No Accounting for Cowboys

by Leah Braemel

  “So I’m guessing you want me to ditch my regular gear and put on a kick ass business suit to scare the bejezus out of them?” Her feet ached at the thought of trading in her biker boots for heels.

  “Actually, I like the leather look you’ve got going now. Might throw them off if they’re expecting an uptight bean counter. They might let something slip in front of you they wouldn’t in front of Bryce.” Her aunt tossed her a smile that had an edge of devilment to it. “I’d love to be there to see the look on their faces when you show up on your bike. You can be like a new sheriff riding in, only on a Harley instead of a horse.”

  “It’s a Yamaha. I can’t afford a Harley,” Paige grumbled. One day she’d buy a Road King in dark green or better yet, find an old WWII era Indian and restore it. Give it a sweet matte black paint job.

  “It’s a damned death trap, that’s what it is, no matter what name’s on it.” A group of college girls slid into the booth behind Reba, their laughter forcing her aunt to lean across the table and half shout. “I’ve arranged for you to stay out there until you get everything organized. I figure you’re going to be burning a lot of midnight oil before the auditors come in and I don’t want you driving home when you’re tired.”

  Which would keep her away from Bill, especially once he learned Reba had gone behind his back and assigned her instead of his golden boy. Paige blew out a breath and met her aunt’s gaze. “What if the Gradys object to me, given my history? I mean, there have been a couple clients who didn’t want me—” the daughter of a convicted drug dealer “—doing their books.”

  Her aunt patted her hand. “How many times do I have to tell you? You are not responsible for your mother’s actions. That is entirely on her head. And the state wouldn’t have certified you as an accountant either. Stop doubting yourself. You can do this.” She checked her phone, then tossed a fifty dollar bill on the table to cover both their dinners as well as a more than generous tip. “I need to get a wiggle on. I promised your uncle I’d be home early tonight.”

  Paige caught the waitress when she hurried past and asked for the ticket, then sat back, nursing the last of her drink. The trio began playing—country, to her relief. Last week, Slick had brought in some crooner who wailed Celtic songs all night. Well, half the night. The crowd had first pelted him with peanuts, then switched to beer bottles before Slick had switched off his mike.

  These guys were decent, far above Slick’s usual entertainment. Despite the four microphones set up, and the empty chair, there were only three guys playing. A burly guitar player with his ash blond hair tied back in a ponytail with a thick golden beard perched on a stool at the front. A bassist—tall and rangy, his black hair buzzed in a military cut—stood on the far side of the empty stool, and behind them both, the drummer—a skinny weasel-faced guy, his complexion heavily pockmarked.

  Halfway through their intro, the music quieted as the guitarist bent over the mike. “Howdy, y’all. Thanks for showin’ up tonight. I’m Cam Adair. My friend Hunter’s playin’ the bass, fiddle and keyboard, and that’s Drew Foley playin’ the drums. And we’re—” all three leaned into their mikes and shouted, “—the Dirt Road Graduates.”

  Scattered applause met his introduction. Paige scanned the room for her waitress, but found no sign. Damn it, where was she?

  “We’ve got a special treat for y’all tonight,” the guitarist continued. “My good friend and buddy JT Larson has agreed to sing with us. But it seems that JT is a little shy and needs some encouragement.”

  Larson? It couldn’t be the guy from Bull’s Hollow, could it? No, Reba had said his name was Gabe Larson, not JT. A spotlight trained on the guy at the bar Paige had been ogling earlier. He waved off Cam’s attention, though he didn’t look bothered. “Your fans ain’t here to hear me sing.”

  “If you don’t get your butt up here right now, JT, I’ll tell everyone how you and I met. And how I saved your sorry ass.”

  JT folded his arms across his muscular chest. “You’re never gonna let me live that down, are ya?”

  His deep voice and relaxed cadence curled around Paige like a warm cloak. What was it about this guy that set something aflutter deep inside her?

  “Nope.” Cam gestured to the crowd. “Come on, y’all, let’s convince JT here that he can’t weasel out of singing for us. I promise, you’re in for a treat when he gets his lazy ass up here.”

