Harper Pruitt hauled another tray out of her seven-tiered food cart. Lunch was the big meal when it came to a rock tour. The roadies and technicians would be working right up until the 7:30 p.m. curtain time, so they needed to fuel up now. Then she and her staff would break it down and start all over for the musicians and their guests.

Already the first wave was lined up in the doorway to the make-shift cafeteria. Pop-up tents, two dozen banquet tables, and a whirring portable air conditioner gave a brief reprieve to the outrageous heat of Alpharetta, Georgia. Honestly, how was anyone supposed to think clearly when the air was thick enough to chew?

“C’mon, Harper. It doesn’t need to be perfect. We’re just going to demolish it anyway.”

“You will wait until I’m ready, Randy Pruitt.” Her brother, a third generation roadie, was always first in line for food. He might be whip-skinny, but he could pack it away.

She snapped the last of the trays over cold packs she’d designed after much of their first week had been spent cleaning up after the rapidly melting ice. No matter how hard that air conditioning unit chugged, it was still hot as hell with seventy plus bodies in the room.

She might be low man on the cooking staff, but she had standards, dammit. She made the best lunch these idiots would ever taste. Refusing to believe that everything was wasted on the tour animals that called themselves roadies, she ignored the shuffling feet and groans behind her.

Any man or woman that didn’t want a broken finger knew better than to rush her. She knew how to handle the burly, the grouchy, and most definitely the too friendly.

Setting out the last tray—rolls and bread—she stepped back a good four feet, put her hands together in a mock prayer, and bowed. “You may begin.”

And boy did they. Within eight minutes her pretty display looked more like a sad deli counter. The bed of lettuce leaves she’d used were scattered like discarded pages from a TV writer’s room during sweeps week. All but the chicken salad had been scraped clean.

She hauled the tray out of its housing. What the heck did they have against her chicken? Unless it was slathered in jar mayo or mustard, a lot of these guys turned their noses up. Each day she tried to sneak in a little something new, believing that even roadies deserved culture—but alas, they proved her wrong again and again.

She waved at her brother as he jammed ham and turkey into a roll—his third sandwich, thank you very much—and crammed it into his mouth on the way out the door. Randy was still young enough to be excited about the prospect of sweating over the lighting rig that had to be set up.

It was the last leg of this particular tour. She’d graduated from culinary school and hopped on a plane the next day to work this job. She had six weeks to prove herself to Meg and Danny so they’d hire her on full time.

“All set, Harper?”

She blinked out of her thoughts and smiled at Mel, one of her cleanup staff. “Yeah, you can start loading up.”

The clang of metal trays and crinkle of white paper table covers was part of her everyday symphony. Roll it out, roll it up, rinse and repeat. Crap, she was only six days into the tour and already she was tired of tuna salad and cold cuts.

Not good.

“Excuse me?”

“Sorry, we’re all done for the lunch rush, but you can come ba—” She stopped mid-turn, her eyes stuck on one of the most impressive male chests she’d ever seen. And seriously, she’d seen a lot of nice ones over the years. But sweet Pete.

Wide, firm pecs filled out a vintage Journey t-shirt with little room to spare. In fact, the faded scarab logo had little tears in it from the stretch to accommodate his toned muscles. That had to be some seriously amazing man flesh under there.

She forced her gaze up, and up, and wow.

He smiled, and a dimple dug into his left cheek. The slash of white teeth and the dent was bad enough but man…the eyes. Green. Middle-of-the-forest green, earthy, and cool—the kind that contact commercials promised with their too beautiful to be real colors.

They had to be fake.

Who had green eyes with flecks of sunlit gold in the center? Not real people, that’s who. Or…

“Anything protein will do. I just finished up a workout, and I could sure use some fuel before soundcheck.”

Or rock stars. Of course he was a musician. While there were a few men on staff that bumped her hotter-than-hell-meter into taking notice, the first one to put her meter into the red had to be off limits.

