Fall in Love

by Anthology

  Katie’s eyes widened slightly and her lips parted.

  Gray, however, was just as oblivious to her as he was any other woman that came into his sphere. He slid his shades off the top of his head and put them on. “I don’t know if we hid enough for all four hundred and thirteen of you.”

  It figured that Gray would know down to the last person in the group. Deacon scanned the crowd and noticed a handful of people from Rebel Rage’s fan club had broken off to see what the excitement was about.

  Katie must have sensed that she wasn’t going to get much more than his name from Gray when he tucked his hands into his cargos and rocked back on his heels. She turned her attention to Deacon and the elevated Jazz. “Who came up with the idea for a scavenger hunt?”

  Jazz pointed her phone down at Katie. “Simon did it at a few of our club dates, but this? Way bigger.”

  Katie switched to Simon. “Do you like a good hunt?”

  Simon’s sly grin spread as he slid his thumbs down the side cuts of his muscle shirt. “I do. And I like to hide my gifts in the tiniest and warmest little crevices.”

  Katie blinked and the little pulse at the side of her neck went wild. She cleared her throat. “The Power Crew also added a few special prizes to the hunt.” She turned to the crowd. “We’re going to break you guys into groups and–” Before the DJ could break people up, they all scattered.

  “I want that front row ticket,” one girl muttered and hit the stairs running.

  Jazz looked down at Nick who was grinning silently and stuffing his phone into his back pocket. “What did you do?”

  “Me?”

  Jazz aimed her phone down to him. “Sneaky shit.”

  Nick slid his thumb across his lower lip. “I may have tweeted an early clue for front row tickets.”

  “Troublemaker,” she muttered. Jazz held her arms out. “I need to get down off my perch.” Deacon obliged by crouching down and Nick and Simon lifted her off.

  “Do I get a ride?” A slim blonde with improbable pink hair broke away from the pack. She obviously took a few of her cues for dressing from Jazz, but no one could quite pull it off like their little pink peacock.

  Nick’s gaze drifted down the blonde’s body, taking in her tight black pants and cropped black and silver tank. He shrugged and turned around. “I give good piggyback rides.”

  The fan got on with a laugh and wrapped herself around their rangy guitarist.

  Deacon shook his head when five more women clustered in with similar requests. Katie continued to try to wrangle the people into groups, but front row seats trumped a free CD and water bottle, that was for damn sure.

  Taking pity on the radio host, Deacon raised his voice. “All right, I need some of my Devils to help me out. I have a gift certificate to a local tattoo parlor as my prize.”

  Thirty people gathered around him, a mix of men and women. Time for a little fun to make this eternal day move a little faster.

  CHAPTER THREE

  August 12, 3:00 PM - Snap, Crackle & Pop

  Harper retied her bandanna around her head for the third time since they’d started loading up the barbecue fixings. She could hear the end of soundcheck going on and the louder squeals of fans filling the pavilion early.

  She stepped out from the tent area with a plate of lunch before the band sat down to her dinner. You do not have time to go spy on soundcheck, Harper Lee. But it was way too loud to just be a rehearsal. The local security usually kept the fans in check. She’d only been on the tour for little over a week, but Rebel Rage was pretty tight with the schedule.

  They had shows five days a week. The everyday monotony was pretty much underway already for her. The rhythm of tour life was like an uneven setlist. Quick, then endlessly slow, then back to a breakneck speed. Today, however, was definitely different.

  In so many ways.

  She rolled her neck and tried not to remember just how wide Deacon McCoy’s shoulders were.

  Okay, so she’d looked him up on her phone. Mixing a vat of potato salad only required one hand. Not to mention that it was smart to know the client. She’d found out that Deacon McCoy, bassist for the band Oblivion, was twenty-four and topped out at 6’5 in his stocking feet—six feet freaking five. Who the hell was that tall? And, if the rags could be believed, he was single.

  Gathering information wasn’t stalking. It was research.