  He lifted an arm and began a chant of “JT—JT—JT” that was picked up in one corner and swirled around the room until the glasses hanging over the bar rattled.

  Though she couldn’t hear what he said, Paige could read his lips well enough to know he swore at his friend. The singer grinned in response and waved his arms, revving up the chants even louder.

  Caught up in the room’s energy, Paige clapped as she chanted “JT” along with them.

  The room exploded when JT finally hopped off his stool and sauntered to the stage. He picked up the guitar by the empty stool. Before he sat down he leaned in to the microphone. Paige caught her breath at his sexy bad-boy smile. “Well, now, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  Cam barked a laugh and winked to the crowd. “Don’t let him fool you, ladies.”

  JT strummed a few chords on the guitar, then frowned and adjusted one of the tuning keys. After a few more tweaks, he nodded to himself and looked up again, his gaze roving over the crowd as if searching for someone.

  Paige’s breath stuttered in her throat when their gazes met. One dark brow lifted, and his lips tilted up as his gaze raked over her. Her body reacted with a familiar tingle at his slow perusal. At least from that far away, there was no way in hell he could know how her heart raced. She smoothed her hands over her hips, wishing she could ease some of the ache settling there as he launched into Zac Brown’s “Keep Me In Mind.”

  JT sure could sing. His rugged good looks—all broody, with that hard-working cowboy image—didn’t hurt either. All that was missing was a dusty cowboy hat.

  When the song finished, hoots and hollers erupted around her, a pair of girls in the booth behind her whistling so loud Paige wanted to cover her ears. Once the applause died down, Cam whispered something to JT and grinned.

  It may have been Paige’s imagination but she could have sworn JT’s shoulders relaxed. He took a deep breath and strummed a few notes as he settled in to another song, this one quieter. A few bars in, Cam blended his voice in harmony, not overpowering JTs.

  This is what she’d wanted. Time to kick back, to unwind. Not worry about what tomorrow would bring. Just to exist, here and now. To have fun.

  Forty-five minutes later, JT cleared his throat and downed the last half of the water in the bottle set by his stool. “Last one for me in this set.”

  Ignoring the sounds of disappointment around him, he strummed the guitar and locked his gaze with hers once more. He launched into Blake Shelton’s “Who are You When I’m Not Looking.” As he sang, the lights on the rest of the band faded, until he alone was illuminated. Unsure if it was his singing or the lyrics that moved her, the hairs on the back of Paige’s neck raised, spread down her spine and along her arms. The clank and clatter of the other patrons faded away until it was just him, her and the music. As if he sang to her. For her.

  His voice grew husky as he sang about wanting to get to know her better, about how she kept herself hidden. Fear that he might actually be able to see inside her welled along with the music.

  What was he doing playing at a small bar like Slick’s instead of somewhere like Billy Bob’s in Fort Worth? He was too good for Joshua Falls, damn it.

  By the time his last note hung in the air, the entire bar had fallen silent, caught in his spell. Applause thundered around her, many of the bar’s patrons on their feet. Paige’s palms burned as she joined them.

  “Did I tell you JT could sing or didn’t I?” Cam shouted into the mike. “Ha
ng around folks, because we’ll be back in fifteen minutes.”

  JTs shoulders hunched again as people reached out to shake his hand.

  “Aw, he’s shy,” one of the girls behind her cooed.

  Or didn’t like his personal space encroached, Paige silently added. Especially the way several of the women grabbed his ass. If a guy did that to her, she’d be slapping his face.

  “Thanks, ladies, I’m glad you enjoyed my singing.” He wrangled himself free of yet another enthusiastic fan. “But me and my lady friend would appreciate a little space until I have to be back up for the next set.”

  Paige’s eyes widened when he slid into the seat opposite her. “Hey, darlin’, thanks for saving me a seat.”

  Daggers shot her way from at least four different women.

  Once they retreated, he grinned, his mouth pulling up higher at one side in a crooked smile. He leaned in and lowered his voice. “Thanks for not feedin’ me to the lions.”

  “How do you know I’m not their leader with even bigger claws and teeth?”

