Fall in Love

by Anthology

  Any man or woman that didn’t want a broken finger knew better than to rush her. She knew how to handle the burly, the grouchy, and most definitely the too friendly.

  Setting out the last tray—rolls and bread—she stepped back a good four feet, put her hands together in a mock prayer, and bowed. “You may begin.”

  And boy did they. Within eight minutes her pretty display looked more like a sad deli counter. The bed of lettuce leaves she’d used were scattered like discarded pages from a TV writer’s room during sweeps week. All but the chicken salad had been scraped clean.

  She hauled the tray out of its housing. What the heck did they have against her chicken? Unless it was slathered in jar mayo or mustard, a lot of these guys turned their noses up. Each day she tried to sneak in a little something new, believing that even roadies deserved culture—but alas, they proved her wrong again and again.

  She waved at her brother as he jammed ham and turkey into a roll—his third sandwich, thank you very much—and crammed it into his mouth on the way out the door. Randy was still young enough to be excited about the prospect of sweating over the lighting rig that had to be set up.

  It was the last leg of this particular tour. She’d graduated from culinary school and hopped on a plane the next day to work this job. She had six weeks to prove herself to Meg and Danny so they’d hire her on full time.

  “All set, Harper?”

  She blinked out of her thoughts and smiled at Mel, one of her cleanup staff. “Yeah, you can start loading up.”

  The clang of metal trays and crinkle of white paper table covers was part of her everyday symphony. Roll it out, roll it up, rinse and repeat. Crap, she was only six days into the tour and already she was tired of tuna salad and cold cuts.

  Not good.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Sorry, we’re all done for the lunch rush, but you can come ba—” She stopped mid-turn, her eyes stuck on one of the most impressive male chests she’d ever seen. And seriously, she’d seen a lot of nice ones over the years. But sweet Pete.

  Wide, firm pecs filled out a vintage Journey t-shirt with little room to spare. In fact, the faded scarab logo had little tears in it from the stretch to accommodate his toned muscles. That had to be some seriously amazing man flesh under there.

  She forced her gaze up, and up, and wow.

  He smiled, and a dimple dug into his left cheek. The slash of white teeth and the dent was bad enough but man…the eyes. Green. Middle-of-the-forest green, earthy, and cool—the kind that contact commercials promised with their too beautiful to be real colors.

  They had to be fake.

  Who had green eyes with flecks of sunlit gold in the center? Not real people, that’s who. Or…

  “Anything protein will do. I just finished up a workout, and I could sure use some fuel before soundcheck.”

  Or rock stars. Of course he was a musician. While there were a few men on staff that bumped her hotter-than-hell-meter into taking notice, the first one to put her meter into the red had to be off limits.

  “I really don’t have anything left.” She caught one tray out of the corner of her eye. “Well, I have some chicken salad left, but…”

  “That’s perfect. Chicken salad is perfect.” He crossed one arm over his drool-worthy chest and gripped his triceps, rubbing absently. A wide tattoo stretched across his left forearm in bold, black letters that looked like they’d been through an earthquake with a teasing red devil tail wound through the letters. Oblivion.

  Holy hot.

  Nope.

  No looking, Harper Lee.

  Man, his bicep really bulged beautifully. And on the arm he gripped a flash of more black and red ink teased beneath the edges of his t-shirt sleeve. A sleeve that was seriously working hard at not ripping. That just wasn’t right. She forced her eyes up to his face and that dimple was back, deeper than ever.

  Crap. Now he was going to think she was interested. Damn, double damn, and triple crap. She snatched the ice cream scooper out of her apron and snagged one of the paper salad boats stacked up beside the plates.

  “Another scoop if that’s okay.”

  She tried to ignore the deep tone of his voice. She was such a sucker for baritones. “You don’t even know how it tastes.”

  He leaned down into her space, and she bit back a groan. He smelled like cedar chips and something fresh. The ocean? She took a giant step back. “Whoa there.”

