Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
Moving to Nashville was never part of the plan.
I didn’t care much for country music, but when a growing record label needed a publicist for an up-and-coming band, I finally had an excuse to put that public relations degree to use and take a chance to make a fresh start.
It didn’t matter that my father’s connections most likely landed me the interview in the first place.
I was getting out of this town and away from my sordid past.
No one blatantly “outed” me for what I did to Dalton, but the rumor mill started churning shortly after he and Taylor made their relationship official, and soon the whole town knew what I’d done.
Or at least some version of it. Being shunned by my friends and acquaintances was damn near unbearable, but it was nothing compared to how Antonio reacted when I finally came clean to him.
He’d been upset when I told him about the pregnancy and that I was going back to Dalton because the child belonged to my ex.
Later, when I confessed to him that I’d lied about it and he was really the baby’s father, I thought he would snap.
He shoved back from the table so fast, his chair tipped over when he stood.
A long string of curses left his mouth as he paced, raking his fingers through his hair and tugging on the ends.
It landed in a tousled mess, pooling just below his chiseled jaw.
He was truly beautiful, even with hatred for me burning in his eyes.
“Why?” he growled.
I didn’t want to answer. I never wanted to admit the selfish, cowardly reasons why I lied about the paternity of my baby, but it was the least I could do.
“I was scared,” I admitted, my voice shaking.
“My parents were already furious with me for calling off the wedding and didn’t approve of my relationship with you.
” He winced and I immediately regretted bringing it up.
“They were going to cut me off. We would’ve had nowhere to go and no way of supporting ourselves.
You don’t have a job, and I won’t have access to my trust fund for another year.
We would have been poor, completely destitute with a newborn. I panicked.”
His face fell and shame clouded his features. “I have a job,” he countered, his voice so low I barely heard him.
I let out a frustrated sigh. He had a job making art that barely sold enough to cover the gas it took to get back and forth from the studio.
“I know,” I began as gently as possible.
The truth was going to hurt, but it had to be said.
He had to understand my reasoning, and then maybe we could work through this.
Maybe he could even find it in his heart to forgive me.
“But it’s not enough to take care of our family.
” I reached for him as I spoke, gently laying my hand on his forearm.
Antonio pulled away quickly as though my touch scorched him. His nostrils flared and his lip curled in disgust. It was in that moment that I realized he would never forgive me.
I wanted to work it out. I still loved him, but I broke us.
The damage was irreparable, and I couldn’t blame him for how he felt.
Fists balled at his sides, he made for the door, prepared to leave.
He threw it open and paused, turning to speak, but didn’t turn far enough around that he’d have to lay eyes on me.
“I have rights. I expect you to respect them, or I will take legal action.”
When he quietly shut the door behind him, I vowed to never try to keep our child away from him again.
What I didn’t know at the time was that Antonio was about to make his big break as an artist. I’d been worried about his ability to provide for us, which drove me to deceive both men into thinking the baby was Dalton’s.
But within a year he was making nearly six figures, and true to his word, he expected to be involved in our child’s life.
He was there for all the prenatal appointments, the birth of our daughter, and kept her every other weekend and sometimes during the week. Co-parenting with him was a breeze.
* * *
Wheat fields surrounded me as far as the eye could see; a weathered red barn and a white farmhouse the only permanent fixtures dotting the muted gold that blanketed the landscape.
Parked several yards away were trucks and trailers with workers scurrying about, setting up equipment.
It was my first day on the job and the band I’d be representing was filming a music video today, so I had to come to them.
I was nervous to meet everyone. This was my first real job using a degree I never expected to need.
Peeking into the rearview mirror one last time, I checked my makeup and smoothed down my hair, ensuring every last strand was secured into my sleek, low ponytail.
I was determined to present myself with an unrivaled air of professionalism, and having stripper hair and lipstick smudged on my teeth wasn’t going to cut it here.
This was the big leagues. Even I knew that.
This band was already starting to make waves, but I would turn them into a hurricane.
I stepped onto the dirt road and headed for the largest of the buses.
