His face hurt. And his wrist.

Deacon was also pretty sure that he now would see spots permanently from the sheer volume of flash photos he’d smiled through. The fans had been the easy part.

Well, until the radio station bussed in winners from a local mall. The small group on the sidewalk had been child’s play. The lobby had been overrun with screaming women and shouting men.

Then there had been the radio station winners that they had to do one-on-one meetings with. He slapped another smile on his face when someone tapped on his elbow.

Deacon turned and instantly crouched down. A little girl, no more than six, stared up at him. Her blonde hair was slipping from two pigtails and her huge blue eyes reminded him of another woman.

Shit. She was like a mini-Harper.

His first real smile in hours melted the tension in his shoulders. “Hey there.”

The girl nibbled on her bottom lip. “Are you Demon?”

“Some people call me that.” He tapped the end of her nose. “But I have a secret.”

“What is it?” she asked, her eyes widening even more.

“I prefer Deacon,” he said in a low whisper.

She smiled brightly. “That’s a pretty name.”

He mock-frowned at her. “It’s a boy name.”

She giggled while holding out her hand. “I’m Jasmine.”

“You are? I know a Jasmine, too.”

“You do?”

Damn if her eyes weren’t the most beautiful blue. Like a clear summer sky. Like Harper’s. He cleared his throat when she tilted her head. “Yes. Our drummer’s name is Jasmine.”

“No, it’s not. Her name is Jazz.”

“Cool nickname, right?”

“My mom calls me—”

“Jazzy! There you are!”

The little girl turned and waved at her mother. The sunny blonde rushing forward matched her daughter in every way.

“Oh, my dear God.” The woman blinked down at her daughter and then at Deacon who was just as tall as she was in a crouched position. “You’re—” Her mouth dropped open and her fingers fluttered over her neck, then to her purse, and back to the collar of her shirt.

She seemed to pull herself together and smoothed her hand down the little girl’s hair. “You scared Mommy.”

“I couldn’t find you, but then I saw him. You know, because he’s so tall and all.”

Deacon grinned and stood. “Hi, I’m Deacon.”

“Oh, I know who you are.” The woman tilted her head up to meet his gaze. She stuck her hand out. “Mary.”

He shook her hand.

“Can we get that picture now, Momma?”

“I’m sure he’s busy, baby.”

“No, that’s fine. I’d be happy to. We were just getting acquainted when you came over.”

Jasmine held her hands up. “I’ll never show up in the picture unless you pick me up.”

“Jasmine Marie! I’m so sorry. She’s not usually so rude.”

Deacon chuckled. “Is it okay if I pick her up?”

“Oh yeah, she’s a monkey. She’ll climb right up if you let her.”

“Is that right?”

He held out his arm and sure enough, Jasmine climbed up his arm and latched her legs around his waist. Well, as much as her six year old legs could. He supported her butt with his forearm, then lifted her up onto his shoulders.

Jasmine squealed and wrapped her tiny hand around his neck. “This is officially awesome.”

“Hey kid, that’s my spot. Don’t get too comfy.”

The little girl’s nails bit into his neck. “Oh my God.”

Deacon grinned down at their Jazz. “Hiya, Pix.”

“You flirtin’ with all the girls, Manster?”

“Maybe.”

Nick and Gray came up behind Jazz. The usually cool and quiet Gray was smiling—an honest to God, full-blown smile—up at the kid.

Simon was still holding court, this time with his charity in mind. Didn’t mean he wasn’t scrawling his signature across many a breast for his own pleasure as a side benefit.

The mother…Mary, was it? Names tended to stick around long enough for him to sign the name on the paper, CD, or program before it was lost to his overloaded brain. She was twisting the handle of her purse as she nibbled on her bottom lip.

Deacon knew that look. It was a photo-op look. Instead of watching the woman agonize over asking, he opened his other arm to Jazz. “Let’s give this nice lady and her daughter a picture before we have to head upstairs to the studio.”

“Oh, right. Sure,” Jazz said brightly. She snuggled into his side and tugged on the little girl’s purple and black sneaker. “What’s your name, sweetie?”

“Jasmine.”

Jazz’s eyes lit up. “Mine, too!”