  Unrepentant, he picked up a fork and scooped out some. “See, tastes…”

  He stopped chewing, and she winced. She’d made her own dressing, sprinkling in some balsamic for a kick to make it just a little less boring. The tender breast chunks had sucked up the vinegar. Definitely not a traditional chicken salad.

  “What is this?”

  She pulled the paper boat closer to her chest. “I think I might have some turkey—”

  “No, seriously. That’s awesome.” He took her scooper out of her limp fingers and put another two helpings on his paper boat. Then he reached around her for a few of the last few tomatoes on the veggie tray.

  “Awesome?”

  “Wow.” He shoveled another forkful into his mouth, those sharp, perfect teeth slicing through a tomato with ease. “I usually have to choke down whatever protein I can find with a Coke, but this is awesome. Can you make me this every day?”

  “That would get pretty boring.”

  “Have you tasted this?” He turned his fork out to her.

  “I made it. I taste everything before I put it out.”

  He shrugged. “More for me.” He transferred the boat, a wad of napkins, his fork, and his phone all to one hand. Long fingers handled the entire bundle with ease. He held out his right hand. “I’m Deacon by the way.”

  Oh, hell no. He had tingles written all over him. There was no way she could shake his hand and keep up the cool, calm, and collected deal. Especially when his hand looked like it could swallow hers and have room for two more. He was ridiculously big. Like wow-you-must-play-basketball tall. God, why did she have to be so tactile? She couldn’t walk through a store without touching everything. And Deacon had plenty of real estate to touch.

  Harper Lee, catch a clue.

  She smiled up at him and then wiggled her black latex clad fingers. Dodged that one.

  He gave her that lopsided smile again, and the dimple deepened. Instead of being put out, he simply shuffled his food back to his empty hand, tucked his phone into his pocket, and resumed eating. “This really is great.”

  The burst of pleasure that hummed through her middle made her swallow a groan.

  Simmer down. He’s just flirting.

  “Thanks. Glad someone likes it.”

  Deacon glanced down at the tray. “Obviously people don’t know a good thing.”

  Resisting the call of a warm glow, she stacked the now empty veggie trays.

  “What’s your name? I can tell you right now you’re going to see a lot of me. I’m pretty much a black hole when it comes to food.”

  Sidestepping the question, she picked up another tray. “I’ve been on the tour for almost a week now, and this is the first time we’ve seen each other.”

  “That’s because my band just met up with the tour last night. We’re opening for Rebel Rage.”

  Ding, ding. Musician confirmed.

  She’d known it, but man, it really was too bad. She didn’t date musicians. Heck, she didn’t even interact with them. They were way too into themselves and this first job really needed to be drama free so she could concentrate on establishing herself.

  “That’s great.” She flashed him her professional smile. “Welcome to the tour.”

  “You’re really not going to give me your name?”

  It really was too bad. Because that voice would sound delicious all low and close in her ear. “I’m just the help. You don’t need to know my name.”

  “Maybe some musicians are like that, but not me. Six months ago I was waiting tables and hustling pool for ga
s money.”

  Don’t be endearing. Seriously. That just wasn’t fair. Not to mention the quick flash of him stretched out over a pool table was way too easy to picture. She did not need that lodged in her brain. Those long fingers making a cage for the cue stick?

  Stop it!

  “Boss’s orders. We’re to be seen and not heard.” She scooped one last serving of the chicken salad, slid it onto his rapidly disappearing pile, and then loaded the tray on her cart. “Have a good show, sir.”

  “Deacon,” he reminded her.

  Harper hunched up her shoulders and nearly ran across the lunch room and out into the brutal humidity. The wheels of her cart rumbled and popped over the uneven pavement. She careened around the crew trucks to the huge, silver and white Food Riot trailer.

  “Hey, where’s the fire, honey girl?” Mitch Hale slapped one meaty hand on her runaway cart.

  Harper tripped a few more steps before she halted the forward momentum on the cart that weighed about the same as she did. She swiped her forearm over her sweaty forehead and then tugged her purple checked bandanna back down. “Sorry.”

