Turned out Nicole wasn’t the only one who complimented him. After shaking no less than fifty hands, posing for photos and watching Lawson interact with the press, fans and his peers, it became clear to me that if they were giving out a popularity award, Lawson would’ve won, hands down.
He had no competition.
An usher guided us to our reserved seats and I nearly lost my cool all over again. Gwen Stefani and Blake Shelton were on the front row, only two ahead of us. Beside them, Taylor Swift and her current entourage of girlfriends took up nearly every remaining seat. They were all stunning, a couple of pop singers, an actress, a model. Others, I didn’t recognize.
Don’t stare, Evans. Relax.
On either side of the catwalk-style stage, fans clustered together, some of them dancing to the music blaring from the loudspeakers, others trying to get the attention of the stars in the growing crowd.
Lawson rested our combined hands on his thigh. “I’ll have to leave you in about thirty minutes.” His lips touched my neck and I forgot about the room. Abandoned my nervousness and the fact I was more than a little starstruck. He was all that mattered. His lips on my skin. All that mattered. “Someone will come and sit beside you, a filler person.”
“Filler person?”
“Yeah, they don’t like empty seats at these things. Looks bad on television.”
“Ah.” His nose grazed my ear lobe and I shuddered. “You’re making it really hard to behave,” I whispered. “You do realize we’re in public, right?”
“I don’t care.” He kissed my neck. Once. Twice. “You should wear your hair up like this more often.”
“Oh?”
“Easier access.” His tongue touched the pulse playing a bass drum in my neck. “God, you taste good.”
I clenched my thighs together. Bit my lip to stave off a moan. The need was back, a relentless ache demanding satisfaction. Was this what it would be like for the next several weeks? Me, in a constant state of arousal, unable to process a thought without Lawson inserting himself somewhere in the equation?
“I wonder,” he murmured, “if I can make you wet for me, right here, in a room that’ll soon be packed with over sixteen thousand people.”
Shock dilated my veins. Only once had he uttered a statement so bold, in the limo on the way to his performance at the café in Nashville. You’re gorgeous when you come. He’d surprised me then, too. Lawson was the epitome of southern gentleman. Attentive to my wants, careful with how far he took our intimacy. But he was also a man. And he’d made no effort to hide how badly he wanted me. Oh, he’d been a good boy, for the most part. But it was always there, that need. In the way he looked at me, touched me, and the things he whispered into my ear when I least expected it.
“You may think, beautiful girl, that I don’t notice how damp your panties get when we kiss, but I do. I notice.”
I squirmed in my seat, clenched my teeth as another moan slapped at the back of my throat. The memory of earlier in the shower, when I pumped my fingers into myself, imagining he was right there, watching, slipped over my shoulder like a silken caress. My grip on his hand tightened. Inside the thin lace cups of my bra, my nipples hardened.
“Think I can?” His breath fanned the loose tendrils at the base of my skull. “Don’t close your eyes, baby.”
I couldn’t close my eyes. Couldn’t let on that he was seducing me with his words. People were filling in the rows in front and behind us. The room was growing louder. Lawson’s thumb drew a line up and down my index finger. I allowed my gaze to travel the front row. To take in Taylor Swift’s shiny, shoulder-length hair and her red lips moving as she spoke to the woman sitting next to her. I counted heads—one, two, three, four—until a pair of brown eyes framed in thick liner met mine, square-on.
I didn’t know who she was.
Didn’t understand why she was staring at me as if I’d shown up in a zombie costume.
Until the girl next to her said, “Hey, Jenna, you got anything?” And I knew. I knew with every fiber of my being, deep in the marrow of every bone in my body, that this was the Jenna.
Jenna who’d dated him for three years.
Jenna who’d left him because he was too nice.
Jenna who’d broken his heart.
Jenna whose memory had made it impossible for him to write.
Until me.