“Deacon told me.” Tiny fingers tapped his neck. “My mom calls me Jazzy, though.”

“Close enough. I gotta say…totally cool name.”

Mary stepped in front of her daughter on the other side of Deacon.

“Did you want all of us?” Deacon asked.

Mary nodded. “Yes, please.”

Gray and Nick flanked him. Gray automatically slipped in beside Jazz, and Nick slid an arm around Mary’s shoulder.

“Gordo! Over here.” Deacon shouted into the crowd. Shellac and Polo boy rushed over, juggling his iPad and lanyards with radio station VIP passes on the front.

“We have to move upstairs to do the acoustic set.”

Jazz bounced once. “Take this poor woman’s picture and we’ll go wherever you tell us to.”

Deacon had to force himself not to roll his eyes. Jazz in sugar-shock mode was almost too syrupy to stand. But as usual, Gordo got flustered and did anything that Jazz asked him to.

It was truly sickening.

A few minutes later, Mary’s phone was full of pictures and Jasmine was back on the ground, fingers linked with her mother’s. Gray plucked out two strings from the handful of passes Gordo held and slipped one over the little girl’s head and handed another to Mary before disappearing into the crowd.

“We’re going to have to rename him Vapor,” Nick muttered.

Deacon leaned down and pressed a kiss to mini-Jasmine’s cheek. “Stay cool, Jazzy.”

They all said goodbye to Mary and waded their way through the neverending crowd to Simon. Two girls sat on the table with their tops scrunched up to show off tanned, bare backs. Simon, of course, was scrawling his signature across their skin very slowly.

Nick, Gray, Jazz, and Deacon all clustered together with folded arms. Jazz had her hip cocked and her head tilted in that Jazz way that made all of them squirm.

Simon finally sat back and studied his handiwork before looking up. The idiot didn’t have an ounce of remorse. He simply shrugged and stood. “Time to work?”

Jazz tipped her head back and growled. “You’re such a pig.”

“Ah, but I’m your pig, Jazzalicious.”

“Do not call me that.”

Simon leaned forward and kissed each girl. “Sorry, girls. I have to go sing now. See you after the show tonight? You can show me the tattoos you’re off to get.”

The two women nodded and hopped down. They were wearing nearly identical outfits—skirts that could be belts, and clingy, sparkly tops.

All the shiny things that Simon couldn’t resist.

Deacon rolled his eyes. They were staring down the sixth week of the tour and Simon seemed as enamored with the groupies now as he had when they’d first released “The Becoming”.

Deacon spotted Gordo making a dash for them, his little chicken legs working overtime to get across the lobby. “You done?”

Simon twirled his Sharpie through his fingers. “Don’t be jealous, gents. I can’t help it if the women love me more than you.”

Nick simply lifted one brow, staring Simon down.

And still, no shame to be seen.

“Gordo’s coming to collect us.”

“Finally,” Nick muttered. Their lead guitarist loved the music portion of their duties, but hated the public niceties. Three hours was way past his boiling point.

If Gordo had let them know there would be a signing, Deacon knew Nick would have found a way to make himself scarce.

Gordo waved to them from the elevator as he held the door open.

Nick and Gray flanked Jazz, leaving Deacon and Simon at the back of the pack. With heads down, they managed to get to the elevator without being stopped.

When all of them were alone in the elevator, Gordo slapped the top floor. “All right, I have some news.”

Simon’s shoulders slumped and he stared at his feet. “We have eight more meet and greets,” he muttered.

“No, Simon. For your information, this is very good news. The sales for this tour have turned around so sharply that Trident is giving you an extra ten minutes per set for the rest of the tour.”

Nick dropped his arms to his sides. “Holy shit.”

Jazz instantly started bouncing.

Deacon frowned. “Ten minutes?”

“Yes, giving you a fifty minute set. The next few shows are big ones, as you well know. So we need you in top form. I sent you a few songs that have done the best on the YouTube channel that I’d suggest putting in the show.”

“Now you’re telling us what to play, too?” Deacon bit his lip. He hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

Nick and Gray mirrored each other by both dipping their hands in their pockets. They were far more in sync with each other than they’d want to own up to. Especially on stage.

