Sarah M. Anderson - His For One Night

Not for the first time, Brooke wished they’d just announced she was pregnant and dealt with the issue head-on. Yeah, the press might’ve been brutal—but there was no such thing as bad PR, and she’d argued that her surprise pregnancy might’ve taken her second album, White Trash Wonder , from double to triple platinum. After all, an unexpected pregnancy was on brand.

She’d been overruled because of one fact and one fact alone: she wouldn’t tell anyone who Bean’s father was. Not that it was any of their business, because it wasn’t.

Her mother hadn’t forgiven her yet for sitting on that particular secret, as if Crissy hadn’t done the exact same thing by refusing to acknowledge Brooke’s father.

Which meant Brooke was stuck lying, which she hated.

Kyle stood and wrapped an arm awkwardly around her shoulder. “Welcome back,” he said, giving her a friendly squeeze before he headed out to the front to watch. “You need anything, you just give me a call. I mean it, Brooke—anything at all.”

Brooke’s eyes stung with unexpected emotion at Kyle’s thoughtfulness. She forced her shoulders down and started humming again, keeping her vocal cords warm.

Alex Andrews, her bodyguard and friend, squeezed her big frame into the hallway and handed Brooke a mug of hot tea. “They found some honey,” she practically growled.

Brooke accepted the tea gratefully and took a sip. Ah, the perfect temperature. “Thanks, hon.”

Alex was big and gruff, but underneath her tanklike exterior she was a softie with a heart of solid gold. They’d been friends since junior high, back when Brooke was a band geek just starting to perform and Alex had been the first girl to play offensive lineman on the football team. Long before White Trash Wonder had hit big, Alex had been right beside Brooke in every dive bar and county fair, doing her best to keep away grabby, drunk assholes.

Thirteen months ago, Alex had stayed home because her girlfriend had the flu, instead of joining Brooke in Fort Worth for the All-Around All-Stars Rodeo. If Alex had come, would Brooke and Flash have spent that white-hot night together? Or would Alex have been the voice of reason, keeping Brooke far away from cocky cowboys who were good in bed? And against the wall? And on the floor?

Brooke must have been frowning, because Alex asked, “Worried?”

Damn it—it was hard to get anything past that woman. Especially since Alex was one of the few people who knew about Bean. “It’s fine. He’s home with Mom,” she said, stretching her facial muscles to loosen them up.

“They’ll do great. Crissy only wants what’s best for him,” Alex replied, which was probably supposed to be reassuring. Except it wasn’t and Alex knew it. Her eyes widened as she realized what she’d said. “Oh, crap—I didn’t mean...”

“It’s fine,” Brooke repeated, taking this opportunity to test out her fake smile. Crissy Bonner’s favorite saying was ‘It’s for the best.’ Brooke starting singing lessons at the age of five was for the best . Guitar lessons at the age of six was for the best . Hours of practice every day were for the best . Slumber parties, birthday parties, pets or boys—they weren’t for the best.

Knowing who her father was? That definitely wasn’t for the best.

Brooke kept humming. She was the last act of the night and she was surprised to realize she was nervous. It had been almost seven months since her last public appearance. Seven months since cleverly cut dresses and long, swingy cardigans hadn’t been enough to conceal her baby bump. Seven months since she’d sung in public.

After years of constantly touring—starting with bars on Nashville’s Music Row and then to county fairs to state fairs, to being the opening act for some of the biggest names in country music—Brooke had paid her dues early and often. And it’d all paid off last year when White Trash Wonder had hit. Suddenly, sold-out rodeos like the All-Stars had led to sold-out arenas. Years of lessons and performances and navigating the business world as a teenager had suddenly paid off, and Brooke had officially been labeled an overnight success, country music’s Next Big Thing.

And she’d ruined it by getting knocked up by Flash Lawrence.

She’d had to miss the Grammys, for crying out loud. She’d been in labor when she’d won Best New Artist.

She wanted to be home with her son right now, she realized. She wasn’t ready to do this again—the long and lonely nights, the negotiations, the travel and, most especially, the constant media scrutiny. But she didn’t have a choice. Her uncle and former manager, Brantley Gibbons, had embezzled not just most of her money but a great deal of his other clients’ funds and invested them in the Preston Pyramid Scheme—which had, of course, collapsed around his ears just about the time Brooke was breaking out.

Brooke and her mother weren’t penniless—she still had royalties coming in on her two albums and had managed to keep the bulk of her profits from the last few months of touring after Uncle Brantley had “relocated” to Mexico to avoid criminal charges. But she couldn’t afford to stay out of the spotlight any longer. She had to strike while the iron was hot.

Getting back out there was for the best, her mother had said. Because of course she had.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the MC began. “Our final act tonight is none other than the Grammy and Country Music Association winner, Brooke Bonner!”

Brooke took a final sip of her not-quite-hot tea and locked her smile in place. She’d been fourteen when she had first performed at the Bluebird, just a scared little girl and her acoustic guitar. It seemed fitting to start over where it had all started.

Brooke stepped out of the hallway to an impressive roar of applause. She smiled and nodded and tried to turn her body so no one would make a grab at her ass as she worked her way to the center of the Bluebird, where chairs and mikes had been set up.

As she settled into her chair, the hairs on the back of her neck stood up and she had the strangest feeling that he was here—Flash Lawrence. Which was ridiculous. In the thirteen months since their one-night stand, she hadn’t heard from him. And she hadn’t contacted him, either. She’d come so close when she’d realized she was pregnant. But she’d Googled him and seen all these horrible headlines about barroom brawls and trials and...

And she’d passed.

Her life was crazy enough with her career. A baby would make it crazier still. But a violent, immature cowboy? That was a hard no . She wanted her son to know his father but not at the risk of his well-being. Or hers.

A shiver raced down her back. She was imagining things, that’s all there was to it. There was no way that her one-night stand was in the audience. It just wasn’t possible. Just to be sure, she turned in her seat to wave at the people behind her who were still clapping.

Damn. There, at the bar—a long, lean cowboy was perched on the last seat, the brim of his black cowboy hat throwing his face into deep shadow. He wore jeans with an absolutely huge belt buckle, with a leather biker jacket over a black Western-style button-up shirt. She couldn’t see his eyes, but she could feel him looking at her.

Oh, no. Oh, hell .

Maybe she was wrong. It wasn’t like cowboys of a certain height and weight wearing black hats and big belt buckles didn’t exist around Nashville because they absolutely did. But her blood pounded in her veins and her hands shook, and there was no mistaking the flight or fight reaction.

Because she wasn’t wrong.

The cowboy shifted in his seat, tilting his head back. His gaze collided with Brooke’s, and even though she hadn’t seen him for thirteen months, even though she’d only ever spent one amazing night with him, heat pooled low in her belly and she trembled with want.