  “I don’t. But then I’ve always liked to live life on the wild side.” His expression grew guarded when one of the girls from the booth behind them shoved a paper at him, demanding an autograph. Which he signed. “There you go, darlin’.”

  The moment he handed it back, another woman slid into her place, and another. Though he smiled when they each insisted on having a picture taken with him, Paige wondered if any of his fans noticed there was no laughter in his eyes.

  Once they left him alone, he sat back in the shadows of the booth. “Don’t worry, if your friend comes back, I’ll move.”

  “That was my aunt, not my friend, and don’t worry, she’s gone.” Huh. He’d seen Reba. Which meant he’d been checking her out too. “Were you watching me, JT?”

  “Hard to miss someone as pretty as you, darlin’.” He tilted his head to one side, his slate gray eyes considering her, and held out his hand. “It’s Jake, by the way. Only Cam calls me JT.”

  “I’m Paige.” She shook his hand, the calluses rough against her skin, not just at the fingertips from long hours of guitar practice, but on his palms as well. As she’d guessed, this was a man used to manual labor. And to taking charge, from the way he continued to hold her hand.

  “Nice to meet you, Miss Paige. As I said, I’m obliged.”

  Oh wow, a true old-fashioned cowboy right down to the manners. If she ever met his momma, she’d have to thank the woman for raising him right. And his daddy for raising a strong man.

  A waitress—not the one who had waited on her earlier—slid up to the booth. She touched her bottle blond hair and simpered as if Paige were invisible, tugged at the overly tight Slick’s Swamp Box tee, then smoothed her name tag proclaiming her to be Holly in an obvious attempt to draw his attention to the bounty that threatened to overflow the scooped neckline. As if anyone could miss her double Ds. “Can I get you anything, hon? A beer? Bourbon? Jack and coke?”

  Jake barely gave the waitress a cursory glance. “A Shiner Bock would be great.” He gestured to Paige’s almost empty glass. “You need a refill?”

  The bill she’d asked for almost an hour ago? “It doesn’t matter.” Paige gestured to Holly’s retreating form. “She’s left already.”

  “Sorry. We’ll catch her when she comes back with my beer.”

  Her fingers itched to stroke the silky russet locks brushing his shoulders. She’d always had a thing for guys with longer hair. Not to mention the prickle of crew cuts never felt right compared to the brush of long locks when they lowered their heads between her thighs. “So if the J stands for Jake, what does the T stand for?”

  He grinned, amusement and heat filling his eyes. “Trouble.”

  Uncomfortable with everyone at the surrounding tables watching him, Jake Grady slid around the curve of the seat and deeper into the shadows. Damn Cam and his machinations for not telling him they were here to sing, not just to have dinner. Especially since he knew Jake didn’t like singing this close to home. All he needed was for one of the damned videos to end up on YouTube. Or worse, on someone’s Facebook page. Around here there were too many who might be friends of friends whose photos might end up on his brothers’ timeline.

  The new position let him see more of Paige that had previously been hidden by the table. His gaze skimmed down her appreciatively. She wasn’t the type he normally went for, not that he had a type. From her thick, black hair with candy-floss pink tips draped over her shoulders to the tiny diamond nose stud that he’d not been able to see from a distance. Her black shirt accentuated her luscious curves. He had no doubt her leather pants would hug a fantastic ass.

  Serious brown eyes, the color of an aged cognac, met his. “Like what you see?”

  “Yup.” He hooked his elbows over the back of the seat and stretched out. “Do I meet with your approval?”

  Her gaze skimmed down him, leaving a trail of “I wish it was your fingers touchin’ me darlin’” thoughts on Jake’s skin. Amusement twinkled in bright sparks against the warm brown velvet of her eyes.

  She cupped her hands beneath her chin, staring at him over them. A tattoo on her wrist—an ornate skeleton key with some writing beneath it—peeked out from beneath a thick leather bracelet. “The outside package is nice, but I prefer to get to know a person before I make any judgments.”

  “And what would a guy have to do to make you want to get to know him better? I’m guessing buying you a nice dinner and plying you with compliments might set off your bullshit meter?”