Gordo went on as if Deacon hadn’t spoken. “I think you should do them acoustically today, and that way, people will be excited to see them on stage tonight.”

Deacon opened his mouth, irrational anger coasting up his spine.

Jazz laid her hand on his arm, giving him a look. “That’s great. It would have been more helpful if you’d let us know earlier, so we could have practiced, Toby. Tell the radio hosts to give us a few minutes?”

Gordo’s shoulders relaxed. Jazz knew how to twine any one of them around her finger. Gordo was no different. The whole using his real name trick—damn effective.

Handling was exactly what Deacon usually did. When the hell had he handed that particular piece of his job to Jazz? And he couldn’t even be mad about it. He’s been in his own head so much that Jazz had been stepping in a lot lately.

Time to get his damn head in the game again.

Simon cracked his knuckles. “‘Ripcord’.”

Nick turned his head to Simon. “What?”

The elevator dinged open.

Simon walked out in the lead with all of them following. The room was sterile as a bank. Tan walls, tan carpet, tan couches, with boring seascapes on the walls.

Deacon knew the effect was supposed to be soothing, but all it did was make his shoulder blades itch.

Without even asking, Simon headed for the door marked break room. They all followed him to a table.

“Look, this is a good thing.”

Gordo hovered around the fringes of their little powwow until Simon turned, his charm-face in full effect.

“Hey Gordo, how about you check in with the radio people and see if we can get a practice space, huh?”

“Right.” Task in mind, Gordo rushed back out into the vanilla lobby.

“‘Ripcord’ is one of our better songs, but we don’t ever get to play it. And it sounds really cool acoustic, too. Remember when we did it at the afterparty at the beginning of the tour?”

Deacon nodded, his fingers itching for a guitar.

“Then we can do ‘Too Still’ as well.”

“A love song?” Nick sneered. “What the fuck, man?”

“No, he’s right.” Deacon dug his phone out of his pocket to jot down notes. “We’ve only let out the rock songs lately.”

“Because that’s what we are,” Nick said with a growl.

Deacon sighed. From a marketing standpoint, they’d only had one slower paced song. “The Becoming” was sex on legs, and the rest of their songs were in your face, but they really hadn’t showed just how awesome they were lyrically yet.

“Too Still” showed the other side of them.

“Reason one, relationship songs are universal.” Deacon held up his thumb then his forefinger. “Two, we don’t want to be pigeon-holed as the band that only sings raunchy party songs.”

“We like raunchy party songs. They keep the crowd moving,” Simon interjected.

“Look at Rebel Rage. They can’t get out of their own way, or the shadow of their party songs. We’re more than that.”

“He’s right.”

Gray’s quiet voice swung everyone’s attention his way. He rubbed his finger under his nose. “The slower songs give us more leeway with guitar solos, as well as show that Simon can do more than scream.”

“Thanks. I think.” Simon folded his arms across his chest.

Gray shrugged.

Nick scrubbed his hands over his face, then squared his shoulders. “Let’s see how it goes.”

Deacon glanced at Jazz. She’d been suspiciously quiet. She was twirling one of her drumsticks through her fingers and gnawing on her bottom lip. A far off look had taken over her eyes. “Pix?”

“Hmm?” She blinked up at him.

“Anything to say?”

She turned to Gray. “Did you bring both of your acoustics?”

He nodded.

“I want to play on ‘Too Still’. I’ll be tambourine girl for the rest, but I want to play. I think we can really show them just how awesome we are acoustically.”

Deacon nodded. “Okay by me.”

Simon slapped his hands together then rubbed them with a new light in his eyes. “Then let’s get practicing. We’ll kick their ass in the studio and at the show tonight.”

* * *

Harper rolled her shoulders and stretched. She stifled a yawn when Mitch gave her a look. It had been a long morning already. She had a million things to do to get ready for lunch. Standing around for a mandatory meeting was definitely not on her to-do list.

Meg and Danny came in. Danny had his battered leather portfolio under his arm. That didn’t bode well. He only dragged that out when he was stressed.

Meg dragged a chair behind her and climbed on while balancing herself with a hand on Danny’s shoulder. “Thanks for coming guys. We’ve got a special guest coming in for lunch today. He’s not a musician, but he’s got serious VIP status.”