  And maybe going onto the Oblivion band site was stepping a little off the definition of quick research and into interested, but she did it for her job. To know what to expect.

  You keep telling yourself that.

  She wiped her sticky, barbecue sauce laden fingers on her apron and followed the sounds of happy chatter. She peeked around the wall that blocked the main bowl of floor seats closest to the stage and stared.

  The guys from Rebel Rage were on stage doing their soundcheck, but Johnny Cage was definitely distracted by the scatter of people crawling around seats and up on speakers.

  People of all ages were painstakingly going from one seat to another with their phones in their hands. What the hell were they doing?

  She leaned on the edge of the wall and stabbed at the pile of food. She’d made a garbage plate of sorts from the potato salad, coleslaw and pulled pork. Rings of white onion, pickles and a splash of vinegar heavy Memphis sauce made for a healthy portion and would hopefully get her through the long afternoon.

  Harper snorted when three girls hopped around Deacon. He held his phone out of their reach, grinning down at them with a shake of his head. He shooed them away with decidedly gentlemanly manners.

  Her eyebrow shot up as one girl walked right into his space, drawing little figure eights on his chest and doing her best Marilyn. Well, she looked more like Marilyn Manson, but the effect was the same. At least in the girl’s mind.

  Deacon didn’t welcome the advance, but he didn’t make the girl feel stupid either. She dropped her hands away from him, but quickly dug into her huge hobo purse and unearthed something. Ahh…Sharpie time.

  What was it about women and having band signatures on their flesh? What exactly would that accomplish? Besides a scrawling smudge on their skin.

  Of course having Deacon’s large hand on her—Holy crap, no.

  What the hell was wrong with her? She did not want that man’s hands on her. He was a musician that had his mitts on a million different girls every single day.

  He took her Sharpie and laughed when she flashed him some boob. Instead of tugging her shirt down for more of a look, he pulled it up. The girl angled herself for maximum pawing, placing his hand across her chest. He scrawled his signature and the girl got a selfie with him in the picture.

  Detangling himself with ease—and again, he didn’t make her feel like an idiot, even if she was behaving like one—he moved on to the next group of girls and shook his head as they showed him something. He opened his hands to show they were empty and shrugged with a dimpled smile, but he did point them in the direction of a vibrating purple girl at the back of the pavilion.

  Purple chick was jumping up and down with another girl that could have been her twin, except her hair was a violent green. Manic Panic would be back in high demand if the music charts had anything to say about it. Oblivion had two top forty hits at the moment and they were gaining momentum.

  “Hey, Cook Girl!”

  Harper looked down and in her direct line of sight Deacon was climbing stairs three at a time. My God, those legs are long.

  “I’m a chef, thank you.”

  He flashed her a grin. He pulled a hat from his back pocket and pulled it on. “My bad. Did you come to feed me again?”

  She scooped up a chunk of potato and shredded pork. “Nope,” she said and stuffed it into her mouth.

  “That’s just mean.”

  She shrugged and chewed, giving him a tight-lipped smile. He didn’t get any less good-looking with some perspective. In fact, he was hotter in person than he was in the blast of pictures on the internet.

/>   Not that she’d been looking.

  He had a Day-Glo pink hat on backwards, his long hair was pushed back leaving his green eyes unframed. Well, except for the ridiculously long eyelashes he had going on. Which was unfair. Guys didn’t need long lashes, for flip’s sake.

  His dimple was out again. She swallowed hard. He was way too close. Sweet Pete, he was tall. And he smelled like the ocean with an added dash of cocoa butter to finish her off.

  The injustice of it was epic.

  Musician. Whorey, probably venereal disease laden musician that stuck his wick in a million different women. Okay, probably only a thousand, but still. He was… God, he was pretty.

  Harper Lee, get a hold of yourself.

  “It looks really good,” he said, peering down at her food.

  “You just had a metric ton of chicken salad.”

  “That was hours ago.”

  Harper couldn’t stop a snort. “You’re shameless.”

  “Starving.”

  “You’re eating in a little over an hour.”