  “It’s too hot to be running around.”

  She stepped away from the cart to smooth her hand down Mitch’s huge arm and then leaned into his solid chest for a moment. He was three hundred plus pounds of Hawaiian teddy bear, and he had gotten her this job. He also happened to be her father’s oldest friend and her uncle for all intents and purposes.

  He tugged on her ponytail. “What’s doin?”

  She nuzzled her nose into his t-shirt, taking in his ever-present coconut scent before stepping back again. “Just cleaning up from the road crew.”

  Mitch swayed lightly from side to side. You could take the man out of the ocean, but you couldn’t take the ocean out of the man. “My team’s heading in for the second wave. Johnny’s got a wild hair for barbecue chicken before the show.”

  She was beginning to get the feeling Johnny Cage got a wild hair every other day. The singer for Rebel Rage liked to keep the food staff on their toes. Most musicians liked a light meal before going on stage, especially on the summer tours, but the guys of Rebel Rage had cast iron stomachs.

  She wondered what kind of food Deacon liked.

  What the hell, Pruitt? One little compliment and you forget all the rules? Weak.

  She cracked her neck and returned to her cart. “I don’t remember that being on the prep sheet today.”

  “Nope, we got the news at noon.”

  Harper cringed. Getting barbecue together in a few hours wasn’t easy. And she was pretty sure the guys from Rebel Rage expected the real deal and not barbecue sauce slathered on grilled chicken.

  She muscled the cart up the ramp and into Food Riot’s truck. Meg and Danny had transformed the inside of a big rig into a kitchen on the road. The smoker was set on the pavement at the opening of the back of the truck. Pineapple and cedar clouded the air, dragging another memory of Deacon into her subconscious.

  Wow.

  Seriously. She needed to get a head check. Obviously her self-imposed drought had been too long. Harper had wanted to concentrate on her final projects without the distraction of the opposite sex. Of course, interning at a restaurant as well as a full roster of classes made that easy.

  Now she had way too much time on her hands. Maybe once she got to work with the lead chefs she’d have more to do.

  “Pruitt!”

  “Yeah!” she called back as she tucked her cart into its locking slot. Dishwashers started unloading the trays, dishes, and plastic into the super washer they’d dubbed Kong.

  “I need you on deck,” Meg called. “I’m doing a super quick chili and need you dicing onions.”

  It was a little late to be putting chili together. The main tent ate in less than two hours.

  Meg must have noticed her quizzical look. “You’ve been bitching that you want to help out with main dishes, so fucking help. I’ll need you in the dining room too.”

  “Right. Of course.” Harper snagged a chef’s knife from the magnetic strip. About damn time.

  CHAPTER TWO

  August 12, 2:00 PM - The Hunt

  Deacon McCoy scooped up the last of the cute little blonde cook’s chicken salad. It really was off-the-charts good. Tangy and moist—it was a helluva lot better than the bone dry chicken breasts he usually had. After forty minutes on the rowing machine and the eight miles he’d run around the venue, he’d needed to replenish the shit ton of calories he’d burned off in frustration.

  What the hell else did he have to do lately? Gordo followed them around with his iPad, scheduling their lives down to the minute. Deacon let out a growl as his phone chimed in his pocket. Gordo had their phones linked up so they all got the notifications for whatever he deemed important.

  He dug out his phone, the message reminding them of an interview with a local radio station in an hour. Personally, he wondered why they even bothered to have him in the interviews. Simon and Jazz took over the conversation with their snarky commentary and one liners.

  He was relegated to the, “Oh and what do you think, Deacon?” questions after everyone else gave quippy answers. That was about as fun as using lime eye drops. Couldn’t they just leave him in peace? Instead, he was getting really good at blending into the background. Everyone was settling into their little niche in the band. Jazz and Nick were the banter twins on Twitter, Gray added a little mystery to the group, and Simon posted ridiculous pictures on his Instagram that resulted in scavenger hunts wherever they were.

