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  She grinned and stole another piece. “You’re avoiding the question.”

  He held his plate away from her. “Go get your own.”

  “It’s more fun to eat yours.” Jazz crawled up onto his lap and reached for one of the sandwiches.

  “Go!”

  She stuck out her bottom lip and he sighed, handing over the plate. “Lazy shit.”

  She folded herself into the corner of the couch and picked apart the mini-sub. “When you go back up, can you get a turkey one?”

  “Who said I was going back?”

  “You want to sniff around Chef Pruitt again.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Oh come on, Deak. You can’t keep your eyes off of her when she’s in the room. Not that I blame you. She’s hot, in that wholesome, corn-fed way.”

  “She doesn’t have a wholesome mouth.”

  “No?” Jazz zeroed her gaze in on Harper.

  She was loading more sandwiches and making conversation with Gray. He could see the polite smile. He knew that smile. He hated that smile. He much preferred the little frown between her eyebrows or the smirk when she thought she was saying something to put him in his place.

  His new favorite chef seemed to have a lot of rules about musicians. It only seemed prudent for him to break out of those misconceptions. And if that meant he didn’t put the moves on her right away, then he’d do that. He stood.

  “Atta boy.”

  “No comments, Jazz.”

  “Turkey!” she called after him. “Don’t forget the turkey before the vultures get them all.”

  Nick leaned back. “You wouldn’t be calling me a vulture, would you, Streaky?” he called out.

  “If the mouth fits.”

  While he’d love to find Harper for another sparring session, he decided to get another plate of food and hang with the band.

  This was their first real gig. Not a club, not promo bits in small sound stages, not even Jimmy Kimmel’s show could compete. The stage and all those people…that had been worth every fight to get them there. Adrenaline and exhilaration still bubbled under his skin, but it didn’t feel right to share that with anyone else yet.

  This was the band Deacon had been waiting for since that first afternoon that he’d played with Gray in the seedy Blue Rhino in January. God, he hoped they could keep this magic going through the tour.

  Five

  August 18, 1:30 AM - Care and Feeding of Rockstars

  Harper clicked open the lock on the Food Riot truck. The food had been put away, the dishes done, and the crew were tucked up in their bunks.

  Exactly where she should be.

  Except she couldn’t settle. When she couldn’t settle, she cooked. Or in this case, baked.

  The sliding metal door of the truck groaned and creaked on its way up. She winced, looking over her shoulder into the parking lot, deserted save for the tour trucks. They were pulling out at five a.m. to head into Nashville.

  There were still people milling about. Especially around the band tour busses. The bands were holding court on top of the tour bus. They’d dragged lawn chairs up there, using the roof racks to keep someone from falling off. They were doing a battle of the bands style acoustic show, trying to outdo each other. Simon and Nick were on top of the Oblivion bus, Sin and Johnny on the Rage bus.

  Personally, she liked the acoustic stuff more than Rebel Rage’s party anthems. Johnny’s soulful voice could carve out a chunk of emotion like no other she’d ever heard.

  Well, until she’d caught part of Oblivion’s show.

  She was usually too busy to go out and check out the musical acts. And by the first week of the tour she rarely had an inclination. The set rarely changed. But this past week had been a learning experience with Oblivion. She’d never heard them outside of the radio.

  They were infectious and fun, but there was a reason they’d hit the top of the charts. “The Becoming” was sex. Period. Unapologetic, mind-altering sex with words and chords. And Deacon was in the center of the song. His bass was as important as the lead guitars and vocals.

  She still couldn’t dislodge the image of him on stage that first night, his head tipped back and his long fingers climbing the fret board as slowly as if it were a lover’s limb. Would he be like that off the stage, those long, dexterous fingers slow and sure on a woman’s skin?

  Do not go there.

  Heck, she’d been going there for a week straight now. Each night she managed to get away and see them on stage for at least one song. More often than not it was “The Becoming”, but she’d caught Oblivion playing a few covers—Journey’s “Separate Ways” had been a particular favorite.

