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“You do, too,” she argued. “He’s really good.” The look Brock shot her made her wish she could rewind the last ten seconds and keep her mouth shut.
“I have a proposition for you both. You two play something for us?” Guy asked. “I’ll donate to the Drug Free Like Me program and post the info on our show’s website.”
Which would give the program a huge boost in visibility.
She risked a look Brock’s way. He was sitting forward, elbows resting on knees, looking intent and focused at the floor. She’d seen that face many times—when he was waiting to run out on the field and tackle someone. Was he imagining tackling Demetrius for telling Guy he played guitar? Or was it her, because she’d said he was good? The idea of him tackling her wasn’t as unpleasant as it should have been. Do not go there. “Brock?” she asked.
He clapped his hands together and stood. “Let’s do this.”
The audience went wild.
She and Brock were ushered back to the performance area. He helped her onto one of the waiting stools and took the guitar he was offered. “Don’t blame me if I mess up.” He moved his stool next to her and sat, strumming over the guitar strings. A loud “We love you Brock!” from a row of women clad in Houston Roughnecks gear had Brock shaking his head, a dimple peeking out of his right cheek.
Emmy Lou smiled. She had to admit, he looked good holding a guitar. Who was she kidding? He looked good, period. Starched, white, button-down shirt with sleeves rolled up to reveal that even his forearms were pure muscle. Fitted black jeans that hugged and clung and teased at the strength beneath. And cowboy boots. Emmy Lou loved him in boots. He looked even better in a cowboy hat. She cleared her throat. “What am I singing?”
“Something easy.” He paused, then added. “And short.”
More laughter from the crowd.
The muscle in his jaw tightened. That’s when she noticed he wasn’t making eye contact or looking at the audience. This big, muscled-up, beautiful man was nervous.
“You pick.” She leaned closer to him.
He ran his fingers along the neck of the guitar. “‘Sweet Dreams’?” he asked, his eyes glued to hers. “He’ll be watching.” It was a whisper—for her alone. If Brock wanted her to sing to his daddy, she would sing all night long. Even though the flicker of affection and concern in his gaze had nothing to do with her, it touched her.
She nodded. “Definitely.” It took everything she had not to reach for him.
* * *
Brock kept playing. He’d messed up a handful of times, but no one noticed with Emmy Lou beside him. She had the voice of an angel—always had. The tiny beads and sparkles covering her short dress made her glow. She sang with her eyes closed, head back, long hair swaying as she rocked side to side. Watching her sing—she was something.
According to Connie, Emmy Lou was the sort of PR influencer that automatically gave a bump to whatever product, person, or program she mentioned. Teens looked at her as a role model. Moms appreciated her positive influence. Men, it seemed, either wanted to screw her or protect her. But everyone, everyone, had an opinion when it came to Emmy Lou King. That was why Connie was so gung ho about the two of them doing spots like this together.
After their run-in at the hospital, Brock wasn’t so sure it was a good idea. But Connie had brought him around pretty quick. “I’m not going to sugarcoat it. Bringing in Russell Ames isn’t a good sign. He’s not a second-string player,” Connie had said on their last phone conversation. “You need options. Having your gorgeous face all over, next to America’s sweetheart, will help with that. Trust me.”
He trusted her. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be sitting here, playing a guitar, on national television.
The song ended and he could breathe easy. Amid all the clapping and enthusiasm, Emmy Lou slid from her stool. She wobbled, reaching back for her stool, but he steadied her. Tucking her hand into the crook of his arm was instinctual.
Her fingers squeezed his arm. “You did good.”
“Nah. But you did.” It was a whisper, but she heard him, those big green eyes looking his way.
“Ladies and gentlemen, Emmy Lou King and Brock Watson.” Guy joined them on the stage. “It’s been a real pleasure visiting with you both. Thank you for the song.”
“Thank you for the support,” Emmy Lou answered, that oh-so-sweet smile in place. “One favor before we go? A picture?”
“I was going to be offended if we didn’t take one.” Guy nodded.
Brock didn’t understand people’s fascination with every little thing she did, but they were. Social media wasn’t his thing, something else Connie wanted him to work on.
Emmy Lou held up the camera, her back to the audience. “Y’all wave,” she said, tugging his arm and pulling him closer. “Come on, Brock, squeeze in here so I can get us all.”
He shut out the soft brush of her hair beneath his chin and the curve of her hip pressed against his. More like, tried to shut out. But his body had other ideas. The whole night, he’d been distracted by her every movement, every breath, every flutter of her eyelashes, and her glossy grin. Why would that stop now, when he was posing for a selfie with her and a couple of hundred others?
“Smile. A little? You look…” Her eyes met his on her phone screen. She swallowed, her gaze widening. “N-not happy.”
He wasn’t unhappy. Because, right or wrong, there was something gratifying about knowing he could rattle Emmy Lou King. A whole hell of a lot. He was smiling now.