“I really don’t have anything left.” She caught one tray out of the corner of her eye. “Well, I have some chicken salad left, but…”

“That’s perfect. Chicken salad is perfect.” He crossed one arm over his drool-worthy chest and gripped his triceps, rubbing absently. A wide tattoo stretched across his left forearm in bold, black letters that looked like they’d been through an earthquake with a teasing red devil tail wound through the letters. Oblivion.

Holy hot.

Nope.

No looking, Harper Lee.

Man, his bicep really bulged beautifully. And on the arm he gripped a flash of more black and red ink teased beneath the edges of his t-shirt sleeve. A sleeve that was seriously working hard at not ripping. That just wasn’t right. She forced her eyes up to his face and that dimple was back, deeper than ever.

Crap. Now he was going to think she was interested. Damn, double damn, and triple crap. She snatched the ice cream scooper out of her apron and snagged one of the paper salad boats stacked up beside the plates.

“Another scoop if that’s okay.”

She tried to ignore the deep tone of his voice. She was such a sucker for baritones. “You don’t even know how it tastes.”

He leaned down into her space, and she bit back a groan. He smelled like cedar chips and something fresh. The ocean? She took a giant step back. “Whoa there.”

Unrepentant, he picked up a fork and scooped out some. “See, tastes…”

He stopped chewing, and she winced. She’d made her own dressing, sprinkling in some balsamic for a kick to make it just a little less boring. The tender breast chunks had sucked up the vinegar. Definitely not a traditional chicken salad.

“What is this?”

She pulled the paper boat closer to her chest. “I think I might have some turkey—”

“No, seriously. That’s awesome.” He took her scooper out of her limp fingers and put another two helpings on his paper boat. Then he reached around her for a few of the last few tomatoes on the veggie tray.

“Awesome?”

“Wow.” He shoveled another forkful into his mouth, those sharp, perfect teeth slicing through a tomato with ease. “I usually have to choke down whatever protein I can find with a Coke, but this is awesome. Can you make me this every day?”

“That would get pretty boring.”

“Have you tasted this?” He turned his fork out to her.

“I made it. I taste everything before I put it out.”

He shrugged. “More for me.” He transferred the boat, a wad of napkins, his fork, and his phone all to one hand. Long fingers handled the entire bundle with ease. He held out his right hand. “I’m Deacon by the way.”

Oh, hell no. He had tingles written all over him. There was no way she could shake his hand and keep up the cool, calm, and collected deal. Especially when his hand looked like it could swallow hers and have room for two more. He was ridiculously big. Like wow-you-must-play-basketball tall. God, why did she have to be so tactile? She couldn’t walk through a store without touching everything. And Deacon had plenty of real estate to touch.

Harper Lee, catch a clue.

She smiled up at him and then wiggled her black latex clad fingers. Dodged that one.

He gave her that lopsided smile again, and the dimple deepened. Instead of being put out, he simply shuffled his food back to his empty hand, tucked his phone into his pocket, and resumed eating. “This really is great.”

The burst of pleasure that hummed through her middle made her swallow a groan.

Simmer down. He’s just flirting.

“Thanks. Glad someone likes it.”

Deacon glanced down at the tray. “Obviously people don’t know a good thing.”

Resisting the call of a warm glow, she stacked the now empty veggie trays.

“What’s your name? I can tell you right now you’re going to see a lot of me. I’m pretty much a black hole when it comes to food.”

Sidestepping the question, she picked up another tray. “I’ve been on the tour for almost a week now, and this is the first time we’ve seen each other.”

“That’s because my band just met up with the tour last night. We’re opening for Rebel Rage.”

Ding, ding. Musician confirmed.

She’d known it, but man, it really was too bad. She didn’t date musicians. Heck, she didn’t even interact with them. They were way too into themselves and this first job really needed to be drama free so she could concentrate on establishing herself.