  How many times had she been trapped on a bus with the typical loveline and dedication radio shows playing? At sixteen, she’d known every sappy Journey song, as well as Fleetwood Mac, Chicago, and Aerosmith. Music had been a part of her life from the womb. And the fact that this ridiculous band took such joy in music was a gift and a temptation.

  She scrubbed her face with her hands and straightened her shoulders. No more Deacon thoughts. She spun the dials to the combination lock for the dry goods and hauled out flour, both coconut and regular, coconut flakes, and her favorite dark chocolate chunks. Setting the oven to the right temperature, she lined up her ingredients.

  The monotony of setting up her popover pan, dividing the butter into the cups, and measuring out the exact quantities of milk, sugar, salt, and vanilla calmed her. This is what she did. The artistry of baking was science and patience. She’d developed this recipe based on one of the dozens of books her grandmother had left her and improved upon it as she found new ingredients to play with. It was a rich dessert that flooded the taste buds with the sweet and the bitter. It was an orgasm for the mouth.

  “Because food orgasms are personal, and I need to know who’s giving me one.”

  No, not Deacon again. Why the hell was everything reminding her of him? Okay, so he was nearly six and a half feet of glorious man candy. But hot guys were a given on the road. She’d seen all there was to see on that end. And on more than one occasion she’d been cornered by some of the most attractive men on the planet.

  She’d said no to the best of them. Hell, she’d said yes to a few when she’d gone through her boy-band phase. Seventeen and full of hormones, being on a tour with her father’s crew hadn’t stopped her from exploring her newfound feminine wiles. Nor had it stopped her from finding out just how little it meant to give up her virginity to a pop star.

  Harper knew the signs of infatuation, but she also knew the value of having a perfectly clear mind. She was not going to get herself clouded up by infatuation again.

  Her virginity might be long gone, but she wasn’t that girl now. She was a career minded woman. She might only be twenty-two years old, but she’d grown up on the road.

  Deacon McCoy and his seriously delicious shoulders, deep voice, and far too pretty green eyes were not going to break her. When the oven chimed that the preheat was finished, she slid the popover pans in to ready them for the batter.

  The calming scent of butter and the repetitive whirl of her beater in the batter went a long way to putting her back to rights. After five minutes, she pulled out the popover trays and poured the heavy mixture into the cups.

  With careful deliberation, she slipped chocolate chunks into the batter before it warmed. She didn’t want to overpower the popovers with too much chocolate. There was a balance she needed to achieve between the bitter of the chocolate and the sweet of the coconut.

  She stood back and tossed the last two chunks of chocolate into her mouth. The seventy percent dark chips zinged in her mouth. Yep, they were going to be perfect.

  She popped the oven door open, hefted the two tins, and turned to find Deacon sitting cross legged at the mouth of the truck. Years of training kept her from dropping the pans. “Stalk much?”

  “I saw a light on over here and got curious. Then, there was the scent of butter floating across the parking
lot. How was I supposed to resist?”

  “Because you’re a grown ass man?”

  His lips twitched, but he managed not to laugh in her face. A beer dangled from his long fingers. “Don’t stop on my account. I’ve been enjoying the show.”

  She deposited the trays into the oven and set the timer. “How long have you been there?” How the hell had she not been aware of him?

  “Since you started tucking those chocolate pieces into those little muffin things.”

  “Popovers,” she corrected automatically.

  “Whatever they are, they smell awesome.” He stood up and took a sip from his beer. His freakishly long legs covered the length of the trailer in three strides. He set his beer on the stainless steel counter and leaned on his forearms until they were at a similar height. “Did you know you do this cute little thing with your tongue when you’re contemplating chocolate chips?”

  Her hands splayed across the counter top as she leaned in. “Scharffen Berger chocolate chunks are not mere chips.” She refused to think about the fact that she’d done anything with her tongue, nor that he was interested in said tongue. Tongues were out of the equation, goddammit.

