Harper retied her bandanna around her head for the third time since they’d started loading up the barbecue fixings. She could hear the end of soundcheck going on and the louder squeals of fans filling the pavilion early.

She stepped out from the tent area with a plate of lunch before the band sat down to her dinner. You do not have time to go spy on soundcheck, Harper Lee. But it was way too loud to just be a rehearsal. The local security usually kept the fans in check. She’d only been on the tour for little over a week, but Rebel Rage was pretty tight with the schedule.

They had shows five days a week. The everyday monotony was pretty much underway already for her. The rhythm of tour life was like an uneven setlist. Quick, then endlessly slow, then back to a breakneck speed. Today, however, was definitely different.

In so many ways.

She rolled her neck and tried not to remember just how wide Deacon McCoy’s shoulders were.

Okay, so she’d looked him up on her phone. Mixing a vat of potato salad only required one hand. Not to mention that it was smart to know the client. She’d found out that Deacon McCoy, bassist for the band Oblivion, was twenty-four and topped out at 6’5 in his stocking feet—six feet freaking five. Who the hell was that tall? And, if the rags could be believed, he was single.

Gathering information wasn’t stalking. It was research.

And maybe going onto the Oblivion band site was stepping a little off the definition of quick research and into interested, but she did it for her job. To know what to expect.

You keep telling yourself that.

She wiped her sticky, barbecue sauce laden fingers on her apron and followed the sounds of happy chatter. She peeked around the wall that blocked the main bowl of floor seats closest to the stage and stared.

The guys from Rebel Rage were on stage doing their soundcheck, but Johnny Cage was definitely distracted by the scatter of people crawling around seats and up on speakers.

People of all ages were painstakingly going from one seat to another with their phones in their hands. What the hell were they doing?

She leaned on the edge of the wall and stabbed at the pile of food. She’d made a garbage plate of sorts from the potato salad, coleslaw and pulled pork. Rings of white onion, pickles and a splash of vinegar heavy Memphis sauce made for a healthy portion and would hopefully get her through the long afternoon.

Harper snorted when three girls hopped around Deacon. He held his phone out of their reach, grinning down at them with a shake of his head. He shooed them away with decidedly gentlemanly manners.

Her eyebrow shot up as one girl walked right into his space, drawing little figure eights on his chest and doing her best Marilyn. Well, she looked more like Marilyn Manson, but the effect was the same. At least in the girl’s mind.

Deacon didn’t welcome the advance, but he didn’t make the girl feel stupid either. She dropped her hands away from him, but quickly dug into her huge hobo purse and unearthed something. Ahh…Sharpie time.

What was it about women and having band signatures on their flesh? What exactly would that accomplish? Besides a scrawling smudge on their skin.

Of course having Deacon’s large hand on her—Holy crap, no.

What the hell was wrong with her? She did not want that man’s hands on her. He was a musician that had his mitts on a million different girls every single day.

He took her Sharpie and laughed when she flashed him some boob. Instead of tugging her shirt down for more of a look, he pulled it up. The girl angled herself for maximum pawing, placing his hand across her chest. He scrawled his signature and the girl got a selfie with him in the picture.

Detangling himself with ease—and again, he didn’t make her feel like an idiot, even if she was behaving like one—he moved on to the next group of girls and shook his head as they showed him something. He opened his hands to show they were empty and shrugged with a dimpled smile, but he did point them in the direction of a vibrating purple girl at the back of the pavilion.

Purple chick was jumping up and down with another girl that could have been her twin, except her hair was a violent green. Manic Panic would be back in high demand if the music charts had anything to say about it. Oblivion had two top forty hits at the moment and they were gaining momentum.

“Hey, Cook Girl!”

Harper looked down and in her direct line of sight Deacon was climbing stairs three at a time. My God, those legs are long.

“I’m a chef, thank you.”

He flashed her a grin. He pulled a hat from his back pocket and pulled it on. “My bad. Did you come to feed me again?”

