I freeze as a song I’ve heard on the radio at least a hundred times is dedicated to me and played live in my bar.

Pop is gonna be so pissed. His logic is so twisted and bitter that I’m not sure he’ll even be happy about the extra money coming in, given that it’s because of two country stars taking the stage he forbade me to use.

But maybe if he doesn’t find out . . .

A customer throws another twenty on the bar, and I decide that I don’t give the first shit where the money is coming from. I have bills to pay, and cash coming in the door is the only way I’ll be able to keep this place from going under. Not to mention, I want to pay back that thousand dollars smug Stan laid out for the mortgage so I can tell him to shove it where the sun don’t shine.

So, I’m focusing on the fact that the Fishbowl is making a killing, and not on the ass chewing I’m going to get when Pop finds out I didn’t stop Zane Frisco and Boone Thrasher from taking the stage. My stubborn old man would shut the doors right now if he were here. Well, that’s not happening tonight. I push the thought out of my mind and send up a quick prayer that we don’t run out of liquor. Then I get back to making drinks and taking money.

In only a few hours, we’ve made more than the Fishbowl would usually pull in during a whole month. Maybe two. Even Earl and Pearl are finally smiling because I told them their drinks were on the house all night. Jim bolted when the crowd got thick, and his stool is now occupied by a redhead with a blonde sitting on her lap.

One less cranky man to worry about, and more room for paying customers.

“This is awesome! Did you see they’re charging a cover at the door too?” Carter yells over the music as he grabs four beers and pops the tops. “The Fishbowl is back, baby!” He sets the bottles on the counter and grabs me around the waist to pick me up and twirl me in a circle.

The song ends as I slide down Carter’s body. Boone’s gaze locks on mine as soon as my feet hit the floor.

“How about we light this place up? I got another song you might’ve heard a time or two. It’s called ‘I’ll Fight for Her.’”

“Ooh, I think someone’s jealous,” Carter says as Boone launches into a loud and raucous song about not being afraid to beat some guy’s ass for touching his woman in a bar.

I shake my head. “No. Not a chance.” I hip check him. “Get back to work and sling those drinks!”

He grabs both sides of my face and plants a kiss on me in true flamboyant Carter style. The people at the bar scream and cheer, and Boone’s voice deepens another notch to a growl that vibrates through my whole body.

I push away and get back to the customers lined up three deep. Paying customers. I do a little dance inside.

There’s no way Boone is jealous.

Impossible.

* * *

Boone has kept the place rocking for over an hour when Carter signals from the end of the bar.

“What do you need?”

“We got a problem, Rip.” He jerks a shoulder toward the front door and a pissed-off-looking man in a rumpled dress shirt standing with his arms crossed over his chest.

“Who—”

“Fire marshal. Says someone called in a complaint that we’re over our capacity.”

“Shit. I’ll go talk to him. Don’t worry about it.”

After I wipe my hands on a towel, I slide out from behind the bar. I have to yell over the music to be heard once I reach him.

“What’s the problem, sir?”

“I received a complaint that this business was a fire hazard due to overcapacity tonight, and just by looking, I’d say they’re right. But I’m going to let you tell me how many people you’ve got in here so we can sort this out.”

I can barely hear him, and I’m hoping the words I think are coming out of his mouth aren’t the ones he’s really saying.

A complaint? From who? This neighborhood isn’t exactly hopping, with only a few other bars and a tattoo shop on our lower-rent street.

I lead him toward the guy working the door, one of the people who came with Frisco when he first got here.

“We can’t be over capacity. Someone’s working the door. We’ve been watching the numbers.” Mentally I add, at least I hope someone has.

The fire marshal points over the crowd to the back door of the bar as it opens and more people pour inside.

“And what about that door?”

Oh hell.

“Umm, we’ll escort some people out. It’ll be fine. I’ll take care of it personally. We’ve never had this problem before, and I promise I’ll make sure it never happens again.”

