Authors: Erin Nicholas
Sabrina wasn’t sure she’d ever had the last word with her father, but he simply nodded and watched her with what she’d almost describe as hope.
This coming home thing was just one surprise after another.
She did not, however, get the last word with Luke. Just as she was pulling the door shut behind her he called, “Two weeks, Sabrina. I’m asking you again in two weeks. And you’ll give me an answer this time once and for all.”
With the heavy office door firmly shut between them, Sabrina paused and took a full, deep breath.
Two weeks.
In two weeks she would have to make the biggest decision of her life.
She knew the exact date too. Because in two weeks was opening night of the Next Stop Nashville competition.
Not that it mattered to her. She was going to call them tomorrow and tell them she couldn’t make it.
Of course there weren’t any directions in the letter about how to do that. Probably because someone would have to be insane to say no. But there was a phone number on the letter. And an e-mail address. She’d make sure the message was clear and professional. Something like,
I regret to inform you that I will be unable to join you—
No, that was too formal. Maybe,
Thank you for the honor of selecting me—
No, she should just get straight to the point.
Sorry, but I’m completely broke and can’t make the trip.
Sabrina rubbed her forehead. She couldn’t go running off to Nashville for reasons other than money. It was a long shot, for one thing. It would upset Luke if she just took off. Her dad too.
Marc would be happy, of course.
And just like that she was back to thinking of Marc.
She headed to get her purse from the locked cabinet behind the bar and wondered if Marc was still in the building.
Not that that mattered either.
Really, the two things she spent the most time thinking about were the two things that had nothing to do with anything
real
in her life. Nashville was just a dream and Marc was just…also a dream.
He was flirting, messing with her, trying to keep her from spending time flirting and messing with Luke. It wasn’t anything serious. Just like Nashville wasn’t anything serious.
It was a singing competition. There were nineteen other contestants. Her chances of winning were one in a million.
Okay, one in twenty.
Still, even if she won—big
if
—then what? There were no guarantees. If nothing came of it, then what was the point? If something did come of it—well, she couldn’t do anything about it anyway. She was going to be a mom. She needed stability, security, a cost of living she could afford.
So, Nashville was a moot point.
Like her attraction to Marc.
Nothing could come of that either. She hadn’t been kidding when she said it would kill Luke if she and Marc were together. And Marc wasn’t asking to be
with
her anyway.
She grabbed her purse and dug to find the letter. She had to find that phone number so she could tell them she wasn’t coming. At least that would take Nashville officially off her list of options. She should have done it right away when she got the letter, but she hadn’t been able to. A few days of enjoying the congratulations wasn’t a crime.
But now it was taunting her, tempting her, teasing her.
Also like Marc.
She frowned and pulled her wallet, two packs of gum and a granola bar out of her purse trying to find the letter. What had she done with it? She glanced around, then remembered—she’d been reading it when someone ordered a drink.
Turning, she found the letter on the counter. With a tube of cinnamon-flavored edible body lotion on top of it.
She held her breath as she picked up the lotion and immediately saw the
Congratulations
scrawled across the back of the letter. In Marc’s handwriting.
“You really should mind your own business.” She slammed Marc’s back door behind her.
Marc didn’t look particularly surprised to see her when he turned away from the oven and set a pie on the counter top. “That is excellent advice. Wish I’d followed it when you called from Wyoming. Or when you needed a job. Or when your dad stopped at Kat’s.” He wasn’t looking at her and the muscle in his jaw twitched as he threw the oven mitts down next to the pie.
She didn’t think he really meant it, but there was still a noticeable jab of pain in her chest thinking he might be regretting everything. She crossed her arms. “You really have been butting in a lot haven’t you?” It hadn’t seemed like he was butting in. It had felt good having him there with her, on her side. Presumably anyway.
“Well, you won’t have to worry about that when you’re in Nashville, will you?” he asked, stomping to the fridge, withdrawing more butter and slamming the door.
“So you did read it.”
“Of course.”
‘“What made you think it was okay for you to do that?”
“I assumed you left it lying there intentionally so I would see it.”
“Why would I want you to see it?”
“To prove to me that you’ve got what it takes. Though I don’t need proof of that.”
“I didn’t— You think I have what it takes?” She’d been told that a few times over the years but there was something about having Marc say it that made her pulse skip.
It occurred to her that she might care what Marc thought of her.
Wanting to sleep with him was problematic. Liking him, wanting to see him and spend time with him was confusing her. But valuing his opinions, especially about her, was a whole new level of complication. He wasn’t supposed to have influence in her life. He barely liked her and he had no intention of being involved with her beyond this crazy flirtation—or whatever it was.
“Of course. That should be obvious. You made it into the top twenty. And there are only six other women. And you’re the first contestant they’ve ever had from Nebraska,” he said.
She stared at him. “How do you know that?”
“Website.” He gestured to his laptop set up on the counter by the fridge.
“You checked the website?” He’d been interested enough to look up the competition’s site? Why?
“To see what you’d gotten yourself into.”
She tipped her head to one side, watching him. “You were worried?”
“Curious. Had to know when I was going to need a replacement bartender.”
She didn’t believe him. She wasn’t sure why, but she knew that Marc logging into NextStopNashville.com had nothing to do with her bartending schedule.
“Well, you don’t have to worry. I’m not going.”
“Yes you are.” He didn’t look up at her, just kept mixing whatever was in the bowl in front of him.
She looked around, realizing for the first time that he was wearing an apron and the center island of his kitchen was completely covered with baking items.
“I’m not going. I already called and told them no.”
“No you didn’t.”
“I did.”
“Your name is still on the website.”
She looked over at the computer before she could help herself. She wanted to see her name there as a finalist, she couldn’t deny it. But she folded her arms instead and said, “So?”
