The kitchen door banged open, and Richard strode in. “Good mornin’.” He went right for our mama, dipped down to kiss her on the cheek. “How’s my favorite girl?”
Mama blushed, then clucked her tongue. “She’s just fine with all her babies under the same roof. But don’t you think it’s about time you found yourself a different favorite girl?”
There was movement at the door, and this time it was Royce carefully pushing through, as if he were treading water, not sure what he was going to be walking in on.
A suit.
He’d opted for one of those perfectly fitted suits, dark just like the man.
I thought maybe my mama whimpered under her breath.
Apparently, he had that effect on people.
Melanie hummed the wedding march under her breath.
Those stormy eyes met mine.
And I knew . . . knew I was ready. That I was gonna get on that stage tomorrow night. I was gonna sing proud and loud and with all of me, and then, at the right time, I would tell Royce I was ready.
I’d make it known.
I was going to take Cory down. I just prayed he wouldn’t take Richard down with him when he went.
Mama smacked her hands together to break up the intensity. “Breakfast is ready. Let’s gather at the table. Call your brother and your daddy and tell them to come in. They’re out at the barn tending to the horses.”
Melanie and I helped Mama fill bowls full of bacon and eggs, a basket full of biscuits, and a boat full of white gravy.
We set the overflowing dishes on the table, while Richard and Royce grabbed plates and silverware and situated a place setting at each spot.
God, that was cute, and Royce Reilly pulling off something cute was nothing but a crime. A danger to my senses.
Because having him rough and raw and soft and sweet meant he was everything.
Linc and Daddy came in, stomping off their boots in the mudroom and washing their hands at the sink. When they made their way inside to take their seats, Daddy clapped Royce on the shoulder in a clear show of support.
Assuring him he backed his actions.
Everyone gathered around the table.
Though this time—this time Royce pulled out the chair next to mine and settled into it. When he pulled my hand into his lap under the table and threaded his fingers with mine, I blew out a contented, satisfied sigh.
And when my daddy bowed his head to say grace, I squeezed Royce’s hand, giving thanks that Royce was the man meant to stand at my side.Twenty-TwoRoyceIt’s funny how when you spent years of your life hungering for one thing, entirely focused on one objective, you were still kind of shocked by the anxious disturbance that roiled through your spirit when you realized all that work and effort and hate was getting ready to culminate.
The soul-wrenching thirst to see it through.
To finish it.
Defeat had never been an option.
I sat on the couch on the bus with my attention wrapped up in my phone, on the message that my stepfather had sent, biting at the inside of my cheek and trying to see through the rage that clouded my sight. Distorted my senses.
Loathing thicker than it’d ever been.
Fitzgerald: You’re off. I’m coming to Nashville to see to it that Carolina George signs.Bitterness spun through the deepest part of me, a vat of venom and a moat of hostility. My teeth clenched as I tapped out a response.
Me: They don’t trust you.His return was almost instant.
Fitzgerald: And I don’t trust you. I want you out of this equation. The plane will be waiting for you in Nashville at five to bring you back to L.A.Me: I’m sorry, but it’s too late now. There is no going back.It was no apology. It was a warning of what was to come. The storm that had been howling and building, assembled like an army, was getting ready to touch down.
It struck me.
That flash of energy.
A bolt of intensity.
A burst of light.
Emily.
Emily.
She’d become the thunderstorm.
I lifted my head so I could watch her climbing the tour bus steps, a river of blonde, curled locks that billowed and bounced around her shoulders, the girl in a flowy tank and fitted jeans and a mile of long legs.
Lust fisted my guts, all coiled up with the mess that she’d made of my heart. Cracking it right down the center.
Taking all the parts she shouldn’t have been allowed to have.
She stopped in front of me, wearing these strappy heels, girl standing over me like a teenaged boy’s wet dream.
A perfect fantasy.
Smooth skin and perky tits and a waist that perfectly fit the span of my hands.
She lifted a coy grin. “You’re in my seat,” she said in that sweet drawl.
It was the same accusation she’d made the first day I’d climbed onto the bus, when I’d had no clue where it was taking me, though there’d been a part of me then that had already known I was diverting paths.