You'd Be Mine(35)

Annie’s so caught off guard, she cuts off midsentence. I round my mic, strumming my guitar in a steady rhythm and humming the start. Annie begins to laugh—full-bellied and high-pitched—as I hoped she would. She’s shaking her head and swaying her hips, and I recite the first lines. We don’t get far, though, before she cuts me off to skip straight into “It Ain’t Me, Babe.” It’s the best kind of battle of the bands, and I’m having the time of my life under the lights. She takes on Johnny’s smoky lines, and I harmonize with June’s half in a falsetto, which adds to the crowd’s amusement. If they’re of the generation who came up with Johnny and June, they’ll appreciate our back-and-forth. If they’re too young to recognize it, they’ll still find the open flirting to be fun to watch.

I’ve never been able to pull off anything like this with anyone else, but that’s because I didn’t know Annie. She’s the darling of the country music world for a reason, and blessedly, she’s taking me along for the ride. We close out our set to uproarious applause. Annie grabs my hand to bow, but I step to the side, holding out both of my arms to her. This was her debut, if you ask me. A handoff of epic proportions. I’m not sure what I’ve witnessed tonight, but I’m positive it wasn’t my star shooting into the stratosphere.

The question now is whether I hang on for all I’m worth or let go so I don’t drag her down.





13



Annie


monday, june 24

nashville, tennessee

This summer was a terrible idea. Or maybe the best idea in the history of ever. I go back and forth. I’m doing exactly what I’ve always wanted to do. Since I was a little girl watching my parents perform under the hot lights to screaming fans, I’ve wanted to do the same.

Just not the same way.

We perform “It Ain’t Me, Babe,” and it’s a resounding success. I’m riding high. I’m feeling more me than ever before and I swear, I swear, I could do literally anything at this moment.

So naturally, when we return to our hotel after the performance and the subsequent after-party and it’s 3:00 A.M. and I should just go to bed because I’m wrung out and my mascara’s probably streaked to my earlobes, I knock on his door instead.

And he opens it.

He leans a hip against the jamb and folds his arms across his chest. My eyeballs seem to get hung up on his tanned forearms before I drag them north to his down-turned lips.

“I’m not going to be your booze hookup, Mathers.”

At first, all I hear is hookup, but then my dizzy brain snags on the rest, and I’m indignant. “I’m not looking for tequila, Coolidge. I have some in my own room.” I think. Probably. To be honest, I haven’t looked. Last weekend’s hangover is still mighty fresh in my memory.

He raises his brows, expectation painted across his face. “It’s late, Annie. We leave early for Milwaukee.”

“I know that. I only wanted to come by and say I had fun singing with you tonight.” I hear a door slam within his room behind him. Fitz’s bronze hair flashes over Clay’s shoulder, his toothbrush dangling between his teeth. He waves and gives a salute. Clay rolls his eyes and pulls the door shut behind him, stepping out into the hall in his socks. He leans back against his door.

“Me, too. I was thinking, maybe we should incorporate it into the show from here on out … you guys come onstage with us for a song or two.”

He seems so genuine, it gives me all sorts of warm fuzzies. “Really? That would be great. I mean”—I try to play it cool—“as long as we can keep the fiddlers off each other. We have to think of the tweens.”

He barks out a laugh, and I glow at the sound. Making this boy laugh might be more rewarding than performing.

“I’ll have a talk with Fitz about appropriate touching.”

“I’m not worried about the appropriate kind,” I say without thought, and his eyes darken. I swallow hard, resisting the urge to backtrack. Holy hell, did I just hit on Clay Coolidge? My words could have been innocuous enough, but the suggestive tone … did I have a suggestive tone? Do I even know what that is?

“Are you hitting on me, Mathers?”

I grimace and cover my face with my hands, walking back until I hit my door. I drop my fingers and stare at the ceiling, taking a deep breath. “Yes. I don’t know. Maybe. Why? Is it working?”

Suddenly he’s in front of me, his hands on either side of my head. “Annie, I’m not the kind of guy you should be hitting on.” Even as he speaks, his body betrays him. I can feel the heat radiate from his skin. It’s as though there’s a magnet charging between us, drawing us closer and closer.

I lick my lips experimentally and thrill as his intense eyes follow the motion.

“I’m not a good guy,” he protests weakly.

I reach up and brush a soft wave off his forehead, dragging my fingertips down the side of his stubbly cheek and tracing down to his collar, skimming the blazing skin peeking out of the top of his V-neck T-shirt. “I know who you are. You’re Clay.” I press forward and pull him toward me at the same time. He gives easily, and suddenly every soft part of me is overcome by the hard planes of him. His lips are pliable and soft against mine until I sigh and his warm tongue pushes past my open lips and starts to dance with mine. My fingers twirl themselves in his hair, and I tug lightly when his hot hands tease up my sides. I don’t know when my hips started grinding into his, but it’s obvious he doesn’t hate it, and my heart is in my throat. Am I doing this?