Surely that was where I would find who I was looking for.
I reached up with a closed fist, prepared to knock on the door when a deep, southern drawl stopped me.
The sound sent a wave of awareness through my body.
I could practically feel the vibrations of his baritone in my chest. And other unmentionable places.
“Ms. Venetti?” I turned to find deep blue, ocean eyes staring back at me.
Dark brown sideburns and a long, well-kept beard framed a classically handsome face.
Tan arms peppered with colorful tattoos strained the sleeves of his black tee shirt.
Expertly distressed jeans hugged strong thighs, his legs ending in a pair of well-worn cowboy boots.
This man wasn’t at all my type, but I had to force my mouth closed to avoid looking like a stunned fish out of water.
Which was exactly what I felt like at the moment.
He smirked. The man actually smirked. At me.
Normally I would’ve tossed my hair over my shoulder and given him the “you wish, pal” look, but that wasn’t an option here.
I cleared my throat and turned to him, clutching my folders in one hand and tucking them close to my body while reaching with the other for a shake.
“Yes, that’s me. Are you Mr. Fulton?” Eric Fulton was the band’s manager and would be my point of contact.
His smile grew as he slid his warm hand into mine. “You can call me Eric.”
That sound would be my undoing. If sex had a sound, it would be this man’s voice.
I gave him a tight smile and pulled my hand from his grasp, fighting the urge to shake off the sensation he left tingling up my arm.
I couldn’t think about that, not here, not with someone with whom I had to work.
It had simply been too long. I hadn’t felt a man’s touch since the ill-fated date my mom convinced me to go on when Lucia was six months old.
I’d made the mistake of letting him kiss me and he took that as permission to fondle me on the ride home.
I managed to keep his hands from venturing under my blouse and slammed the door shut before he could follow me out of the backseat of our Uber.
After ignoring his calls for weeks, he finally stopped trying.
Before that, it had been Dalton when he believed I was carrying his child, but his heart wasn’t in it.
Neither was mine, if we were being honest. I craved Antonio’s touch for a long time, especially when the pregnancy hormones came raging on, but he always kept me at a safe distance.
Occasionally I would catch him watching me with longing in his eyes, especially when I held our newborn daughter in my arms, but he never let himself look very long.
I told myself I deserved it, knowing his scorn was my cross to bear, but it didn’t make it hurt any less.
“How does that sound?” Eric asked, watching me expectantly.
I’d completely zoned out. My first interaction at my new job and my mind had drifted off to left field. I’d be lucky to still have this job by the end of the day if I kept on like this.
“I’m sorry, can you repeat that?” I asked, fighting the urge to just nod and smile.
I wasn’t that girl anymore. This was real life.
I had a daughter to feed and a roof to put over her head.
I had to be all business here. A pretty face and Daddy’s money wouldn’t get me as far here as it did back home.
“I asked if you wanted to meet the band and get a quick rundown of how our operation works.” He was fighting to keep that smirk at bay, but the corner of his lip twitched. He could tell I was uncomfortable and he was enjoying it.
“That would be great,” I replied, letting out a quiet sigh of relief when he turned to lead me away.
We approached the trailer and Eric knocked on the door. It swung open and he leaned in. “You guys decent?” he called into the room. Several male voices chimed in with crude and inappropriate responses. “Watch your mouth,” he warned. “There’s a lady present.”
Without thinking, I let out a little snort. Not many people would refer to me as a lady. He tilted his head back, one brow tipped up inquisitively. I immediately schooled my features, but my face flamed as his eyes slid down my body before returning his attention to the people in the trailer.
“Get out here and meet your new publicist.” Eric stepped back and four young men emerged. “Brooks McCoy, lead guitar. Ian Black, drums. Cooper Dennison, bass. And Ethan Harris, lead vocals,” Eric offered, pointing to each band member in turn.
The last man scowled at him, throwing his arms up in frustration. “Why you always gotta downplay my talent? You know I’m a kick ass guitar player, too.”
“And so humble, too,” Eric retorted.