Take Me Home Tonight

Praise for

YOU REALLY GOT ME

“Lovable characters and pulse-pounding chemistry make this one of my favorite reads of the year!”

—Laura Kaye,
New York Times
bestselling author

“A poignant tale about uncompromising love . . . Kelly really brings these multidimensional characters and world alive . . . A no-holds-barred tale of drunken nights, an alpha rockstar, and a charismatic heroine.”

—HeroesandHeartbreakers.com

“[A] no-nonsense, gritty story line about the uglier side of rock and roll . . . There are destructive moments of anguish and heartbreak followed by intense passion and provocative love. Erika Kelly will captivate your imagination.”

—The Reading Cafe

“An entertaining and wild ride as Emmie and Slater learn what's important while fighting their fears. Erika Kelly created an interesting portrayal of the music industry and some lovable characters.”

—Harlequin Junkie

“A really interesting look at how hard it is to be a whole person, let alone be in a relationship, and also be a celebrity—or an aspiring one . . . This is an author to watch.”

—
RT Book
Reviews

Titles by Erika Kelly

YOU REALLY GOT ME

I WANT YOU TO WANT ME

TAKE ME HOME
TONIGHT

An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

TAKE ME HOME TONIGHT

A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with Suzanne Kaufman Kalb

Copyright © 2016 by Erika Kelly

Excerpt from
You Really Got Me
by Erika Kelly copyright © 2015 by Erika Kelly.

Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

BERKLEY SENSATION
®
and the “B” design are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

For more information, visit
penguin.com
.

eBook ISBN: 9781101987230

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Berkley Sensation mass-market edition / April 2016

Cover photos: portrait of a sexy male model © CURA photography / Shutterstock; piano keyboard © BlueSkyImage / Shutterstock; electric guitar (tattoo) © Andrei Krauchuk / Thinkstock.

Cover design by Rita Frangie.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book is dedicated to Sharon,
for talking me down and building me
up.

• My hero, my best friend, the love of my life . . . . Superman, I think we're rockin' the empty nest.
  
• Joshua Path, phenomenal singer-songwriter . . . with a heart full of gratitude, I thank you for being my consultant on all things music-related in this series. Your help has been invaluable throughout, but on this book? I couldn't have written it without you.
  
• I have lucked out with my publishing team. Thank you, Leis Pederson, for seeing every tree in the forest. Rita Frangie and the art department, you guys knocked my covers out of the park. Yvette Grant, Joan Matthews, and Ryanne Probst, thank you for such great support!
  
• Of all the agents in all the land, I got the best. Thank you for being so awesome, Kevan.
  
• Sharon, you are the best friend and critique partner a girl could ask for.
  
• You are always hugely helpful, Olivia, but on this one . . . you saved the day.
  
• There is no community as supportive and generous as romance readers and writers. The Dreamweavers, my
  chaptermates at CTRWA, COFW, CoLoNY, and WRW, and all the wonderful people I've met along the way—thank you for your friendship, advice, and support. (Like, for example, Laura Kaye, who came up with the title for this book!) And the blogs? Don't get me started. Obsessed with Romance, About That Story, Reading in Pajamas, Herding Cats and Burning Soup, Guilty Pleasures, Cocktails and Books—just to name a few—your passion for stories and support of authors is inspiring. And a special shout-out to Kristy DeBoer and Kathy Page—you ladies rock!
  

“I love you, Slater fucking Vaughn!” The zealous fan tossed her panties onstage, and the band launched into its next song.

Oh, I love this one
. Closing her eyes, Mimi Romano let herself float away on Slater's sexy, emotional voice and wildly romantic lyrics.

Her phone vibrated in her hand, jerking her back to reality. She whipped it up so fast it leapt into the air, and she scrambled to catch it—it was like trying to wrestle a live fish. Thankfully, she caught it before it hit the ground.

Calm down, you freak!
She had to laugh at herself. She'd auditioned, what? Eight hours ago? No way would she get a response so quickly.

Mimi swiped the screen. Even though she knew it was too soon to hear back, her spirits still plummeted when she saw a text from her mom.

Anything?

She'd go out of her mind if people kept bringing it up.
I love you but please don't keep asking! It'll make me crazy.

Her mom responded right away.
Sorry! Excited for you.

Promise to let you know
.

She knew her mom didn't like being on the other side of the world while Mimi pursued this amazing opportunity. But, of course, Mimi hadn't even applied when her mom had decided to spend three months in Australia with her boyfriend—who just happened to be the band's A&R guy.

After dropping her cell phone into her clutch, Mimi looked up to find her friend Violet standing beside her with a hopeful expression. She shook her head. “I'm sure I won't hear for a few days.”
Gah.
The wait would kill her. An interview, a debate, pitching a proposal, anything business-related, she could crush. But a cooking competition?

