All the fear and worry he’d harbored came back in full force, quickly followed by confusion and finally anger. White-hot anger that burned the back of his throat.
He was calling bullshit. On the whole thing.
Hunter had looked everywhere for Mackenzie. Spoken to friends, his family, industry connections. No one had heard from her. Leaving a giant hole in his world since that last dance.
Mackenzie had bailed on his wedding, not even bothering to show up for his big day, then did him one better and left for good.
Mackenzie hadn’t just been his writing partner. She’d been like family to him. But she’d disappeared and hadn’t said a fucking word.
To anyone.
Or so he’d thought.
Except there she was. Sitting in his cousin’s office, looking like the answer to all his problems. Gorgeous as ever. Like nothing was amiss and he hadn’t spent the past few years obsessing over what he’d done to deserve her silence.
Wondering if she was okay.
Jesus—he felt his eyes burn with relief—she’s okay.
She was alive and well and his prayers had been answered.
He couldn’t take his eyes off her. In a pair of red cowgirl boots and matching red lips, she didn’t look anything like the timid coed she’d been a few years ago. Her wavy hair spilled down to the middle of her back, her hands rested on the chair as elegant as ever, and there was an inner strength that radiated from her core.
Mackenzie Hart was even more stunning than he remembered. That sensual beauty in contrast to her petite size brought out a protectivenessin him that he hadn’t felt since that first time he’d seen her all those years ago at Big Daddy’s.
The band had been finishing up their practice session when a pretty little waitress in a skirt that showcased one bombshell of a body came walking over.
“Last call,” she’d said, her sweet Georgia drawl rolling over him like honey. “Can I get y’all anything?”
“A Lone Star,” he’d said. And then, because he’d been a cocky twentysomething with a hard-on for spinners, he’d added, “And maybe a kiss.”
“One Lone Star.” She’d scribbled it in her little notepad—which told him she was new. Big Daddy didn’t let waitresses write stuff down unless they were in training. Plus, he’d have remembered a face like hers. “Anyone else?”
“Aren’t you going to even ask me where I want that kiss?” he’d asked.
“Not interested.”
“You sure looked interested a few minutes ago when I was picking up my guitar.” The guys had laughed, but not Mackenzie. Nope—she’d yawned. “Couldn’t keep your eyes off me. Or my instrument.”
“Actually, I was trying to figure out what you were doing with your hands. I mean, if you can’t get the chords right, what makes me think you’d be any better with your lips?”
Hunter had redefined his type right then. Oh, he’d liked his women bold, and her bite-me attitude was right up his alley. But there was something about her melt-your-soul eyes that drew him in.
“Not only am I great with my hands,” he’d said, hopping off the stage, “but these fingers here have been hailed as poetic genius.”
Unlike the rest of her gender when under his scrutiny, she’d never once broken eye contact. The closer he got, the bigger she tried to make herself appear—head high and shoulders squared as if she could handle anything.
He’d leaned a hip against a booth and said, “I believe theNashville Tribunewrote, ‘The most skilled since Merle Travis.’”
“Merle might have had something to say about that.” She’d shrugged but couldn’t seem to help stealing glances at his satin vintage Les Paul Junior—a present from his dad. “Especially about those last notes.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
That time when she’d smiled it had been big and real, so bright it lit up the entire room. And her eyes, those warm green eyes, had twinkled. “The last notes you played were wrong. You know, the ones going into the chorus.”
“I wrote it. There’s no way they’re wrong.”
“If you say so. I’ll be back with that Lone Star.”