  They were fun to do in L.A. but here in Bumfuck, Georgia there was nothing within walking distance except steaming asphalt and burnt grass. And yet, he was sure that Simon would find something to post and get a million replies.

  Deacon could converse with anyone face to face, but put an electronic gadget in front of him that wasn’t connected to Pro Tools or WordPress and he was fairly useless. He’d never had the quick and clever replies like the rest of them. In fact, he deliberated over what to say on his Twitter account so much that it wasn’t worth having. By the time he figured out something to say, the conversations had changed fourteen times. The vicious circle started up again and it just wasn’t worth the effort. He was good at the meet and greets so at least he had some after-show purpose.

  Deacon dumped his garbage and gave a small smile at the makeshift plastic arm with a plexiglass container for the utensils. Impressed that the catering staff would think green in the middle of a tour, he dumped his fork in the box.

  He nodded and smiled at the crew that scurried around like worker ants. Tours were electronic monsters these days. The Rebel Rage stage was an intricate grid of metal risers and rubber treads that made it safe to run around. Between the unholy heat of the lights and the careening temperatures of Georgia, the stage would be slick with sweat, spit, and water.

  He’d gotten the ten cent tour earlier in the day. As an opening act they didn’t get to enjoy all the bells and whistles, but Oblivion had a decent lighting rig they were allowed to use. He’d still sweat his way through three shirts in the eight-song set they had.

  Climbing the steps to the bus, he rolled his eyes at Simon, who was facedown on the couch that ran the length of the windows. His sunglasses were still on, his jeans were unbuckled, and of course he was shirtless. Their band logo was now inked on his right shoulder blade. The bold black ‘Oblivion’ had one little addition to the capital O—devil horns in bright red, outlined in severe black.

  That couldn’t be any more Simon than if he’d drawn it himself. And knowing Simon, he probably had. He’d taken to doodling ridiculous cartoons in his lyric notebook since they’d gotten on the bus.

  With the EP out, Trident was already pressuring them for new songs for a full length album. They were learning how to write together as a team, instead of letting Nick and Simon lock themselves away in a room like they’d always done.

  The learning curve was steep, but Deacon was pretty sure they would actually get somewhere
on that front. They’d spent the better part of the drive from L.A. to Georgia writing and gelling for the first time. Nick had written the entire bridge and chorus of a song with Gray.

  The five of them living together in the penthouse actually helped to cement the band in a way Deacon never thought possible. He knew a major part of that had to do with the quick tour schedule coming through so soon after the album’s release.

  There hadn’t been enough time to piss each other off.

  Deacon kicked the base of the couch. “Wakey-wakey, Pretty Boy.”

  Simon grunted.

  “We’ve got an interview in half an hour.”

  “Fuck off,” Simon mumbled and turned over onto his side, facing the back of the couch.

  “But I’m not done with him yet.”

  Deacon looked up at the purring voice that came from the hallway to the back of the bus. A lush redhead wearing a skimpy black top and short white shorts walked into the main living area. She wore sky high ankle boots that matched the scarlet lipstick she’d obviously just reapplied.

  “I’m sorry…” Deacon hedged for her name.

  “Monica,” she said with an exaggerated purr.

  “I’m sorry, Monica, we have band stuff we have to take care of. You know how it is.”

  She came over and sat next to Simon, lightly scratching her nails down his back. “Simon told me I could hang with the band today.”

  Deacon swung his gaze to the asshole in question. “Did he now?”

  “Yes.” She slid her hand around the front of him and Simon groaned.

  “Shit,” Deacon muttered and strode to the back of the bus. Just what they needed. A hanger-on. Simon had no shortage of women in and out of his bunk, but they normally didn’t linger.

  Deacon shucked out of his workout shorts and t-shirt, stepping into the closet-sized shower. The venue had a better set up, but his endless pit of a stomach had detoured him from taking a shower, so he’d have to make do. He quickly soaped up and shampooed the sweat out of his hair.