She scooped up a chunk of potato and shredded pork. “Nope,” she said and stuffed it into her mouth.

“That’s just mean.”

She shrugged and chewed, giving him a tight-lipped smile. He didn’t get any less good-looking with some perspective. In fact, he was hotter in person than he was in the blast of pictures on the internet.

Not that she’d been looking.

He had a Day-Glo pink hat on backwards, his long hair was pushed back leaving his green eyes unframed. Well, except for the ridiculously long eyelashes he had going on. Which was unfair. Guys didn’t need long lashes, for flip’s sake.

His dimple was out again. She swallowed hard. He was way too close. Sweet Pete, he was tall. And he smelled like the ocean with an added dash of cocoa butter to finish her off.

The injustice of it was epic.

Musician. Whorey, probably venereal disease laden musician that stuck his wick in a million different women. Okay, probably only a thousand, but still. He was… God, he was pretty.

Harper Lee, get a hold of yourself.

“It looks really good,” he said, peering down at her food.

“You just had a metric ton of chicken salad.”

“That was hours ago.”

Harper couldn’t stop a snort. “You’re shameless.”

“Starving.”

“You’re eating in a little over an hour.”

“But that’s so far away. Like…a million years.”

She tried not to smile. Really she did. But how was a chef supposed to not feed someone? At least that’s what she told herself when she held her fork out.

What are you doing, you idiot?

He leaned down and gave her the most adorably charming, lopsided grin before scraping his teeth along the tines of her fork. He closed his eyes, and his low moan slid over her like a light, fluffy, chocolate mousse.

Decadent didn’t even cover it. He opened his mouth and continued to chew. “Oh, man. You are twice blessed in this whole cooking gig. You gotta tell me your name.”

She stuffed a hunk of potato in her mouth. “Why do you care?”

“Because food orgasms are personal, and I need to know who’s giving me one.”

“Jeeze.” Not right, not right. Hella-not right with a side order of fries. The man was lethal.

Keep it business.

That’s all she had to do. She’d done it in school and done it at a dozen restaurants that she’d interned with. She’d had a damned head chef trying to bed her for a solid three months and he didn’t make her feel an ounce of what Deacon did with just one moan.

Pathetic.

Obviously, she was having a weak moment. “I’m Chef Pruitt.”

He snagged a pickle chip off her plate before she pulled it away from him. He held the pickle over his mouth and licked off the juice and the vinegar sauce from his thumb. She felt the rumble of her own moan, but hoped it was hidden under the feedback blast from Johnny Cage’s mic.

Deacon turned, his warm bicep sliding across her arm. She stepped back, flattening herself to the wall, but it was too late. The damage was done. His skin was smooth and flexed tight over solid muscles. Heat radiated off of him like a damn furnace.

He brushed his hand over her hip and she was pretty sure he wasn’t even thinking when he shielded her. She peeked around his bulk and saw the devil glare coming from the stage.

She whistled. “Boy, Johnny’s pissed.”

“Yeah. This scavenger hunt is a bit crazier than normal.” Deacon looked down at her. “I’ll talk to Gordo. We probably shouldn’t do them during sound check.”

“Smart guy.” She scooped up another load of meat and slaw, sighing when he stared at it longingly. She pointed her fork at him again and he leaned down obligingly. She forced herself not to think about the fact that his lips had just been around her fork—and not in a germ-phobe way—and shoveled another bite in her mouth.

She swallowed and pushed around the last of her pickles and onions over the meat. When he gave her a pointed look, she squinted at him. “Mine.”

Deacon grunted and leaned against the wall next to her.

“You’re crowding me, Greedy.”

“Maybe if I crowd you, you’ll give me another taste.”

“Nope.” She swallowed another bite of potato salad.

“Maybe I’m not looking for a taste of food.”

“This kitchen is closed, buddy.”