She drank me in. Weighed me as if her eyes were a set of scales and I the sand she meant to sift until she was satisfied. I had to admit, she was strikingly beautiful. The kind of effortless beauty that sprung from good genes. Her platinum locks fell down her back in the beach waves that made up fifty percent of the hair tutorials on YouTube. She wore more makeup than me, but it worked for her. Flawless brows, eyeshadow, winged liner and lashes. Glossy lips. She looked older, expensive, unattainable, and I suddenly wondered what Lawson saw in me. If this is who turned him on for three whole years, how did he find plain Harper Evans from Columbus, Ohio even remotely attractive?
And yet.
The moment he finished talking with the guy next to him, who looked too much like Thomas Rhett to be anybody but Thomas Rhett (yes, I’d picked up quick on Nashville’s elite), his face returned close to mine. His lips moved over the shell of my ear.
“Well?” he said, bringing me back to his original question.
Two could play at this game. Keeping my eyes on Jenna, I leaned into him and made a confession I never thought myself capable of, let alone capable of in a theater bursting at the seams with people. “I’m already there,” I said. “In fact, I’ve been like this all day.”
He sucked in a ragged breath.
Jenna’s gaze narrowed and suddenly she wasn’t so pretty anymore. Somebody should’ve told her the resting bitch face wasn’t a good look.
“If you must know,” I continued, “earlier, I took matters into my own hands, so to speak.”
He exhaled the breath he’d been holding, and it skated along my neck, curled in between my breasts. His hand was gripping mine so tight the whites of his knuckles peeked through.
“Shit, Harper, that’s hot.” He cleared his throat. Tucked two fingers in his collar and tugged.
“Too much?”
He rubbed his free hand down his thigh. He was hard. He tried to hide it with his suitcoat, but it was too late. I’d already noticed. Thankfully, Mr. Rhett had engaged his wife in conversation and didn’t.
“Well?” I said, mimicking him.
His eyes, they shifted past the second row to the first, and there it was.
Recognition.
He saw her.
And she saw him.
My heart attempted its escape again and I wished we’d been given a program so I could fan my face. How long had it been? How long since they’d last spoken? Did he wish I was her and not me? Did he feel regret? Anger? Heaven forbid, longing? Question after question assaulted my thoughts, a mere handful of seconds altogether. But then no sooner had he noticed Jenna’s presence than he broke her gaze and gifted his to me.
“You are never too much, Harper Evans.” He brought my hand to his lips. “Although, I must say, I hadn’t thought I’d hear those words fallin’ from your mouth.” His eyes shifted to that mouth, only briefly, before returning to my eyes.
“You think I’m a prude?”
“Didn’t say that.”
“Imagine I don’t know how to make myself come?”
His smile could’ve solved foreign conflict, ended world hunger, stopped global warming. “Oh, I’ve imagined it. Many times.”
I was grateful for the dimming lights that hid my blush, the music that drowned out the loudness of my heart, the presenter who came out to start the show and garnered our attention to the stage. I needed the diversion. Tough, considering Lawson was right beside me. Holding my hand. Radiating warmth and driving up my libido. Everything about him turned me on. His scent, his laugh when the host said something funny, the way his pants stretched over his thighs, the slip of white shirt peeking
out from his jacket cuff, the veins in the back of his hands, the subtle rise and fall of his chest as he breathed.
I had it bad.
Real bad.
Three awards, two performances that were out-of-this-world incredible and he whispered into my ear, “Wish me luck, Columbus.”
“Oh! Good luck.” Of its own volition, my hand went to his face as he moved to stand and he bent, pressed a kiss to my lips. “I hope you like it.”
“I’m sure I will,” I said, the truth. He’d done nothing but amaze the hell out of me since we met. “Knock ‘em dead.”
I tracked his broad shoulders as he allowed a man with a headset and clipboard to guide him backstage. A millisecond later, a guy in a tux took Lawson’s seat.
He nodded in greeting.
“Hey,” I returned. Lawson’s absence sank heavily in my gut.
“Enjoying the show?”
“Yeah. Yes.”
“First time?”
“It’s that obvious?”
He smiled. “A little.”