What were you even thinking?
Why had she gone after something so outside her wheelhouse?

“What was that?” Violet asked.

“What?”

“That face you just made. Like you just realized you forgot to put on pants.”

“Oh, that?” She laughed. “You mean that moment of blind panic?”

Her friend smiled warmly. “Yeah, Meems. That.”

“Well, I mean . . . fuck a duck.” She let out a huff of breath. “I
really
want to get on this show. I know it's ridiculous. Obviously, I should be looking for a real job instead.”

“You've
been
looking for a job. Eleven months, Meems. That's a long time. And you've hit more than your share of dead ends. I think you're amazing for trying something different.”

Hope reared its head, but she stomped it back down with the toe of her sling-back sandal. “Half of me's shaking my pom-poms, totally believing what you say, and the other half is like, ‘Girl, are you nuts? You don't stand a chance.' I mean, come on, I auditioned for a cooking competition with an MBA.”

“You're way more than an MBA. You're the chef for an
up-and-coming rock band, and you're Dino Romano's daughter. You grew up in the restaurant business. And if that still doesn't get them, your amazing personality will.”

Her friend was absolutely right.
So
right that hope wriggled back up—and stuck its tongue out at her. A rush of emotion had her enveloping Violet in her arms. “Thank you.” She'd needed to hear that.

“Oh, honey, you're shaking.”

“I have to get this, V. I have to.” Because scoring a spot on a nationally televised cooking show?
That
would fast-track her way onto her dad's payroll. God knows nothing else had.

Okay, really, she had to stop thinking about it. It was out of her hands at this point. She turned around to watch the band.

She'd met Blue Fire while living on Violet's wildflower farm at the tip of Long Island. When one job after another hadn't panned out, she'd wound up helping her mom and Violet develop their wildflower-based products. They sold tea, soap, candles, and potpourri to high-end gourmet and specialty shops in New York.

She loved living with the band, and watching them perform never ceased to thrill her. They were
that
freaking good. Never in her life had she seen a hotter lead singer than Slater Vaughn. With the sculpted physique of an athlete and a striking face that had graced the cover of
GQ
, he'd already hit
People Magazine
's Sexiest Man Alive issue.

But for all his hotness, she had to admit, her gaze always slipped right past him and onto her favorite distraction: Blue Fire's temporary keyboard player.

Calix Bourbon was a total badass. Dark, tall, brooding. The kind of guy that made a girl think of uninhibited, pull-my-hair-when-he-takes-me-from-behind sex. Not that she wanted him, of course. Calix wasn't the type to have a girlfriend. Just the kind a woman had filthy thoughts about. Harmless.

But filthy.

As he threw his whole body into playing, his dark hair shook, gleaming in the lights, and his thick biceps flexed and bulged.
That man is sexy as fuck.

Violet bumped her shoulder. “Since when is a rocker dude your type?”

Oh, crap, had she said that out loud? She slapped a hand over her mouth, hiding her smile.

“Unless you're imagining him waiting for the 2 train wearing an Armani suit, a pair of leather cap-toe oxfords, and carrying a Ferragamo briefcase?”

“You think I'd wrap that body up in a suit? But thank you for not cutting his hair off in that scenario.”

“Oh, it would be criminal to cut Calix's hair.”

Right then the song transitioned to the swoony part. “I
love
this.” She held her breath as Slater belted out a note so wrought with emotion it twisted around her heart.

As always, though, her gaze wandered to the keyboard player. At six-four, Calix had the hard, ripped body of a fullback. Add in his mess of shoulder-length hair, facial scruff that framed a generous mouth, and unusual ink all over his body, and the man was pure, smoking-hot badass.

Just then his head tipped back, and it felt almost lurid to watch his intensely sensual expression. As if she'd walked in on him in the throes of sex.

Hot, sweaty, uncivilized sex.

“Why won't he just join the band already?” Concern tightened Violet's brow. “It's not like he has anything else going on. What musician wouldn't want to be with these guys?”

And see? That was why Calix was nothing but a fantasy. A session musician at age twenty-six, he didn't have an ounce of ambition or drive. She didn't know him well—he came to the studio when called and left the moment he was no longer needed—but if she'd met him in college, he'd have been the quintessential frat boy with a cigar in his mouth, a girl's ass cheek in his hand, and a perpetually sloppy grin on his devastatingly handsome face.

Not her type
at all
.

Now, a man in a suit, a sharp watch on his wrist, intelligence in his eyes. Yeah, that.

Her phone buzzed, sending a jolt through her body. Could this be it?

Quickly swiping the screen, she found a text from her dad.

Meeting just ended. Heading back to the city.

Wait, seriously? He'd been out in the Hamptons all weekend, and she hadn't seen him once.

Let's just get a drink before you go.

Better not. Have an early meeting.

