Grace
With the distinct feeling of being watched, I turn.
A different sort of warmth seeps through my bones when I lock eyes with Tucker across the bar.
He’s flanked by two guys of a similar age.
The tan one to the left, in all his dirty blonde-haired glory, is Sonny Henderson; he was one of Rhett’s best friends growing up, and spent almost as much time at the ranch as I did.
He’s only slightly less lanky than he was back then.
Seeing him again reminds me why we used to call him Ken—he still shares a startling resemblance to the beloved doll.
The one to the right is Dec—the builder who did the renovations on the rodeo school and built Tucker’s house, and was also Tucker’s rival when they were about fifteen.
With his deep brunette hair and striking blue eyes, he couldn’t be more opposite to Sonny.
He towers over the other two and is just as wide.
He’s got the sort of build that shows he’s got some muscle, but is probably partial to a sweet treat or two. He’d definitely be Carson’s type.
Tucker is leaning against the far wall, a glass of liquid that matches the color of his eyes in hand.
One boot is propped up against the wall behind him, ready to pounce like a predator tracking his prey.
His white shirt pops against his midnight-blue jeans and his tanned skin.
He looks good. I’m still holding his gaze when he breaks first, eyes roaming down my body.
I wait with bated breath as they slide back up to my face, the smallest of smirks on Tucker’s lips.
Beautiful, he mouths. My cheeks burn almost painfully in response.
His eyes dip a fraction lower, and a different sort of flame burns low in my stomach.
I can’t even be mad at the way my body reacts to him; he’s spectacular.
Always has been. But it’s girls’ night, and I’ll be damned if I don’t make the most of it with them.
It almost physically pains me to break the connection between us, but I do, turning back to the girls to find Whitney giving me a knowing look. She doesn’t say anything, but with that smirk and the gleam in her eye beneath raised brows, she doesn’t need to.
“Don’t,” I say in warning, biting back a smile.
Whit laughs in response. Scrunching her nose with a tight-lipped smile, she pinches her thumb and forefinger together and drags them across her lips. I’m about to ask where Carson and Kenny have gone when I hear a whoop from near the stage.
“Yeah, Cars!” comes a southern lilt that sounds suspiciously like Kenny.
I wrap a hand around Whit’s elbow and all but drag her to the front with me.
“What the hell is going on?” she asks. “What did I miss while you were eye-fucking my brother?”
I almost choke. “Whitney!”
“What?” Her voice is so nonchalant, I almost wonder if I hallucinated that last question. “I saw y’all, so don’t even try to tell me I’m wrong.”
Nope, it sadly was not a hallucination. Best to move on.
“We’ve lost half the girl gang, Whit.”
“Oh, they’re not lost,” she replies, stopping and almost ripping my arm out its socket.
“They’re right there.” I follow the line of her pointing finger to the front corner of the stage.
My jaw drops comically when Carson throws a guitar strap over her shoulder.
Kenny is right beside her, her phone out and recording first Carson, and then the gathering crowd.
Small towners are nothing if not nosy, so any sort of unexpected commotion draws a lot of attention.
Particularly in the bar, and when said commotion looks like Carson.
“Good evenin’, folks!” Sully’s deep voice echoes through the speaker system as he stands proudly on the stage.
Whit shakes her head and sighs. “Good god, who gave that boy a microphone?”
“I guess it’s one of the perks when your family owns the bar,” I respond with a laugh.
“Boy, do I have a treat for you.” Oblivious to our shit talking, Sully continues, throwing his left arm out and pointing to side-stage. “This right here is Miss Carson Avery—”
Several cheers and whistles from the crowd cut him off. I feel a surge of pride that there’s people here, in my tiny home town, who know my best friend. Not because she’s my best friend, but because of her budding country music career.
“It seems a few of you are already familiar with the lovely Carson,” he says with a devilish grin, “but for those who ain’t, she’s the latest and greatest name in country music—and she just so happens to be the headlinin’ act for our Rodeo Fest. She’s here for a social visit, but she’s kindly treatin’ us to a few songs. Give it up for Carson!”
The cheers are louder now, a raucous echoing across the high ceiling.
Carson struts to center stage, her boots clicking across the hardwood, waving as she goes.
There’s a group of rowdy young men at the very front, hooting and hollering and waving their hats through the air.
With her trademark smile, Carson leans down and plucks one of the hats from their hands, placing it on her head with a wink.
The responding wolf whistles pull a laugh from Whit and me.
“She was made for the spotlight,” Whitney says appreciatively when Carson starts her rendition of Who’s Your Daddy.
“She sure was. No one can work a crowd quite like Cars. She’s probably man’s worst enemy though, bringing them to their knees just to leave them in her dust.”
Whitney whistles, giving a slow clap that’s barely audible over Caron’s voice. “I wanna be her when I grow up.”
“Ugh, me too,” Kenny chimes in, sliding in beside Whitney. “She’s a modern-day icon.”
I can’t help the broad smile that pulls at my lips. Seeing my hometown girls loving my Chicago girl, and vice versa, warms my heart like nothing else. We scream and cheer as loud as we can when the song ends and Carson’s gaze immediately finds us as she blows kisses our way.