  “Oh really?”

  “Really.” She picked up a morsel and held it up in front of him. “This is bittersweet chocolate—just about dark chocolate really. And it’s so smooth you’ll want to melt it and put it on everything.”

  The smirk that slid across his scruffy face made her stand up straight. Sweet Pete, that dimple. She was way too close to him. And she’d pretty much made chocolate a suggestive sexual act. What in the sweet blue hell of Indiana was wrong with her?

  In all honesty, everything around Deacon McCoy made her think up sexual acts. And the danger signs were all around her. Tall, muscular signs that that said, ‘Danger, Will Robinson’ with twirly lights and alarm bells.

  “I’m open and ready to be schooled, Chef.” He opened his mouth and his eyes twinkled for God’s sake. Actually twinkled. Who did that? Did it come with the unreal green he had? Surely they had to be contacts. It simply wasn’t fair to the female populous if they were real.

  His lower lip was just there waiting for her to smear with chocolate and then taste. This was her all-time favorite chocolate. She couldn’t ruin it by adding Deacon McCoy into the memory. Nope.

  No can do.

  He raised one eyebrow. “Chicken?”

  “No.” She dropped the morsel and stepped back.

  “I call shenanigans. If you can’t show me just how amazing that chocolate is, then it’s just a chip to me.” He sipped from his beer, his long neck working the golden liquid down with long pulls.

  Who decided a stainless steel kitchen was a good idea? It just held all the heat in. She swiped a towel over her brow before tucking it back into her apron. “Who said I was going to share anyway? It’s my favorite chocolate. I came here to bake in peace.”

  “So you’re going to eat…what? Eighteen muff—sorry, popovers—all by yourself?”

  She shrugged. “That’s what the recipe called for.”

  “And you don’t know how to cut a recipe? I find that hard to believe.”

  “They might be for my hardworking crew, not for some spoiled musician that fancies himself a rock star.”

  “Is that right?” He set his beer down on the table with a soft snap.

  She tipped her chin up when he stood straight to keep their eye contact. “Yep.”

  “You think you know me so well already?”

  She stepped back until her butt bumped into the sink behind her. “I’ve overheard enough in the last week. And I know your kind.”

  Her heart hammered in her chest the closer he came. Tall—so freaking tall and wide. The twinkle had gone out of his eyes and now they were just a steady and serious green. She’d been cornered by guys in the past. Especially overzealous musicians who thought they were God’s gift.

  The size of him didn’t make her feel threatened. No, this was a whole different kind of threat. Every time she was in a room with Deacon her temperature skyrocketed. Right now, her nipples tightened under her sleep tank. No bra and full apron to give her another layer—another mask to hide behind as she did every other day.

  Here and now it was only her stupid reaction to him. Even with the buttery, chocolate scents chugging from the oven, she could smell his cool, ocean scent with a light tinge of beer and…tequila?

  She focused on his eyes, but there was no denying that this man was stone-cold sober. Of course, two-hundred and whatever pounds of muscle certainly gave him the advantage in tolerance.

  She gripped the sink behind her. “You have that big, bad tour bus full of toys and anything you could ever want.”

  “Sure, right now I do. And I’m thankful for everything I have in my life since our songs hit. But I’m not the spoiled, shitty musician like you seem to think I am. I’m still the same kid from Texas.”

  “Texas?” Her hand slid off the sink in surprise. “I thought you were from L.A.?”

  “I’m from a lot of different places, Harper.”

  Do not melt. You will not melt at the way his voice curls around your name. You will not.

  “I am too.” She hadn’t meant to say it. She didn’t give up a lot of information about herself all that often. Roadies had a code. You didn’t ask questions. You listened to stories if someone told you one, but you didn’t pry. Too many of them had walked away from shitty pasts. Some loved the road and the music and the work—like her brother, Randy, and like she did. But some were running from demons.

