Chapter 1
Chapter
One
MIA
Eight years later, the crowd is screaming my name.
Bass shakes the floor. Heat presses in. The lights are no longer blinding. They’re mine.
My makeup artist’s brush stops mid-air. Sylvia straightens, mouth quirked in concentration, her pixie-cut red hair trembling with the chaos onstage. The Cherry Picks, the opening band, wail the last lines of their encore.
“Ready to show Valor Springs how it’s done?”
I chuckle, cocking my head. “Not sure if that’s possible. This place is…” How do I put it nicely? “Off the beaten path.”
“And filled with adorable cowboys. Have you looked out at your audience?” she asks, drawing closer, cheeks flushed and voice vibrating with excitement.
“Had my fill of those by Nashville and Houston,” I lie, corners of my mouth turning down.
“Unlike you, Mia, I don’t think I’ll ever get enough.”
I don’t doubt her for one moment.
The gray suits circle, and Sylvia steps back, eyes darting to mine for one breathless moment.
Edwin says, his tone nasal. “Your parents’ extra security is … underfoot.” He looks down his nose at one large man with a military bearing. “Shall I say overkill?”
I shrug.
“Still no clue what got into them?” he asks, eyes scrutinizing me. “Estranged for years, and now they suddenly care—conveniently?”
“Who knows?” I answer, tired of him posing questions I can’t answer. “Could be their little way of saying ‘sorry for abandoning you.’”
His eyebrows waggle.
My stomach knots, and I lick my bottom lip, eyeing my parents’ unexpected contribution to tonight’s show. A wall of cowboy hats, muscle, grim faces, and shiny boots and buckles—the last thing I need. One man steps forward, jaw sharp enough to cut glass, eyes narrow and steely.
“Grayson. I’m lead.”
My eyes glance past him to the crew. One guy’s got dark blond hair and moss green eyes, striking against his tanned skin.
A snake tattoo wraps around his arm, beading perspiration in the heat of the Texas evening.
Another—tall, intimidating, with a short beard—frowns, tattoos peeking from the V of his button-down.
But it’s the man next to them—lethal, quiet—who I remember.
Ebony hair, earth-toned eyes, quietly watchful. A well-trimmed beard and mustache frame his angular face, and high-cut, sculpted cheekbones seem almost too intentional for his rugged face. Like his lips—too perfect for me to stop staring, though I never should’ve started.
Edwin clears his throat, and I come back to it all. The dry heat of the Lone Star State night, the dust hanging in the air, thick like the tension before taking the stage. Boots pound the ground, the crowd chanting, “Mia! Mia!”
“Thank you for your help tonight,” I say curtly to Grayson, wheeling around so my back faces him and his team.
No point fraternizing with the paid help.
I’ve seen far too many faces to remember names.
Besides, if I were being honest—if I were allowed to give my real opinion—I’d admit to uneasiness about the extra brawn tonight.
Everyone in this business knows additional security means trouble.
My eyes snag on the man with black hair, though his eyes never meet mine. Too cold. Too aloof. Yet, something about the cut of his jaw, the way he stands cagey and confident, ebbs away lingering anxiety.
Edwin grabs my elbow, pulling me to the side. “Received notice from the legal team about somebody who’s been sniffing around, asking too many questions.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Know anything about it, Tiger.”
Tiger. I hate that nickname.
I ask, “What are you implying?”
“Shhh,” he says, raising his hands. “No need to make a scene. I just need to know whose side you’re on.”
“My own,” I say by rote.
He cracks a smile. “And who’s on your side?” He smiles. “The only one in your corner?”
I sigh, the words muscle memory more than anything I consciously believe. “You, Edwin. Always you.”
“Don’t forget it.” He pauses, eyes drilling into me. “Because without me, this business would eat you alive.”
“I know,” I say, only half-listening. We’ve had this conversation so many times, I could deliver it in my sleep. Only something about it is more urgent tonight.
“I mean, just your recent weight gain alone, Mia. You’re no easy cookie to manage.”
“Hey—” I start.
“He’s not wrong,” Lawrence butts in, my PR manager. His eyes sweep up and down my scantily clad frame for one long, devastating moment. “Some things you can’t cover with makeup.”
I bite my bottom lip until I taste it—salty and metallic, the edge of my reason.
“Just remember,” Edwin says, the creases in his forehead deepening, “every place I’ve given you autonomy, your life’s a fucking mess. Expanding freedom, expanding waistline.”
“You sure know how to give a pre-concert pep talk.”
His smile is colder than a glacier. “Go get ‘em, Tiger.”
An hour into the concert, my halter top clings to my ribs, sticky with sweat. Perspiration pours from my bandmates, and my backup dancers look like they’re in the middle of a wet T-shirt contest.
“Gotta hand it to y’all,” I say into the mic to a deafening roar of applause, “You sure know how to do hot down here. Big and bold, like everything about this state. Ready for an oldie but a goodie?”
Behind me, the band cuts into the opening strains of Hello, Sunflower. Screams fill the air, piercing, deafening. Diehard fans stand out, faces red and glistening with enthusiasm.
My eyes dart to the left-hand side of the stage where the man with black hair stands—still. Watchful. Unmoving in a way that feels deliberate.
I grip the microphone, launching into the opening verse, and the crowd sings along. An anthem to anyone who’s ever felt lonely, like they don’t fit in. An anthem to kids who grew up too fast and lived too hard.
My mind goes blank, like it always does. It’s the only way I get through the same performances again and again. Different cities, different time zones, always the same crowds demanding everything from me—far more than I have to give.
In the center of the crowd, working his way to the front.
I catch sight of a lone man parting the crowd.
His face is dark—shadowed in a way that goes beyond lighting—his eyes intent and intense.
I watch him snaking through, people pulling back.
The air feels electric. Gasps shiver through the crowd.
Like everyone’s collectively holding and releasing their breath.
Then, a scream. One piercing sound, though my eyes never break from the man now at the front of the stage. It all happens so quickly my brain can’t catch up. A sudden movement. A flash of steel.
A hard body crashes into me, and I hit the stage hard, music still thumping, crowd yelling—not in adoration but panic.
Pop! Pop! Pop!
A concussive sound shreds the air, muted by the heavy body covering mine.
“You okay?” A deep voice growls.
I stare into dark eyes. “Y-y-yes.”
The gaze narrows, hand coming to the wire in his ear, listening. “Asset secure. Awaiting extraction.”
I can barely breathe, body buried beneath the weight of the cowboy bodyguard. Voices shrill, the music dead now, but the sound of gunfire still piercing the air.
Each burst sends another tremble through my core.
“You able to move?” the man asks.
I nod, bottom lip trembling, tongue frozen.
“Copy,” he says to whatever voice is behind the wire.
Suddenly, he jumps to his feet, pulling me with him. “Move, move, move.”
But my knees buckle, my body paralyzed.
He eyes me wildly, then sweeps me into his arms and sprints toward the stage exit. I wrap my arms around his neck, breath coming fast, heart outpacing my pulse.
Offstage, his eyes sear into me, heat rolling off them … or perhaps anger.
“When I tell you to move, you fucking move,” he screams, setting me back on my feet.
No one’s spoken to me like this before, especially not a bodyguard. But the fear in his voice isn’t about control—it’s about losing me. Concern etches his face, raw and unguarded, louder than anything he can say.
I nearly fall when he tries to let me go, his grip the only thing keeping me upright.
“You wounded and didn’t tell me?” he grunts, eyes and hands sliding slowly over me.
“No,” I manage, hands still gripping his neck. “But don’t let go of me. Not yet.”