Deep in the Heart
An Austin After Dark Book
Alexa Padgett
Sidecar Press, LLC
Contents
Deep in the Heart
Dedication
DEEP IN THE HEART
1. Jenna
2. Cam
3. Jenna
4. Cam
5. Jenna
6. Cam
7. Jenna
8. Cam
9. Jenna
10. Cam
11. Jenna
12. Cam
13. Jenna
14. Cam
15. Jenna
16. Cam
17. Jenna
18. Cam
19. Jenna
20. Cam
21. Jenna
22. Cam
23. Jenna
24. Cam
25. Jenna
26. Cam
27. Jenna
28. Cam
29. Jenna
30. Cam
31. Jenna
32. Cam
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Broken Rose of Texas Sneak Peek
Regan
Carter
Also by Alexa Padgett
Deep in the Heart
An Austin After Dark Book
Alexa Padgett
Title © 2019 Alexa Padgett
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All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.
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Edited by Deborah Nemeth and Sarah Allan
Cover Design by Covers by Combs
Dedication
For Deborah, my sharp-eyed editor, who makes it all happen just as it should.
DEEP IN THE HEART
She's mending guitars and her life. He's trying to forget the war with music. Will one broken instrument make their love a smash hit?
* * *
Jenna Olsen isn't sure she'll ever escape her terrible choices in love. Becoming a skilled guitar craftsperson helped with the anxiety, but she dreams of the day when she can trust someone again. When an up-and-coming country star asks for a custom guitar in an impossible time-frame, Jenna falls for the challenge… and the man.
* * *
Camden Grace loves his music and adores his fans. His passions help him cope with the physical wounds he sustained in Iraq, but he remains haunted by his fractured family history. After his latest angry outburst leaves an expensive guitar shattered, he doesn't expect to find a strong-willed woman whose struggle echoes his own.
* * *
As the instrument and their feelings start to come together, an old would-be flame attempts to sabotage their relationship with increasingly aggressive behavior. Will a jealous rival kill more than their careers or will Jenna and Camden rise above the rage to heal their hearts forever?
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1
Jenna
The shop’s outdated brass doorbell tinkled, and I froze, hands hovering over the small black keys of my laptop. Like most of the rest of the shop, the bell was a holdover from the mid-century remodeling done when Austin was just a small town with country music roots. Before South by Southwest—and most of the hot live-music venues—lined Sixth Street, located a mere block from the store.
I strained for another sound. My body tensed further in my seat, unwilling to move, much like a rabbit who’d scented a coyote.
That stupid little bell. Its sweet, tinkling chime remained an unusual occurrence, and one of the reasons I’d agreed to work with my Pop-pop. Interacting for hours on end with people exhausted me still. Even years after I’d been the unwitting—and unhappy—star witness in one of the most significant trials in the country’s history.
Good news: bad people went to jail. I survived. Now, I even flourished. I sighed, still slightly annoyed I’d run back to Austin, a town I’d left, never planning to return.
Footsteps echoed through the front room, tapping a leisurely pace across the hardwood floors. Unfrozen muscles eased. My heart rate sped up as I rose and rounded my desk, cursing Pop-pop’s dental appointment. I was even worse at customer service than I was at idle chitchat. But as the sole employee—correction, co-owner—in the building, my responsibility was to the customer. Didn’t mean I had to like it.
I grabbed one of Pop-pop’s faded red flannel squares and gripped it in my palm. A throwback to the Depression, he said, though why I wasn’t quite sure. Pop-pop was born at the start of World War II, so it wasn’t like the man lived through those days. Yet, even now, the man wouldn’t toss anything—and I mean one little wrapper—if he thought he could reuse it.
I stumbled to a stop and squeezed the cloth, trying hard not to hyperventilate. Of all the days… Of all the people… Dammit, this was why I’d attended college in Seattle. That, and to prove to my family I was strong enough to be on my own.
“Ben,” I said, my voice small. My shoulders folded in.
The look Ben gave me now caused shudders to roll up my spine. He swiveled around to face me, his whiskey-brown eyes widening then narrowing as a smirk drifted over those perfect, sculpted lips.
“Hey, there, little girl,” he said. I hated his drawl near as much as the fact he’d called me “little girl” since high school. “Heard tell you were in some music magazine.”
“Not the first time,” I shot back. The thing about Ben was never to show fear. Never back down. He craved the rush of overpowering me emotionally, physically.
He leaned in. “So I was told. But, see, none of the old crowd knew you were back.”
My heart thumped in a painful, erratic rhythm against my ribs. That was intentional. I didn’t want to hang around Ben or Robbie or any of the other shallow people I’d surrounded myself with all those years before.