“Go ahead and look. There’s a bio of you, a photo, everything. I like that picture by the way.”
One of her roommates had been an amateur photographer and had taken her only publicity photos. Paying professionals was far too expensive.
“That’s okay. I don’t care.” But she did. She really wanted to see her name and photo on a website. Still, she resisted.
“You should be happy about it. Proud of yourself. It’s a huge thing to make it into that competition. It’s the third annual you know. The last two winners both have recording contracts.”
She did know that. Of course she knew that. She’d been aware of—and interested in—Next Stop Nashville since she read about the first competition in a music magazine two years ago. “What are you doing?” she asked him instead, wanting to distract both of them from this conversation.
Nashville was not an option and hearing Marc talk about it as if it were a sure thing wasn’t helping.
“Making pie.”
“At this time of night?”
“Yes.”
“For the entire town?” There were at least twelve piecrusts and bowls and bowls of fruit, sacks of sugar and seemingly a thousand other ingredients.
“Yes.” He turned back to the oven where he pulled two more finished pies out and set them on top of the stove.
“What are you talking about?”
“Every year The Camelot supplies pies for the town picnic.”
She’d never seen so many piecrusts in one place. “How many?”
“Sixteen.”
“What kind?”
“All kinds.”
“I love cherry.”
He turned with a frown. “Why are you here?”
“Oh.” She pulled herself up straight. “To yell at you.”
“Can you get it over with so I can finish here?”
“Love to. Leave my stuff alone and mind your own business.”
“You don’t mean that.” Marc bent and put another pie in the oven.
It annoyed her that she got distracted by how great his butt looked in the faded jeans. “What?”
“I think you really, really want me messing with your
stuff
and minding your
business
. In fact, I think you’ve realized that I’m the
only
one you want messing with your stuff and that’s why you’re here.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You don’t know?” He looked up and made lasting eye contact for the first time. “You’re going to pretend that you don’t know? And act surprised that I know exactly what you’re doing?”
“What
I’m
doing? I’m not reading your mail and messing with your stuff and confusing everything.”
“Is that right?
I’m
the only one messing around and confusing everything?”
“You’re the one touching me all the time and flirting and smiling at me—” She stopped, realizing that she was on the verge of admitting things she shouldn’t say out loud even to herself.
“And every frickin’ time you—” He stopped and visibly gritted his teeth.
She stared at him when he failed to go on. “I
what
?”
He scowled at her. “You respond.”
“I respond,” she repeated. “What does that mean?” But she knew exactly what he meant. She responded to him in ways she never had to anyone, or anything, before.
“It means that all I can think about is getting you naked and making you
respond
over and over again.”
Her body definitely responded to that and she had to concentrate on breathing normally. Still, she tried for flippant. “I think that’s maybe more your problem, than mine.”
“Maybe it is.” He didn’t look up and was stirring the ingredients in the bowl like he had a personal vendetta against them. “After all, you have another guy hanging on, don’t you? When you get all worked up you can just go off to his office and have
him
scratch the itch. The itch
I
created.”
He really seemed upset and she knew he wanted her to believe it was because she was driving him crazy. But she thought just maybe it was her and Luke together that was driving him crazy. Which meant he was jealous. Which made her want to smile. She resisted, but she definitely wanted to. “He’s the guy I’m going to be living with. He should be scratching my itches.”
“The guy you
might
be living with.” Marc threw—not tossed—the spoon into the sink. He thumped the ball of dough he’d created onto the wooden counter top and began flattening it.
The man drove her crazy. “And you’re pissed because you think he can do better.”
“That’s probably why I should be pissed.” He hit the dough with the rolling pin.
“But?”
He didn’t answer, just kept rolling.
“Why are you pissed then?”
Nothing. His jaw was tight and the dough was getting a beating, but he wouldn’t even look up.
“Oh now you’re going to shut up? You open this up and now you won’t follow through?” She wanted emotion from him, a reaction, even if he was mad about something. She wanted to know that this was more than casual to him. “Let’s talk about these itches I need help with.” He still didn’t look up.
“Come on, Marc. If we’re gonna fight, then fight with me!”
“I don’t want to
fight
with you,” he muttered.
The muttering drove her crazier than any yelling might have done. “Well, I want to fight with you!” And she did. She had so many pent up emotions, so many frustrations and it seemed that many, if not all, stemmed from this man. She wanted to let loose with…something. And Marc was the closest target.
Marc, who was simply rolling out piecrusts and muttering at her.
That wasn’t going to fly. If he didn’t want to fight with her now, he soon would.
She reached out and grabbed the closest thing, a can of apple pie filling. She scooped out a handful and flung it at him, hitting him directly in the center of the chest.
He froze, the rolling pin gripped in his hands.
When he didn’t react further than that, she took another handful and threw it. It hit him on the front of his right shoulder.
He put the rolling pin down and finally looked up her. There was a dangerous glint in his eyes as he began unbuttoning his shirt. “That’s how you want to do this?”
Her heart was pounding and she was sure it was from anger. It had to be anger.
But as more and more of his chest was revealed she knew that lie wasn’t going to make it much further. He shrugged out of the shirt entirely a moment later and her heart rate kicked into high gear.
Wow. He was muscled and broad, skin tanned with light hair gracing his pecs and stomach. She wanted to touch it. All of it. With her tongue.
This was bad.
He started toward her. She backed up. “How I want to do what?”
“Get me naked.”
“I…don’t…” But she couldn’t quite get the lie out. She did want him naked. Bad.
“All you had to do was ask, Seattle. And take your own clothes off.” He removed the apron and tossed in on the counter.
“I am not taking my clothes off.” But she wasn’t about to dissuade him from removing his.
“I’m okay with taking them off for you.”