She tried to ignore the pinch in her heart.
Hey, now. If I can't get those crespelles you promised me, you can at least buy me a drink!
She'd planned on sleeping over at his house, but the deal he'd been working on for months had blown up, keeping him in the city until Saturday afternoon.

She knew not to take it personally—of course her dad loved her. He was just super busy.

Tough weekend, tesoro.

One drink with your daughter could be just the thing.

When he didn't immediately respond, her body went tight. He wouldn't blow her off, would he? Not when she'd put herself out there.

But then her phone vibrated, and relief sped through her.

You're right. It will be just the thing. I'm turning onto Main Street. I'll park and we'll get a drink at La Plume.

Let me say good night to Violet. Meet you outside.

But when she turned back to the stage, her gaze caught on Calix. His hair shimmied with his passionate playing.
Completely absorbed in the music, he had no idea how much sex he was having right at that moment. Every woman in the room had to be thinking about dragging him off to the bathroom and licking a path from his pecs to his—

“And I thought rockers weren't your type.”

Mimi just smiled at Violet. “I'm just surprised he can play when I'm pulling his hair as hard as I did in my mind just now.”

“You dirty girl.”

“Listen, my dad's outside. I'm going to go.”

A crash of drums hurt her ears. In the following moment of silence, Slater Vaughn pulled up his T-shirt to wipe the perspiration off his handsome face, and women screamed and threw more panties onto the stage. Ben, the drummer, tossed his sticks into the crowd.

Applause broke out, and she allowed herself one last look at Calix. A shock of awareness hit when his gaze met hers across the crowded room. He gave that half smile of his—more a smirk—then disappeared from the stage. Mimi turned to go, when Violet reached for her.

“Let me know if you hear anything.”

“Of course. See you at the house.”

Making her way through the crowded club, she pushed out the door and stepped into the cool April air. She didn't see her dad's car out front, so she checked for him down the street. Lined with bright blue awnings and black wrought iron benches, the sidewalk was quiet at this late hour.

For eleven months, she'd had nothing to share with him but one failure after another. She'd love more than anything to give him good news tonight.

“Amelia,” her dad called from across the median. Typing away on his phone, he stood under an old-fashioned streetlamp.

She'd just give her e-mail a quick check. Pulling her phone from her clutch, she logged into her account and waited for it to load.
Please, please, please let there be an answer.

Her skin tightened when she saw a message from NBC. She opened the e-mail.

Dear Ms. Romano,

We are happy to welcome you as a contestant on our five-week cooking competition on the
Verna Bloom Show
. This is a huge achievement, as over 750 finalists auditioned for the six spots.

The competition begins in one week, so please show up promptly at 11 A.M. on May 2 for makeup and wardrobe.

Holy crap. Holy freaking crap. Mimi wanted to scream and jump up and down. Instead, she raced across the street and threw herself into her dad's arms.

He laughed, hugging her so tightly her feet lifted off the grass. “Tell me, my love. Tell me the good news.” Even though he'd been in America since he was a boy, he still retained a hint of his native Italian accent.

She pulled back, finding it hard to speak through the wild pounding of her heart. “Dad, oh, my God. I made it. I got on the show.” She shoved the phone at him.

He pulled his reading glasses out of the pocket of his sport coat to read the screen. His handsome features pulled into a scowl, and he handed the phone back. “Okay.”

Confusion—and disappointment—slammed her. “Okay?”

“Come, let's get a drink. We can talk about some ideas for you.”

Wait, why was he being so dismissive? “Didn't you read it? I made the
Verna Bloom
Show
. Oh, my God, Dad. I made it. There were thousands of applicants, and I made the show.”

“Amelia, stop.” He looked at her like she'd suggested they do body shots.

“Stop what?”

“You're not doing this show.”

“What do you mean I'm not doing it? Of course I'm doing it.” Where was this coming from? “You knew I'd auditioned.”

“Why would I take it seriously? It's ridiculous.”

“There's nothing ridiculous about it. Oh, my God, I can't believe it. I did it. I'm going to be on the show.” God, Verna
Bloom was the hottest cooking show host in the country. “Do you know what an amazing opportunity this is?”

“To do what? Make a fool of yourself on national TV?”

She couldn't have been more stunned if he'd shoved her. “I'm not . . . why would I make a fool of myself?”

“Because you're not a chef. You have no training.”

“I might not have formal training, but I . . . I cook.”

Her dad lowered his chin and raised his eyebrows in a familiar expression that made her feel like the ten-year-old girl who'd told him she could make a
croque-en-bouche
without a recipe. “Standing on a chair beside me as I make
crespelle
is not the kind of training necessary for a career in the culinary arts.”

“I'm not looking for a career in the culinary arts.” She lifted her arms in a gesture of,
What the hell are you talking about?
“What is the matter with you? You want me to have real-world experience. Well, here it is.”