I gripped the piece of flannel even tighter in my fist as I threw my shoulders back, giving him my haughtiest stare-down. Not easy to do when he had a good six inches on me.
“Well, here I am. Now, will you please leave?” I asked.
His eyes darkened, and his expression collapsed into an angry sneer. There’s the Ben I remembered.
“Don’t think I will just yet, Princess. I want to see more, and I’m the customer, so you need to help me find what I’m looking for.”
He missed my glare because he glanced around, his lip curling as he eyed the small shop. Of course, Ben, being the preppy baseball player he was—wanted to believe he still was if the gossip I’d heard was true—wouldn’t recognize the quality or value of the instruments surrounding him, either in monetary value or prestige. Just walking into this shop was a privilege many musicians longed for but couldn’t afford.
Ben, like Robbie and the rest of the people I used to hang out with who I used to consider relevant, knew nothing of this world. He lived baseball. Had all through high school and college, too. Both boys’
dedication to the sport meant I spent little time with Robbie, my boyfriend during our senior year.
Robbie’s hard work earned him the starting position at second base at the University of Texas while Ben typically rode the bench. I’d heard through a convoluted grapevine that Ben was cut from his minor league team this year, which explained his sudden interest in me.
He’d always needed someone else to beat up on to feel good.
Why had I ever hung out with this guy?
Because he was best friends with my boyfriend—the only boy I could see, would ever love—all that lame shit so common in seventeen-year-old girls who hadn’t lived enough to know better. Know anything, really.
The years I’d put into this shop, my reputation, mattered. I was proud to work here, proud that people wanted one of my guitars. Proud to be written up in some of the top industry magazines and of the shelf of awards I accrued.
“I can’t believe I once screwed someone who works in a guitar shop,” Ben said, pulling me out of my daydream where I kicked him in the crotch. “I thought, with your parents and your looks, you’d accomplish something with your life, Jenna. These are nice, for instruments. I should get one.”
Ben peered around, then raised his eyebrows and gestured at it. “Why isn’t there a price tag?”
I swallowed back the snort. “Because it’s a custom-made guitar that took six months to build.”
“Are you saying I can’t afford it?” he said. Yeah. That, and, more importantly, my grandfather would never sell one to him.
“Most of these are spoken for,” I said, refusing to be drawn into a verbal sparring match. Those exhausted me almost as much as being friendly to Ben.
The bell tinkled again.
Really?
Twice in less than ten minutes. This barrage of people was not okay.
I needed to hire someone to handle all this.
I blinked away the dizziness. I needed to eat. I needed my pills. I needed to get into my workshop and away from Ben and the ugly memories he evoked.
“Look, we don’t have anything in common anymore,” I said. “As you just pointed out. I make guitars, and you want to play pro ball.” Best to pretend I didn’t know he’d been removed from the roster, thanks to his bad attitude and escalating violence toward his teammates. That would just make him meaner. And harder to get rid of.
“We’re like…corn and toads,” I finished. That didn’t make much sense. Half of what I said didn’t make sense, especially when I was stressed.
I finally caught a glimpse of the new customer. Tall. Taller than Ben, and broader, too. His dark hair was short on the sides but tousled on top. His slightly ratty T-shirt hugged him tighter than a jealous lover. Most of the time, tight tees meant men with big egos. Not my thing.
He turned toward me, and I sucked in a breath, squeezing that piece of flannel as if it alone would keep me upright. Holy shit on sugar toast, this man was pretty.
No. That was the wrong word. This man’s eyes, much warmer and a lighter brown than Ben’s, caught mine and held. I’d already cataloged the rest of his face: a couple days of scruff shadowed his firm chin and square jaw, full lips—not as full as Ben’s bee-stung ones, slashing dark brows, and warm tanned skin. The bridge of his nose thickened in the same way my older brother Jude’s had after he’d broken it in a football accident ten years ago.
“Hey. I’m talking to you.” Ben grabbed my wrist.
“I’m done listening.” I twisted my arm, trying to wriggle from his hold. Ben’s fingers tightened to the point of numbing my fingers. He leaned into my personal space and used my captured hand to pull me forward until my chest was practically laying on the wood counter.
Nope, nope, nope.
I gripped the bat—I called him Gerald because…well, no good reason. I just thought my bat needed a name. I’d leaned my bat buddy against the cabinets earlier, and now I hefted the substantial weight as I brought it up, the end shoving hard against Ben’s chest.
“I said I’m done.”
He squeezed my wrist tighter and leaned into the bat. “We’re finished when I say—”
Sweet baby Jesus in a peach tree. I regripped the bat, planning to take a swing.