  “But that’s so far away. Like…a million years.”

  She tried not to smile. Really she did. But how was a chef supposed to not feed someone? At least that’s what she told herself when she held her fork out.

  What are you doing, you idiot?

  He leaned down and gave her the most adorably charming, lopsided grin before scraping his teeth along the tines of her fork. He closed his eyes, and his low moan slid over her like a light, fluffy, chocolate mousse.

  Decadent didn’t even cover it. He opened his mouth and continued to chew. “Oh, man. You are twice blessed in this whole cooking gig. You gotta tell me your name.”

  She stuffed a hunk of potato in her mouth. “Why do you care?”

  “Because food orgasms are personal, and I need to know who’s giving me one.”

  “Jeeze.” Not right, not right. Hella-not right with a side order of fries. The man was lethal.

  Keep it business.

  That’s all she had to do. She’d done it in school and done it at a dozen restaurants that she’d interned with. She’d had a damned head chef trying to bed her for a solid three months and he didn’t make her feel an ounce of what Deacon did with just one moan.

  Pathetic.

  Obviously, she was having a weak moment. “I’m Chef Pruitt.”

  He snagged a pickle chip off her plate before she pulled it away from him. He held the pickle over his mouth and licked off the juice and the vinegar sauce from his thumb. She felt the rumble of her own moan, but hoped it was hidden under the feedback blast from Johnny Cage’s mic.

  Deacon turned, his warm bicep sliding across her arm. She stepped back, flattening herself to the wall, but it was too late. The damage was done. His skin was smooth and flexed tight over solid muscles. Heat radiated off of him like a damn furnace.

  He brushed his hand over her hip and she was pretty sure he wasn’t even thinking when he shielded her. She peeked around his bulk and saw the devil glare coming from the stage.

  She whistled. “Boy, Johnny’s pissed.”

  “Yeah. This scavenger hunt is a bit crazier than normal.” Deacon looked down at her. “I’ll talk to Gordo. We probably shouldn’t do them during sound check.”

  “Smart guy.” She scooped up another load of meat and slaw, sighing when he stared at it longingly. She pointed her fork at him again and he leaned down obligingly. She forced herself not to think about the fact that his lips had just been around her fork—and not in a germ-phobe way—and shoveled another bite in her mouth.

  She swallowed and pushed around the last of her pickles and onions over the meat. When he gave her a pointed look, she squinted at him. “Mine.”

  Deacon grunted and leaned against the wall next to her.

  “You’re crowding me, Greedy.”

  “Maybe if I crowd you, you’ll give me another taste.”

  “Nope.” She swallowed another bite of potato salad.

  “Maybe I’m not looking for a taste of food.”

  “This kitchen is closed, buddy.”

  He crossed his ridiculous arms and widened his stance until he was closer to her in height. Still taller, but at least he didn’t tower over her anymore. And yet, she didn’t feel any less crowded. And he didn’t say anything else, just surveyed the crowd of people below.

  He didn’t seem to be inclined to return to his friends. She scraped the last of her lunch out of the paper boat and moved to the trash bin on the edge of the pavilion.

  She should go back up to the tents and see if there was anything else to be done. With soundcheck finished the band members would be looking to eat soon. But she stayed next to Deacon. They watched the hunt roll on in companionable silence.

  It felt natural to stand with him, to soak up the breeze that floated through the cavernous amphitheater. Rafters filled with a grid-work of steel were used as much for the look as for support. This was Alpharetta’s largest outdoor venue and she’d spent plenty of time there over the years.

  “Why are you up here with me?”

  “Why are you hanging out?” he countered.

  She gave him a side-eyed glance. “I heard the commotion.” She shrugged. “I was curious.”

  He leaned toward her a little, and she resisted the urge to do the same. What the hell was it about him that made her want to be close to him?

  “Okay, then why are you still here?” he asked.

  “I’m tired of looking at food.”

  “Nah, you’re here to look at me.”