Two hammered girls stumble toward the front door and their drinks go flying, splattering fruity red liquid all over the fire marshal’s white shirt. Previously white, I should say.

“You need to get at least a third of these people out. Right now, or I’m shutting this place down.”

No. No. No. Not on the only busy night we’ve had in years.

“Got it! Give me five minutes, sir. I’ll be right back.” I give the fire marshal a tight smile.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

I make my way to the security guy and yell to him in order to be heard. “We have to get some people out. Can you help?”

“I can try.” Together, we usher people out the door as the fire marshal stands with his arms stiffly crossed over the stained shirt. That’s when the fight starts.

I don’t know who threw the first punch, but a scuffle breaks out in front of the stage. The music stops, and Boone points to someone in the crowd.

“Hey, asshole, what the fuck? You’re out of here.”

The security guard charges into the crowd, which surges in my direction as people try to get out of the range of the dozen or so people throwing punches. Two girls crash into my back, and my face smashes into the fire marshal’s shoulder.

“This is another reason why we have capacity limits,” he yells. “These people are going to get trampled. You’re done. I’m shutting you down. Get them all out.”

“Please, don’t do that. Let’s go outside and talk about it.”

He glares at me with a dark scowl but follows me as I push through the crowd to get out the front door. Instead of the quiet street with scattered bar patrons I expect, it’s packed with cars and people.

“I’ll get them out. There won’t be any issues.”

“No, I’ve made my decision. It’s a matter of public safety now.” He pulls out his phone as people fight to get out the front door.

“Who are you calling?”

Before the fire marshal can respond, a crowd surrounds us from outside, cameras flashing and microphones waving.

“Are you Ripley Fischer? What do you say to the accusations that you were the real reason for Boone Thrasher and Amber Fleet’s breakup?”

“Ripley! Did you consider it cheating or just following in your mom’s footsteps by becoming the mistress of a country star?”

“How long have you been sleeping with Boone Thrasher?”

Oh my God.

The questions jab into me like blades, each striking all the way to the bone. My stomach twists into knots as it hits my feet.

This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening. My breathing picks up. I’m going to hyperventilate. Maybe I’ll pass out. Then I won’t have to face them—

“Ripley! Don’t you have anything to say for yourself?”

“How big is Boone Thrasher’s dick? My readers want to know! Spill, girl!”

The voices are overwhelming, the questions coming from all directions as I stand there, frozen like an idiot deer about to be creamed by a Mack truck.

How is this happening?

“Ma’am, you need to get these people out of here.”

I twist around to stare at the fire marshal again, but my ears are ringing from the questions being shouted.

“Did you consider it cheating or just following in your mom’s footsteps?”

I keep my back turned, my shoulders hunched, needing to protect myself from the cameras any way I can.

The fire marshal apparently doesn’t care that this evening is tipping into nightmare territory. He has some sort of notebook out and is scribbling on the open page.

“I’m citing you for overcapacity, and as soon as I can get back in the building, I’m going through your fire-safety measures. If I find you’re missing a single fire extinguisher, you’re going to have serious problems.”

Reporters continue yelling at me, tossing out more demands to know about Boone and me and my mom, and I reach down and pinch my thigh to wake myself up.

This can’t be real. This is just a bad dream.

The sting from my fingernails tells me it’s not. My reality is actually this big of a disaster.

The security guys from inside herd dozens of people out the front door, and the reporters pounce on the fresh meat.

“Does anyone have pictures of Boone and Ripley Fischer together? We’ll pay!”

A guy wearing a Vandy shirt stumbles to a drunken halt in front of one reporter. “The bartender chick with the nice rack? I got a video of him dedicating a song to her. I’ll sell it to you.”

Oh my God.

I have to get out of here.

I shove my way through the people streaming out the door, my gaze drawn to the stage where I last saw Boone.

But it’s empty.

He’s gone.

And I’m left to clean up the mess.

I’m always left to clean up the mess.