“That’s great.” She flashed him her professional smile. “Welcome to the tour.”

“You’re really not going to give me your name?”

It really was too bad. Because that voice would sound delicious all low and close in her ear. “I’m just the help. You don’t need to know my name.”

“Maybe some musicians are like that, but not me. Six months ago I was waiting tables and hustling pool for gas money.”

Don’t be endearing. Seriously. That just wasn’t fair. Not to mention the quick flash of him stretched out over a pool table was way too easy to picture. She did not need that lodged in her brain. Those long fingers making a cage for the cue stick?

Stop it!

“Boss’s orders. We’re to be seen and not heard.” She scooped one last serving of the chicken salad, slid it onto his rapidly disappearing pile, and then loaded the tray on her cart. “Have a good show, sir.”

“Deacon,” he reminded her.

Harper hunched up her shoulders and nearly ran across the lunch room and out into the brutal humidity. The wheels of her cart rumbled and popped over the uneven pavement. She careened around the crew trucks to the huge, silver and white Food Riot trailer.

“Hey, where’s the fire, honey girl?” Mitch Hale slapped one meaty hand on her runaway cart.

Harper tripped a few more steps before she halted the forward momentum on the cart that weighed about the same as she did. She swiped her forearm over her sweaty forehead and then tugged her purple checked bandanna back down. “Sorry.”

“It’s too hot to be running around.”

She stepped away from the cart to smooth her hand down Mitch’s huge arm and then leaned into his solid chest for a moment. He was three hundred plus pounds of Hawaiian teddy bear, and he had gotten her this job. He also happened to be her father’s oldest friend and her uncle for all intents and purposes.

He tugged on her ponytail. “What’s doin?”

She nuzzled her nose into his t-shirt, taking in his ever-present coconut scent before stepping back again. “Just cleaning up from the road crew.”

Mitch swayed lightly from side to side. You could take the man out of the ocean, but you couldn’t take the ocean out of the man. “My team’s heading in for the second wave. Johnny’s got a wild hair for barbecue chicken before the show.”

She was beginning to get the feeling Johnny Cage got a wild hair every other day. The singer for Rebel Rage liked to keep the food staff on their toes. Most musicians liked a light meal before going on stage, especially on the summer tours, but the guys of Rebel Rage had cast iron stomachs.

She wondered what kind of food Deacon liked.

What the hell, Pruitt? One little compliment and you forget all the rules? Weak.

She cracked her neck and returned to her cart. “I don’t remember that being on the prep sheet today.”

“Nope, we got the news at noon.”

Harper cringed. Getting barbecue together in a few hours wasn’t easy. And she was pretty sure the guys from Rebel Rage expected the real deal and not barbecue sauce slathered on grilled chicken.

She muscled the cart up the ramp and into Food Riot’s truck. Meg and Danny had transformed the inside of a big rig into a kitchen on the road. The smoker was set on the pavement at the opening of the back of the truck. Pineapple and cedar clouded the air, dragging another memory of Deacon into her subconscious.

Wow.

Seriously. She needed to get a head check. Obviously her self-imposed drought had been too long. Harper had wanted to concentrate on her final projects without the distraction of the opposite sex. Of course, interning at a restaurant as well as a full roster of classes made that easy.

Now she had way too much time on her hands. Maybe once she got to work with the lead chefs she’d have more to do.

“Pruitt!”

“Yeah!” she called back as she tucked her cart into its locking slot. Dishwashers started unloading the trays, dishes, and plastic into the super washer they’d dubbed Kong.

“I need you on deck,” Meg called. “I’m doing a super quick chili and need you dicing onions.”

It was a little late to be putting chili together. The main tent ate in less than two hours.

Meg must have noticed her quizzical look. “You’ve been bitching that you want to help out with main dishes, so fucking help. I’ll need you in the dining room too.”

“Right. Of course.” Harper snagged a chef’s knife from the magnetic strip. About damn time.