  She had to fight not to smile back at him and his teasing dimple. Damn the man for being so effortlessly charming. He was dangerous. He was the sort of guy that expected a few sweet words would disengage the brain and release the panties.

  He was sorely mistaken in that regard. She straightened and put another inch between their arms. She didn’t hold onto her panties with an iron grip, but she was discerning when it came to naked time.

  “Tell me, Blondie—”

  “Don’t call me Blondie.”

  “You won’t tell me your name. I gotta call you something.”

  She sighed. “I’m Chef Pruitt.”

  “Really? We’re going to go with formalities? Are you going to call me—”

  “Mr. McCoy? Maybe.”

  “I didn’t tell you my last name.”

  “Your name’s on the roster. Not hard to follow the dots.”

  “Yes, but that would mean you cared enough to look me up.”

  She pushed herself off the wall. “I have work to do.”

  “Aww, now you just don’t have a good enough comeback. Time to run again, Chef Pruitt?”

  Her heart slammed against her sternum. This wasn’t good. His throaty, deep voice saying her name shouldn’t have that much kick, dammit. He was just a guy. Just an overgrown—way overgrown—guy that had more charm than sense. That was all. “Some people have to work around here.”

  “Oh, I’ll be working a little later.”

  She headed to the side exit, looking over her shoulder before turning the corner. He was still against the wall, his legs wide apart, a half-smile on his face, his eyes patiently assessing. She’d been expecting smug. Why wouldn’t he be? She’d practically acted like a band groupie by feeding him off her damn fork.

  No time for overthinking. She had a job to do.

  And work was the important part. She had five weeks left to show Meg and Danny that she was a good addition to the company. She needed the exposure and as long as she was patient she would be able to show them just how talented she was.

  She ducked into the food tent to start the next round of lunch prep. The monotonous unloading of carts calmed her. Right now, the only bit of talent they wanted was a sous chef that could deliver. And she needed to remember that.

  The explosion of laughter and stampede of feet made her look up. Simon, the singer for Oblivion and Nick, one of the guitarists, were roughhousing their way into the tent. The singer landed hard on a m
etal chair, tipping it back into another until the two of them plus the chairs clattered to the floor.

  They were laughing like hyenas. Jazz came through the door on Deacon’s back, piggyback style. She snickered, holding her phone out, obviously recording.

  Nick hoisted himself up with some help. His smile faded when Johnny turned and stared at them. Simon’s eyebrows shot up and Jazz slowly slid down off Deacon’s back.

  They all quieted down. Well, everyone but Grayson Duffy. He hadn’t opened his mouth yet. Stone cold silent with eyes the color of rain-swelled clouds. She’d never seen anyone so incredibly void of…well, everything.

  All emotion missing.

  Harper shivered and smiled automatically when Killian Kemper, the lead guitarist from Rebel Rage, stood in front of her.

  “Hey there, chef number three.” His voice was low with just the barest hint of a drawl. The rest of the band had a clipped, northeast flavor. But not Killian. And boy did he use that voice.

  Her lips twitched. Deacon wasn’t the only one trying to get her name and number. She was fresh blood in these waters and Killian was definitely on the hunt. “Mr. Kemper.”

  “Aw, you wound me with the mister stuff. You know it’s Killian.”

  “Yes, Mr. Kemper.”

  He clutched his shirt, wrinkling the heavy black type, Sarc: my 2nd favorite asm, across his very nice chest. Again, she had to hold back the laugh. She’d been around men all her life and they amused her as much as they annoyed her.

  Today was full of amusing. Just the way she liked it.

  Killian popped a cherry tomato into his mouth and chewed around a smile. “You’re going to tell me your name one of these days.”

  One of the crew opened her mouth to give her name and Harper gave her a steely glare. The girl shut her mouth and hurried around the table to replenish the napkins.

  Harper couldn’t get away with the chef line forever. Someone was going to overhear her name, but keeping her distance from the musicians was smart. And her name was only one way to do that.

  “You do know that it makes them salivate more, right?”