Love on Tour

Chapter One

C hristine stood on the corner of Broadway and Third Street in downtown Nashville, group-texting her friends.

New York wasn’t the only place where neon lights were bright on Broadway.

Music City had grown into a mega tourist attraction with flashing signs advertising various bars and grills owned by country music’s finest artists, along with trinket shops and boot stores.

She stood outside Miranda Lambert’s Casa Rosa bar, smelling the tacos and wishing she had time for a quick bite.

But she was running behind and needed to focus.

The CMT Awards would be starting soon and her friends were holding her ticket. Finding them trumped getting tacos.

She wrote, Driver was twenty minutes late, but I’m here at our meeting place. Where are you?

Her friends, Julianna and Phoebe, didn’t reply. She called. No answer.

She texted again: Doors are closing in ten. I don’t want to miss the awards! Are you getting my texts?

This was an important awards show for Christine. The year before, she had pitched a song to a rising artist, and now the song was up for a video award. This was the first time Christine had placed a song that reached number one on the charts and was nominated for an award.

She looked down the street at the arena where the ceremony was about to take place.

Amidst the throng of lookie-loos was a hint of the red carpet where A-list artists made their way inside.

A blonde head poked out of a limo and was followed by the most amazing set of legs in country music.

The blonde reached for a man’s hand, and he helped her gracefully exit the car.

Carrie Underwood had arrived. The tall man, who had dark hair and a megawatt smile, laughed as he leaned in to the woman beside him.

It was Luke Bryan himself. The host of the show. Who else had that smile?

Christine looked down at her phone. Still nothing. I’m walking toward the front door. Please meet me outside with my ticket, she texted.

Her eyes darted left and right, searching the crowd for a familiar face.

The streets were closed off near the venue, forcing ticket holders to walk the last few blocks.

Women balanced on six-inch heels, hanging on to their dates, while men reached for their necks to loosen their ties ever so slightly.

This blue-collar town had put on its glamour face for one of the biggest awards shows in country music.

Her friends were not amongst the crowd.

Her text alert chimed with a message from Julianna, her best friend. Hurry, Christine. We’re at the front door convincing the guard not to lock it. Run! You can make it.

Christine knew it would be close. The doors closed thirty minutes before showtime, and she was pushing it.

She was always prompt and had ordered her Uber the night before.

She should have had plenty of time to spare.

But the best-laid plans didn’t always work when you factored in the nightmare of Nashville traffic.

A group of young women cruised by on a pedal tavern. Their T-shirts screamed of a bachelorette party. They waved and raised their glasses, hooting and hollering. Christine guessed it wasn’t their first drink of the evening.

Christine’s heel broke as she ran toward the venue, causing her ankle to twist and her leg to buckle.

Her body did an ungraceful, slow-motion twist downward, leaving her sprawled half on the sidewalk and half on the street, asphalt burns on the palms of her hands.

She grabbed her ankle and winced with pain.

Her phone chimed with an incoming text from Julianna. I’m so sorry, my friend. The guard locked the doors and made us go back to our seats.

“No.” It came out as a pained cry. Tears flowed, causing mascara to run down her face as she lay half in the street.

A gleaming black tour bus with a large AG logo in metallic blue roared to a halt at the red light, right beside her.

“No, no, no,” Christine said. “Please don’t be who I think you are.”

The door opened and Christine looked up into the gorgeous green eyes of Austin Garrett, new male artist extraordinaire.

“Are you okay?” Austin asked. “You took quite a spill.”

“I’m definitely not okay. Doors just closed. I didn’t make it. And even if I could beg my way in, my friends have my ticket.”

“Shit, girl. Bless your heart. Come on—get up here.” Austin leaned out of the bus and offered his hand.

Christine hesitated. She was humiliated enough without having to face the newest hunk in country music.

“Light turned green so we have to hurry.” He wasn’t backing down, so she reached for his hand and let him pull her into the bus. Christine limped to the plush sofa in the seating area.

The driver continued down the road, passing a group of tourists flocking to Nashville’s famous honky-tonks. The bus passed the main arena doors, and Christine grimaced knowing her friends were safely inside and she had missed her opportunity to be with them.

The bus pulled around to the back of the arena.

“Don’t I know you?” Austin said. “You work at Hit Songs Publishing.”

Christine’s head shot up. “You know where I work?”