I didn’t request an elaboration. For one reason or another, my un-celebrity status stuck out, which didn’t surprise me as much as it seared the edges of my ego. I showed up on Lawson Hill’s arm, held his hand, posed for photos with him. That had to count for something. Yeah, sure, his ex was here, which was...to use Lawson’s word from earlier with the reporters…special. Every handful of seconds, she’d glance back at me and I didn’t know where to look.
Maybe that was the obvious Random Filler-Guy spoke of. The obviousness of Lawson and his ex-girlfriend being in the same room when they weren’t together anymore. The obviousness of him bringing another girl, yours truly, to a big-time awards ceremony. The obviousness of Jenna throwing curious hate stares at me as if she were practicing for an archery contest.
Quit making up stories, Evans, my conscience ordered.
The legal secretary in my brain adjusted her glasses. But there is an overwhelming preponderance of evidence. People recognize their own kind. Lawson belongs to them. You don’t.
Conscience scoffed. People belong to themselves. Put the gin down and get real.
Two more awards were presented, winners announced, acceptance speeches given. By the time the next presenter strolled onto the stage, I was almost too wound up, too antsy to notice that it was Easton Cane, the guy I’d met that night at The Shed. The same guy that’d forked over his White Sox ballcap, so Lawson could attempt (and ultimately fail) to disguise himself.
He looked ridiculous-handsome in his navy-blue suit, sans ballcap, of course, and silver tie.
“Good evening,” he said as the cheers died down. “When I first met this next performer, he gave me some of the best advice I’ve ever gotten since I’ve been in the music industry. He said that when it comes to songwriting, it’s best to heed Thoreau’s advice. Rather than love, than money, than fame, give me truth. And that’s what he does with his music. He gives us truth. Ladies and gentlemen, I’m honored to introduce our next performer, a multi-Grammy winning artist who’s not only the nicest damn guy I know, but a damn good friend, too. Please put your hands together for Lawson Hill!”
chapter sixteen
The reverb of his guitar pulsed in my chest. Fans and guests clapped, whistled and hollered. Lawson walked up to the microphone to his drummer’s intro and the other guys in the band joined in, already in their places. He smiled, and the room’s energy spiked faster than a thermometer thrust into boiling water.
He’d removed his jacket and tie, rolled up his sleeves, unbuttoned his shirt halfway down his chest. The textbook image of a hot country star.
The song wasn’t one I’d heard from him before. Not online or via music app, nor the many times I’d watched him practice at home, whether by himself or with his band. The crowd listened, speechless, enthralled. This was new. New to me, new to them. Lyrics poured from his mouth, a smooth-as-silk melody about two people in a secret relationship.
A whirlwind encounter, shared smiles, heated touches.
Moving too fast, but it feels so right, so good, baby, baby you’re driving me crazy.
Emotion speared me in the gut, then spiraled like a beanstalk up, up, up into my neck and face. Had he written a song about us? It was almost too much to process. Especially right there in the middle of a crowded theater, chockful of celebrities and screaming fans. The harmonies were beautiful. The kind that sunk in, demand pause and appreciation. His lyrics read like a diary, an account of our time together.
Or maybe just some random guy’s time with some random girl, I told myself. Because the possibility existed that I was hallucinating. That I’d created a beautiful, vivid fiction in my own mind. One I did not want to let go of anytime soon. It was too precious, too exciting.
Regardless.
One significant truth stood out among all others—and there were many.
He was taking hold of me, this man.
He’d planted himself inside, rooted me into his world, and there was no going back. When he sang, my heart sang with him. When he strummed his guitar—he’d chosen his vintage white Fender Stratocaster—the blood in my veins caught fire.
Two verses and a final chorus and he broke into a guitar solo that garnered more whistles, more whoops and calls. The drums picked up. He moved up the catwalk and the fans lost their minds. Within seconds, everyone was on their feet, clapping to the beat, cheering him on.
Katie had instructed me to smile until my face hurt. I hadn’t realized just how involuntary that task would be.