“What’s going on here?” the newcomer asked. His voice, all gravelly and rich, washed over me. “You all right there, miss?”
I yanked my arm, twisting, as I shoved the bat harder into Ben’s chest. Ben let go of me, and I stumbled back. My piece of flannel dropped to the counter.
“You need to leave,” I said.
Ben scowled at my look, so I turned my attention to the second man. My gaze locked on my new customer, trying to place him. He was older than me by a few years—late twenties, early thirties, I’d bet—and his jeans were worn in that sexy, I-work-hard way no type of washing could replicate. Now that he faced me, I saw his T-shirt said ARMY. An excellent look for him, especially when paired with—swoon!—scuffed motorcycle boots.
Who was he? I should know him; I knew I should.
His gaze never wavered from mine but, somehow, I knew he was keeping tabs on the rest of the store at the same time. He stepped forward again, getting between Ben and me.
His gait hitched as if he had a stiff leg. While uneven, he had the tread of a predator. Too young for the arthritis Pop-pop fought off each morning. I shivered with delicious anticipation for his voice.
“Y’all good here?” the man said.
I flinched at the bite in his tone. I hadn’t done anything wrong. Wait, now the stranger glared at Ben.
“Hey, there. What can I help you with?” I said.
“He bothering you?”
I plastered on a smile, deciding to stick to honey instead of the vinegar I wanted to spew all over Ben. “He was, but it’s all sorted now. Everything’s fine. Do you have an appointment?”
“Yep. I’m here to meet with the younger Olsen ‘bout a new guitar.”
“Looking at her,” I said, shooting for the upbeat personality most people expected me to wear.
The guy’s brows drew together tight, and he shook his head. “Huh. Didn’t expect a woman. Got the sense from your…grandfather?” I nodded, and he continued, “That I’d be meeting someone older—and nowhere near as pretty.” He smiled.
“I’m Jenna.” I stuck out my hand, and the man clasped it in his larger one. His palm was rough, almost abrasive. Not that mine were the soft white wonders they’d been while I was at Northern University. No, my hands now were used to cut, shape, and smooth wood, work I found soothing.
He turned my hand and studied the redness on my wrist from Ben’s harsh treatment.
“You do this to the gal here?” he asked in a low rumble that sounded like trouble.
Shocker of shocks, I liked this man’s hand touching mine. Like, a lot. Strange, especially after my rejection of Ben. Ben’s gaze bored into the side of my head, and my cheeks flushed at both men’s continued scrutiny.
“I asked you a question,” he said to Ben. His voice was deep, near as rough as his palm. I liked that, too. Mainly because he sounded nothing like Ben.
“I don’t owe you nothing,” Ben said, sullen but also wary like he, too, was trying to place this man.
“My body guard’s outside,” he said, tilting his head back a little. “Should I get him?”
“You are the country music star, Camden Grace.” Ben smiled like a bright penny. “What are you doing here?”
That’s where I’d seen him—practically everywhere since I’d returned to the city. Camden Grace was Austin’s hometown darling. Born on a ranch just west of Lake Travis, Camden Grace had crooned his way to the top of the country charts by his mid-twenties. His first album had to be…oh…five years ago. Since then, he’d strummed out a dozen multi-platinum singles and two more full-length albums, and, in the last couple of weeks, some bad press.
“Need a new guitar,” Camden rumbled. “J. Olsen’s are the best.”
My fingers tingled as my hand slipped from Camden’
s. I clenched my fist, trying to ignore my attraction. To Camden Grace. Pile up the pepperoni and dive right in; I was always attracted to the worst of the male species.
“I love your music, sir.” Ben’s voice took on the excitement of a small, yappy puppy.
“Can’t say I like your treatment of Miss Olsen here much,” Cam grunted. “Why don’t you skedaddle before you get yourself in a heap of trouble?”
Ben’s scowl returned. Uh oh. I knew that look. Ben didn’t take well to being ordered around. He’d always been the Bantam rooster in our circle, needing to preen and peck away at others to keep himself at the top of the hen house. I’d have to watch out for Ben’s retaliation, which would be swift…and cause me more emotional distress. My hand gripped the bat tighter.
“I didn’t see you on the schedule,” I said in a rush, trying to diffuse the situation before Ben could escalate it and cost us business. “But I’m glad to walk you through your options, Mr. Grace.”
He leaned his hip against the counter and crossed his arms over his broad chest. Standing there, he dwarfed Ben. But it wasn’t just the size difference. There was a watchfulness in Camden’s eyes, an awareness of danger that Ben, with his soft, privileged life, would never have.
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