“You were in my song meeting a year ago,” Austin said.

“You remember that? No offense, but you looked like you were stoned.”

“It’s a good cover. Most people think I’m a dumb singer. I’m actually pretty smart.” He smiled at her.

“Then why the dumb act?”

“You’d be amazed at what people say in front of you when they think you don’t understand them,” he said.

“I bet. The executives often have bigger egos than the artists.”

“You speak the truth. You’re the plugger who found my last song, right? ‘Promises to Me.’”

Christine had always disliked the term “song plugger.” There had to be a better way to define a job where a person liaised between songwriters and artists, matching the perfect penned tune to someone who could sing it.

“Yes. That was one of the best meetings I’ve ever been in,” Christine said.

“Why’s that?”

“’Cause I knew I had the right song for you. I could feel it. And I knew I could sell you on it if given the chance to try. My job rides on me finding the perfect song for an artist. That’s a lot of pressure. But when you know, you just know.”

“You had the only song I liked. I remember listening to it and envisioning myself singing it onstage. I had to have it.”

“When you said, ‘I love it. I want it. Put it on hold for me,’ it was the best day of my career. Then you decided to make it your next single to radio. And as we know, getting a radio hit is still the biggest thing you can do as an artist and songwriter,” Christine said.

“For sure. Radio taking it to number one makes everybody more money. And if it becomes a streaming hit, even better. You have a good ear.”

“I’ve always had a knack for it. I’m glad you think so,” Christine said.

“I told my producer, ‘That chick Kristen was the only person in the room who really got me.’”

“Christine.”

“Huh?”

“It’s Christine. Not Kristen.”

“Right. I’ll tell you what. If I win Breakthrough Video of the Year, I’ll thank you from the stage,” Austin said, giving her a thumbs-up.

“Unfortunately, I won’t see it. I’ll be in an Uber on my way home.” She frowned.

“I forgot. You don’t have a ticket.” He reached into his pocket and produced two tickets. “And I don’t have a date.” He wiggled his brows and grinned.

Christine choked. “Right. You don’t have a date.”

“I don’t. My sister was going to come with me, but her flight out of San Jose was delayed. I have a ticket, you need a ticket, and we have fifteen minutes until showtime. Let’s go.”

“You’ve got to be kidding. Look at me.” Austin’s gaze traveled over her broken shoe, runny makeup, and disheveled appearance.

“Yeah, you look a bit rough. How fast can you clean up?”

“I can be ready in about ten minutes,” Christine said, standing up. Then she pointed to her foot. “Other than a broken shoe.”

Austin chuckled and looked toward the rear of the bus. “Relax. Look in my back room, second closet to the left. You’ll find some women’s shoes.”

Christine raised her eyebrows before he continued.

“I entertain some ladies and sometimes clothing gets left behind.” He shrugged.

“Oh my God. Gross.”

“One woman’s gross is another woman’s awards shoes. Go find a pair that fits, go into the bathroom, straighten up your makeup, and let’s roll. Ten minutes,” Austin said.

“Are you serious?”

“Never been more. Now go.” Austin pointed to the back room.

Christine thought, What the hell. Why not? She rummaged through the closet, moving aside his numerous T-shirts, trying not to notice the lace camisole, fishnet stockings, and miniskirt. Christine had never worn anything resembling this kind of clothing. And how does a woman leave without her skirt?

She never wore higher than a three-inch heel, but all Christine could find in her size was a pair of black five-inch strappy heels.

Luckily, Austin was tall. She guessed at least six foot three.

At five feet, seven inches, she wouldn’t tower over him.

She’d never been overly graceful and was sure she wouldn’t be able to walk ten feet in these stilts, especially with a sore ankle.

But it was the best she could do, and she wasn’t going to let a little pain stop her.

She quickly wiped off the mascara that had streamed down her cheeks and reapplied.

Then she ran a brush through her hair, glad she’d had a blowout earlier that day.

The weather had zero humidity. Maybe, for once, her hair would stay straight.

A quick reapplication of her lipstick and she was ready to go in seven minutes.

Austin nodded with a smile. “I love a lady who can get ready fast.”

They stepped off the bus and headed in through the arena’s back door.

“Didn’t you want to walk the red carpet tonight?” Christine asked.

“I did. But I was waiting on my sister. My time slot came and went before I could get here. Family first. I’ll catch it next time.”