He crossed his ridiculous arms and widened his stance until he was closer to her in height. Still taller, but at least he didn’t tower over her anymore. And yet, she didn’t feel any less crowded. And he didn’t say anything else, just surveyed the crowd of people below.

He didn’t seem to be inclined to return to his friends. She scraped the last of her lunch out of the paper boat and moved to the trash bin on the edge of the pavilion.

She should go back up to the tents and see if there was anything else to be done. With soundcheck finished the band members would be looking to eat soon. But she stayed next to Deacon. They watched the hunt roll on in companionable silence.

It felt natural to stand with him, to soak up the breeze that floated through the cavernous amphitheater. Rafters filled with a grid-work of steel were used as much for the look as for support. This was Alpharetta’s largest outdoor venue and she’d spent plenty of time there over the years.

“Why are you up here with me?”

“Why are you hanging out?” he countered.

She gave him a side-eyed glance. “I heard the commotion.” She shrugged. “I was curious.”

He leaned toward her a little, and she resisted the urge to do the same. What the hell was it about him that made her want to be close to him?

“Okay, then why are you still here?” he asked.

“I’m tired of looking at food.”

“Nah, you’re here to look at me.”

She had to fight not to smile back at him and his teasing dimple. Damn the man for being so effortlessly charming. He was dangerous. He was the sort of guy that expected a few sweet words would disengage the brain and release the panties.

He was sorely mistaken in that regard. She straightened and put another inch between their arms. She didn’t hold onto her panties with an iron grip, but she was discerning when it came to naked time.

“Tell me, Blondie—”

“Don’t call me Blondie.”

“You won’t tell me your name. I gotta call you something.”

She sighed. “I’m Chef Pruitt.”

“Really? We’re going to go with formalities? Are you going to call me—”

“Mr. McCoy? Maybe.”

“I didn’t tell you my last name.”

“Your name’s on the roster. Not hard to follow the dots.”

“Yes, but that would mean you cared enough to look me up.”

She pushed herself off the wall. “I have work to do.”

“Aww, now you just don’t have a good enough comeback. Time to run again, Chef Pruitt?”

Her heart slammed against her sternum. This wasn’t good. His throaty, deep voice saying her name shouldn’t have that much kick, dammit. He was just a guy. Just an overgrown—way overgrown—guy that had more charm than sense. That was all. “Some people have to work around here.”

“Oh, I’ll be working a little later.”

She headed to the side exit, looking over her shoulder before turning the corner. He was still against the wall, his legs wide apart, a half-smile on his face, his eyes patiently assessing. She’d been expecting smug. Why wouldn’t he be? She’d practically acted like a band groupie by feeding him off her damn fork.

No time for overthinking. She had a job to do.

And work was the important part. She had five weeks left to show Meg and Danny that she was a good addition to the company. She needed the exposure and as long as she was patient she would be able to show them just how talented she was.

She ducked into the food tent to start the next round of lunch prep. The monotonous unloading of carts calmed her. Right now, the only bit of talent they wanted was a sous chef that could deliver. And she needed to remember that.

The explosion of laughter and stampede of feet made her look up. Simon, the singer for Oblivion and Nick, one of the guitarists, were roughhousing their way into the tent. The singer landed hard on a metal chair, tipping it back into another until the two of them plus the chairs clattered to the floor.

They were laughing like hyenas. Jazz came through the door on Deacon’s back, piggyback style. She snickered, holding her phone out, obviously recording.

Nick hoisted himself up with some help. His smile faded when Johnny turned and stared at them. Simon’s eyebrows shot up and Jazz slowly slid down off Deacon’s back.

They all quieted down. Well, everyone but Grayson Duffy. He hadn’t opened his mouth yet. Stone cold silent with eyes the color of rain-swelled clouds. She’d never seen anyone so incredibly void of…well, everything.

All emotion missing.

Harper shivered and smiled automatically when Killian Kemper, the lead guitarist from Rebel Rage, stood in front of her.

