A duet?” Brad snorted. “She doesn’t know anything about you, does she? She might as well have asked for a million dollars.”
“I’d be more inclined to give her that,” Ethan drawled.
“Want me to go down there?” Brad asked. “I can run the bar for a while. Judging from the pictures of the crowd, she could probably use all the help she can get.”
With a shake of his head, Ethan headed to the door.
“Can you believe Chelsea Harris is really mixing drinks in our bar? Priceless.”
Ethan shook his head again. “The orders are probably backed up like crazy. I’ll get Russ to give me a hand so I can catch up.”
“Good luck with that,” Brad called as Ethan left the office.
* * *
Chelsea glanced up to find a tall, skinny waitress gaping at her. She’d pulled her hair back into a messy bun, had slipped on her glasses since she hadn’t worn her contacts, and was probably as wilted as a week-old flower. Definitely not how she normally looked, especially when there were cameras around, but getting Ethan to agree to help her was worth it. Besides, her publicist, Will Laurence, always told her to be more “real” around her fans.
Dropping her empty tray on the counter, the blonde said, “Oh, my God! You’re her! You’re Chelsea Harris.”
“Not tonight, darlin’. Tonight I’m just a bartender.” At that moment, all she wanted was to keep churning out drink orders until Ethan finally wandered back and she could rub his nose in how well she’d handled his bar.
The waitress, whose eyes were still big as saucers, nodded. “Can I have your autograph?”
Chelsea waved her off. “As soon as I catch up on these drink orders, I’ll give you an autograph and we’ll take a selfie.” The best tactic to dissuade eager fans was always redirection. “How does your usual bartender split tips with the waitstaff?”
The question had the desired effect as the blonde shifted her gaze to the growing wad of bills stuffed in the tip jar.
Since Chelsea had every intention of giving all the money to the overworked waiters and waitresses, she dismissed whatever it was the waitress was explaining in response. Sure, some of that money probably belonged to Ethan. But in her opinion, he deserved to forfeit it for leaving them all in such an awkward position. He also owed her a new silk blouse since hers was ruined by booze and fruit juice stains because she hadn’t been able to locate an apron.
The chatty waitress finally left with a full tray, and for the first time in almost half an hour, Chelsea was able to let her guard down a little. No new orders waited on the screen, so she went about cleaning up the considerable mess behind the bar since her friends had decided to leave not long into her “shift” as bartender. Not a surprise since they were used to her getting distracted anytime her fans gathered around her.
Russ set some dirty glasses in the sudsy water she’d drawn in the sink. “You’re a helluva bartender, pretty lady.”
She arched an eyebrow at his veiled flirt. “Thanks.”
“Ethan should hire you. You’re much better at this than he is.”
Ethan’s voice boomed from her left. “Kiss my ass, Russ.”
Guarding her reaction, Chelsea didn’t even look at him. She simply kept washing glasses, feeling a bit smug at having done such a great job.
“Where’ve you been?” Russ asked, his tone demanding.
“I needed a break,” Ethan replied.
“If one of our bartenders left on a ‘break’ without someone covering, especially with this kind of crowd, we’d fire him,” Russ said, piquing her curiosity as to the men’s true relationship.
“I had someone covering for me.” Ethan inclined his head at her.
Russ folded his muscular arms over his broad chest. “You’re damn lucky she stepped in to bail you out.”
As the guys exchanged a few of what she assumed were friendly barbs, Chelsea finished the dishes and checked t
he latest order that now waited on the screen. Ethan and Russ were co-owners of the bar. She’d also been told that the Hitman had a share in the place.
Just as she reached for a clean glass, Ethan plucked it up. “I’m back. Thanks, but you can go now.” He inclined his head at the people staring at her. “Go sign some autographs.”
With narrowed eyes and barely leashed anger, she fisted her hands against her hips. “You’re quite welcome that I kept your bar running for the last half hour. I had nothing better to do tonight than fill in for an irresponsible guy who obviously didn’t care if his customers had to wait forever to get their drinks.”
Russ rushed to her, red-faced. “We can’t thank you enough, Chelsea. You were amazing. If there’s ever anything I can do to pay you back…”
She kept staring at Ethan, debating whether she would play the “favor” card Russ had dealt her to try to strong-arm Ethan into the duet she so desperately wanted.
Her gut told her to wait. Judging from the way he was roughly handling his ingredients, she’d be wasting her time and breath asking tonight. Much as she hated to admit it, the man might be a lost cause.
With a resigned sigh, she turned to Russ. “Glad I could help. It was kinda fun to relive my glory days. I need to head out now.” She gave one last glance to Ethan, thinking it was a damn shame that a man that good looking had the personality of a wet mop.
She signed several autographs, posed for a few pictures with fans, and was almost to the door with her security guard trialing behind her when Russ came over. “Wait. Please.”
She dismissed her security with a quick flip of her hand. The well-trained man faded back several paces as Russ grabbed her arm.
Her first response was to level a withering glare at him—purely a conditioned response since fans seemed to think she was public property, making Chelsea react that way whenever someone put hands on her.
The expression worked, as it usually did, and Russ’s hand quickly fell away. “You never told me what you said that made Ethan stomp away.”
Perhaps the man wasn’t entirely a lost cause. She’d see what she could learn by picking Russ’s brain. “I’m putting together an album to raise money for charity. I wanted him to sing a duet of one of his parents’ songs with me—‘When You Were Mine.’”