I’d never smiled so wide in my life.
His fingers skated across the fretboard; every note hit with master precision. Some of the guys in the audience were shaking their heads in amazement. The fans around the stage thrust their hands in the air, screaming, and Lawson catered to them, making eye contact, leaning forward as he made impossible runs on the guitar. At one point, he looked up, and our gazes locked. He watched me, never breaking rhythm. Deep, that gaze. Penetrating. And his smile? Gosh. I don’t think I could’ve ever gotten enough of his smile. He loved this, fed off the crowd’s energy like a rose opening its face to the sun. When the song came to an end, he leapt into the air so high I gasped, then laughed when he landed on the last note.
Un-freaking-believable.
But he wasn’t finished.
The band transitioned into Maelstrom and I had the sudden thought he could’ve taken over the awards ceremony for the night, and no one would’ve minded. Everyone was up. Everyone was dancing and clapping. Gwen Stefani and Taylor Swift sang every word, for all the world as if they were a couple of tour rats who’d hadn’t missed a single show. They danced next to each other, their hips and arms swaying, as Blake Shelton’s shoulders shook with laughter. No one, it seemed, was impervious to Lawson’s charm. To his raw talent. To the aura that followed him around wherever he went.
He closed the chart-topping song with another guitar solo that left the room in raucous cheers. People leaned into one another, smiling, expressing their amazement.
But it was Jenna I noticed as Lawson bowed, blew a kiss to the fans and left the stage.
She wasn’t smiling. Neither was she frowning. From this angle, I could only make out her profile, but emotion had vacated the premises. Indeed, hers was a face practiced in the art of mask-wearing. Celebrities were like that, I guessed. Slipping from one persona into another with less trouble than one changes his shirt. She stared after Lawson, stared still following his exit, when everyone began to take their seats.
One of her friends tugged her hand and she sat, reaching back to smooth her hair.
Twenty-something minutes passed before he appeared at the end of the aisle, murmuring excuse me, thanks, as he squeezed past knees, hands reaching out to touch him, and utterances of approval to reclaim his seat.
He stopped short, his eyes locking with those of the guy who had taken his seat. Recognition registered on Lawson’s face. For a moment, they stared at one another, until finally Lawson stuck
out his hand.
“Thanks, man,” he said as Filler-Guy tentatively accepted the gesture. “She behave herself?” He winked at me.
What was happening?
A muscle ticked in Filler-Guy’s jaw. Then he came to, said, “Don’t know about all that,” as if they were reading lines from a play and it was his turn. “Hey, great performance, bro. Really solid.”
“Thanks.”
“Those riffs…man. Wish I could get that kind of sound out of my—”
“Thanks.”
Filler-Guy blinked at the interruption. “Well. Y’all enjoy the rest of your evening. Looking forward to the next album, by the way.” Pause. “It’s been a while.”
Lawson didn’t respond and Filler-Guy took that as his cue to leave.
Clearing his throat, he tugged his forelock as if accustomed to tipping a hat. “Good luck, Miss.”
Good luck? “Thanks.”
“Good. Luck.” Lawson sank into his chair, set his elbow to the armrest. Rubbed his upper lip. He stared straight ahead, unblinking, as if he were working out a quantum physics problem.
“Hey.” I nudged his arm. “You okay?” I’d never seen him like this before. When he didn’t answer, I said, “Lawson?”
He blinked. Then his gaze met mine and, I couldn’t explain it, but it was like the tension instantaneously ebbed.
“Yeah.” He sat up straighter, laced our fingers. Kissed my knuckles. “You look beautiful tonight. Did I tell you that already?”
My brow pulled. The storm may have receded from the shoreline, but an aftermath lingered. Scattered debris, something. Something he wasn’t allowing me to see for the wall he’d gotten way too good at erecting when he needed to.
But why did he need to? This was me. Ordinary, safe, no-strings-attached me. Hadn’t I earned his trust and he, mine? Hadn’t we gotten past the reactive need to build walls and keep each other at arm’s length?
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