“Hey there, chef number three.” His voice was low with just the barest hint of a drawl. The rest of the band had a clipped, northeast flavor. But not Killian. And boy did he use that voice.

Her lips twitched. Deacon wasn’t the only one trying to get her name and number. She was fresh blood in these waters and Killian was definitely on the hunt. “Mr. Kemper.”

“Aw, you wound me with the mister stuff. You know it’s Killian.”

“Yes, Mr. Kemper.”

He clutched his shirt, wrinkling the heavy black type, Sarc: my 2nd favorite asm, across his very nice chest. Again, she had to hold back the laugh. She’d been around men all her life and they amused her as much as they annoyed her.

Today was full of amusing. Just the way she liked it.

Killian popped a cherry tomato into his mouth and chewed around a smile. “You’re going to tell me your name one of these days.”

One of the crew opened her mouth to give her name and Harper gave her a steely glare. The girl shut her mouth and hurried around the table to replenish the napkins.

Harper couldn’t get away with the chef line forever. Someone was going to overhear her name, but keeping her distance from the musicians was smart. And her name was only one way to do that.

“You do know that it makes them salivate more, right?”

She looked up at Sin Latimer with his cool blue eyes and sunlit blond hair. High cheekbones and an almost too-pretty face belied the intelligence lurking under the surface. He played bass for Rebel Rage and was about as close to Zen as she’d ever seen on a tour.

“It shouldn’t,” she replied.

“Oh, but now you’re a challenge.” Sin nodded at Killian who was picking his way through the food, but kept glancing back her way. “He likes a challenge.”

She removed the cover for him. “I’m not interested in being a challenge.”

Sin picked up a roll and stuffed it with the pulled pork from the tray in front of Harper. “Then don’t dangle the forbidden fruit.”

She pursed her lips. Was that really what she was doing? She didn’t give them any reason to think she was interested. For God’s sake, she was wearing a ratty bandanna over her fried hair most of the time. Her makeup melted off before the breakfast rush was through, and that was when she even bothered to put any on.

There was no way she could compare to the more than willing females that crawled all over the venues before and after a show. Instead of arguing with him, she nodded. “Understood.”

“So you’ll tell me your name?”

Harper laughed. “So you can hold it over Killian’s head?”

Sin smirked. “Maybe.”

“Chef, we’re out of rolls.”

Harper turned and pointed toward the large silver cart. “Bottom.” When she turned back, Deacon stood before her. While Killian and Sin certainly made her female antennae twitch, this was where the real trouble lay.

Thank God her apron concealed the instant and inconvenient tightening of her nipples under her lightweight Food Riot shirt.

“Chef Harper Pruitt.” He made sure to mouth her first name, then smiled wide enough that both dimples dented his tanned cheeks.

She didn’t know how he’d gotten it, but his deep voice purred around the rest of her name, and she really wanted to hear what Harper would sound like on his tongue. Without thought, she lifted her shoulder to rub against her buzzing ear.

Dammit.

She really had to tamp down the hormonal imbalance. She rarely had a hard time ignoring the madness of a tour, but this man made her skin itch and flush. He made her want to step closer and see if the heat of his skin was as potent as she imagined.

Instead of giving him any more of a reaction, she arched a brow at him and dumped a helping of barbecued baked beans on his plate. “You’re holding up the line, Mr. McCoy.”

“I love the way you say my name. All clipped and hard c’s.”

She turned away from him and smiled brightly at Jazz. “What can I get you?”

“You didn’t ask me what I wanted,” Deacon said sourly.

“Because you’re about as obvious as the chicken pox.” Jazz pushed him, but the wall of muscle didn’t budge. “You’re moving from flirty and cute to obnoxious, Deak. Move it. Don’t you know how the chase works?”

Deacon looked down at Jazz and then to Harper. “Is that what we’re doing? Playing games?”