  Deacon was close now. She could feel the heat coming off him like a coil in her oven. He tucked a hank of her hair around her ear. The calloused tips of his fingers coasted around the sensitive edge of her ear and she fought not to close her eyes and stretch for more contact.

  But she didn’t need to stretch. He slid down her lobe and behind it to the soft skin there and along her jaw. “I’m from Austin, from Portland, from Tuscon, from Seattle, and Los Angeles is where my mom finally stopped. It’s a town full of assholes who will take care of her.”

  His rough tone didn’t match his gentle touch. And she couldn’t help herself. That pain pushed through, and she cupped the back of his hand as he trailed down her neck to her shoulder. This wasn’t a sob story to get him laid. Not with that kind of pain in his voice.

  “But I got out.” His gaze met hers again and his thumb traced along the column of her neck. “I got out because music got me out. And my friends got me out. And I’m thankful every single day.”

  She curled her fingers around the palm of his hand. It was all she could really cover. But he didn’t stop stroking her neck or looking down at her. Yes, that flirty twinkle was gone, but what remained was far more dangerous.

  She could hold out against flirting. Pain and longing was another form of warfare altogether. And as he lowered his mouth to hers, she didn’t pull away. She rose on her toes. Not that the three inches helped when he was so much taller.

  But it was all he needed. He took the sign for what it was and brushed his nose along hers. That evil, wonderful, amazing thumb just kept stroking. His breath fanned across her face, and his ocean scent threatened to pull her under.

  And the buzz of her timer jerked them apart.

  “Shit,” she hissed. Saved by the buzzer. Holy sweet mother of Pete, thank God for the buzzer. She slipped under his arm and away from him to the oven. Butter and coconut and chocolate was a far safer scent than Deacon McCoy.

  “I’ll let you have one if you’re good.”

  He turned so his hip was resting against the sink and his arms were crossed over that mouthwatering chest.

  Nope. Chocolate was delicious, not Deacon. Coconut and chocolate are delicious, she chanted in her head as she set them out to cool.

  “What you can do is go to that fridge and get me some heavy cream and the Tupperware container marked strawberries.”

  When he came back to the counter, the ghosts and intensity wer
e gone from his eyes, and the light was back. All buttery gold in the dark green.

  Holy crap, she was in so much trouble.

  She reached under the counter and grabbed a clear bowl. “Behind you, in the pantry with the green and purple door—yeah, that one. Can you grab the powdered sugar?”

  He opened the door and looked over his shoulder. “So does this make me a pastry chef too?”

  “It makes you a helper monkey.”

  He laughed. “Nice.”

  She dumped in milk and the powdered sugar and hit the glass bowl with her beater.

  “So that’s how you make Cool Whip?”

  She clenched the side of the bowl. “You’re so close to getting kicked out of my kitchen.”

  He leaned on the counter again and played with the container of strawberries. She forced her eyes away from his long, tanned fingers and inwardly swore when she put too much sugar into the whipping cream. She splashed more cream in and stopped when she got the stiff peaks she was looking for.

  At least these were the peaks that were supposed to be stiff. She stuffed down the raging hormones and tingles that still were warping around in her system like the Starship Enterprise. From nipples to clit and back again, she was so overstimulated by not being stimulated she was going to need a hot shower and Big Blue to get to sleep.

  Harper Lee, you could have Big Deacon instead.

  Nope.

  She plated two popovers, put a dab of whipped cream on each, and slices of strawberry as garnish.

  “It’s too pretty to eat.”

  She smiled. “You’ll want to eat it. Try a strawberry.”

  “Why does it look all…dehydrated?”

  “Just try it.”

  He nibbled off a tip of one of the heart shaped strawberries and she couldn’t stop the giggle at his face. From frowny concentration, to pleasure, to surprise.

  “If you bake strawberries it turns to—”

  “Candy.”

  “Pretty much. The natural sugars make it ultra-sweet.”

  He popped two into his mouth. “Wow. That’s better than Gummy Bears any day.”