  She laughed, a lighter sound than he’d expected, though it didn’t last near long enough. “Busted. I’ve gotta give you credit, Jake, you hardly even looked at that waitress. Most guys wouldn’t have noticed me with her around.”

  “Then you’ve been hanging out with the wrong type of guy.” Their loss. He gestured toward the black motorcycle helmet complete with skull adornment nestled in the corner of the banquette. “What do you ride?”

  “A V-Star 650.” She held up a hand. “I know, now you’re disappointed it’s not a Harley, just a Harley rip-off.”

  “I’m not disappointed, just surprised. I figured you’d be more of a Ducati type. A speed demon.”

  She grimaced. “Ugh, a crotch rocket? Those are for guys with too much money and too little brains.”

  “I guess I won’t offer to take you for a ride on mine then.” He stifled his grin at her huff of disgust. “Nah, I don’t own a Ducati either.” Not anymore. “I’m rebuilding an old Indian 841. Just about got it done too.”

  Her jaw dropped. “The old military one? Sweet! Promise me you’re giving it a matte paint job, not some flashy glitter crap.”

  He whipped out his phone and showed her some before and after photos.

  Making the appropriate sounds of admiration, she cupped her chin on her palm and leaned against the table.

  “So tell me, Jake, why is your nickname Trouble? I’m guessing your parents didn’t write it in on your birth certificate. Or is it because you’re a bike freak and your parents disapprove.”

  Huh, did he admit the real reason? Tell her about some of the escapades he and Gabe had gotten into his first year of high school? As much as she dressed like she walked on the wild side, something told him it was more window dressing, though he couldn’t point to any particular clue. “Mr. Hastings, my English teacher, called me JT back in my freshman year of high school. But my...half-brother picked it up and it stuck.” He’d been about to say best friend, but he’d destroyed Gabe’s trust—and their friendship—eight months ago. He hooked a thumb toward the band. “Cam drags it out whenever he’s trying to blackmail me to do something.”

  She sipped the remains of her drink, her large dark eyes, the pupils larger in the shadows, searched him with a frank assessment. “So what type of trouble did you get into that ticke
d off Mr. Hastings?”

  She had a confidence that turned him the hell on. He scooted closer, picking up a hint of cinnamon above the stale pretzels and beer air of the bar. “Same type of trouble most teens get into. Though I may have set off a firecracker in class because I was bored. Anyway, it ticked off Mr. Hastings. As he was yanking me out of my chair to send me to the office, he said my parents should have named me ‘Just Trouble’ and...well, it stuck.”

  “A firecracker? That’s the best you could come up with to bug your teacher?”

  “I wasn’t trying to bug him. I was tryin’ to wake everyone up. Mr. Hastings was reading some really boring story. I swear, the man never changed his tone just blah blah blah completely monotone, only he had this really nasal quality to him—it was so fricking boring, everyone was going to sleep. If you’d been there, you’d have thanked me.”

  “Ugh. I had a teacher like that. At least he didn’t teach English.”

  “So did you ever get into trouble in school?” That would be a hell yes, if her hair and motorcycle were any indication.

  She grinned. “I’m not going to tell you. Not in this lifetime.” She leaned back, chewing the end of her straw. Her eyes narrowed for a moment then she pointed the chewed end of the straw at him. “How come he has to blackmail you to sing? D’you get stage fright?”

  Not hardly, but it wouldn’t hurt if it won him points with her. “The start is part of Cam’s act. A way to get the audience involved from the get-go.”

  “It worked. By the way, you have a fantastic voice. How come you’re playing a dive like this?”

  “Slick’s isn’t so bad. There’s a lot of competition, so we’re happy to get an invitation to play anywhere that doesn’t need chicken wire in front of us. As for my voice, it’s passable.”

  Her nose wrinkled. “Begging for compliments isn’t attractive. You’re a good singer. How else do you explain the standing O you just got?”

  He squirmed in his place wishing the waitress would bring his damned drink. “A lot of beer-drinkers in the audience? Peer pressure? Relief I was done?” He leaned forward. “Seriously, I know my voice isn’t as strong as it could be.” Especially on the higher notes, or the notes that he had to hold, as Ben had loved to point out.