“I’m not. I’m here to work. I don’t fraternize with the clients.”

“See?” Jazz bounced her plate once. “That was a stubborn rejoinder, and now you have to be charming and not annoying to convince her otherwise. I’ll have the chicken, please.”

Harper frowned. “No, it really isn’t a game.”

Jazz looked between the two of them and then shrugged. “If you say so.”

Harper used the tongs to scoop a pile of shredded chicken onto her plate. “More?”

Jazz grinned. “I can eat about as much as this one.” She nodded to Deacon.

Harper picked up the side of the tray with her mitt and a sparkling laugh pealed out of Jazz. “Does Harper know you or what?”

Deacon tapped his stack of napkins on the top of Jazz’s head. “Very funny.” But he did indeed move on, with one last glance under his wicked lashes.

Harper forced herself not to look at him again, even if she wanted to drink in his truly exceptional body and catch another glimpse of the smile he was so quick to give. Moody musicians were the norm, especially on this tour so far, but Deacon seemed genuinely happy around the legion of fans that accosted him.

Unless he’d been on his best behavior for the scavenger hunt, she was pretty sure that was his personality. And with that way too intriguing thought clogging her brain she shut thoughts of Deacon of the Amazing Shoulders off.

When Simon came up with a flirty tilt to his mouth and a plate already piled high with salads, she slipped easily back into work mode. “Not sure anything else will fit.”

“Pile it on top. I’ll make room.”

Harper smiled as Nick and Simon both bumped hands and arms to reach for rolls and salad dressing. Nick took the Thousand Islands and dumped it on top of Simon’s precarious mountain.

“Fucker,” Simon growled.

Nick tilted his head. “What? You love ketchup and mayo.”

Simon looked down at his plate, then shrugged. “I do.”

Harper shook her head and tried not to wince. That was not going to be a good combo. Simon stabbed his fork in and stuffed it in his mouth. He grinned around a mouthful and gave her the thumbs up before wandering over to the table where Jazz and Deacon were already seated.

Gray was much quieter bringing up the rear. He requested his barbecue chicken with a smile and a friendly greeting, keeping his eyes firmly on hers. Unusual for a musician. Most of them liked to cop an eye feel if nothing else.

When they all settled at the table, they sat elbow to elbow with their heads down and conversation kept to themselves. Minus that scuffle with the chairs a few minutes ago, they handled themselves well for newcomers to the tour.

The lead singer and heartbeat of Rebel Rage couldn’t stop staring at the group. Searing blue eyes flashed from his tanned, smooth skin. Most of the bands these days were filled with scruffy-faced singers, but not Johnny. He probably used a straight razor. He never had an ounce of shadow on his face.

His stabs into his plate became more and more forceful. The conversation at the opening act’s table was filled with camaraderie and easy short speak. Which made the headliner’s table seem even more tense. Sin tried to engage Johnny in conversation half a dozen times before giving up.

Johnny finally got up and dumped his half eaten dinner into the trash before storming out of the tent.

Yep.

That wasn’t good.

Meg gave the signal for clean up to begin. Band watching over, Harper fell into step with the crew and started packing up.

The members of Oblivion cleared their table themselves. One of their cleanup crew tried to stop them, but Jazz and Nick each stacked dishes and scraped their plates before dumping them into the dishpans. Deacon stood and took care of the rest of the table with an efficiency that told her he hadn’t been lying about waiting tables.

Within three minutes, all their plates and cutlery were dumped in bins for cleanup. Deacon gave her a smart little salute before following the rest of his band out of the tent.

Well used to catering, the Rebel Rage boys had trashed their table. Sin and Jett—the drummer—sat with coffee as Jett told a story about his son. Killian smiled while he listened and flicked through screens on his iPad.

The nonsense from Johnny Cage and his type she was used to. She really didn’t want to be charmed by the opening act.

Or to get sucked into a pair of green eyes that stayed with her even when he wasn’t in the room.