“Great, a suit.”

“Problem, Pruitt?”

Crap. She’d said that under her breath hadn’t she?

“Nope. Just eager to get something awesome together for our VIP.”

“That’s the spirit,” Meg said. “Okay, people, you know your jobs, I just want to make sure everyone’s wearing Food Riot shirts today. I don’t want to hear excuses, just wear ’em. If you truly don’t have one, come see me.” At the grumbles that streamed around the crowd, Meg put her hands on her hips. “You should be wearing them anyway.”

“We all look fabulous in orange,” Danny deadpanned.

Meg elbowed him. “Shut up. You picked the color.”

“I must’ve been drunk.”

The room broke out in appreciative laughter. Harper didn’t mind the shirts. She did look good in orange.

Meg held her hands up. “All right, all right. That’s enough. Assignment sheets are taped to all the carts. No swapping out jobs today.”

Harper laced her arm through Mitchell’s. “At least I have you on my team today, Uncle.”

“Of course you do. Because I’m the fastest.”

“Damn right.”

They headed to the truck, and Harper slid through the organized chaos that was her job. She went right to the oven and pulled trays of dehydrated strawberries out to cool and checked on the bacon wrapped chicken thighs she’d put in the pressure cooker. The sweet, mustardy tang of the sauce had cooked down to a glaze, like it should.

Fortunately—or unfortunately—everything was going smoothly. Cooking was a rhythm for her. And today was an easy rhythm that left her too much time to think.

Meg had offered her a contracted job.

At first, she’d been elated. For God’s sake, she’d even told Deacon. As if it had been a done deal.

She hadn’t opened her mouth to anyone else—not her parents, not her brother, not even Mitchell. But immediately, she’d opened her phone and texted him.

Deacon was not her boyfriend. He was just a guy she was passing the time with. In a little more than a week, they were going to go their separate ways.

You thought you had insomnia before, Harper Lee.

And that wasn’t helping. Thoughts of him that snuck through and poked at her all day were dangerous. How many times a day did she pick up her phone just to see if he’d sent her an amusing text or picture?

All the time.

He didn’t make her feel like he was checking up on her. Nothing invasive. Instead, it was oh, so much more awful. His texts were as addictive as dark chocolate.

A shot of some gorgeous vista when he was out running the trails, a secluded spot to meet later, a ridiculous candid shot of a recipe he found on Pinterest, or a funny t-shirt. He was always letting her know he was thinking about her.

And now she had a job offer. This was the single reason she’d hopped a flight from her graduation ceremony to the tour. And she’d almost screamed yes, but something had held her back.

The job was a two year contract that left her on call for whatever tours Food Riot needed her. She could be working steadily for two years, or she could be working once every three months. The part that was hard to swallow was that she would be at the whim of Meg and Danny’s schedule.

She’d have very little opportunity to build her own clientele if she was on call at all times. That was the only problem.

Really? Your only problem?

Ignoring that disturbing thought, she used a cleaver to hack a chunk of dark chocolate into pieces to melt into a ganache.

She wanted to be established with her own company in two years. At the same time Food Riot was a lot of hands-on training that would serve her well for future jobs.

Someday, she wanted to have a set-up much like Meg and Danny’s, just a little smaller and a lot more portable. She had a lot of knowledge of ethnic food and ideas for a more exclusive catering service. One that would let her travel to different countries and learn their cuisines, while she worked for people.

She had the contacts to tap, but she had to be ready to prove her talent was worth the price. And that took time and gold stars on a resume.

Meg waved from the door to the tractor trailer. “Harper, I need you for a second.”

She flipped the lids off all the cookers as she passed by. “Annie, can you get those put on parchment paper? I need to brown them up a bit before we serve.”

The girl switched places with her. “You got it.”

And she’d steal Annie if she ever got out of here. The girl was super-efficient and absorbed recipes like a sponge. Harper snaked her way through people to Meg. “What’s up?”

She motioned to the side of the truck away from the endless stream of “I’m not really supposed to tell you who the VIP is, but you’re trustworthy.”

She straightened her shoulders. “Thanks.”

Meg smiled. “Most people would be babbling about how awesome they were.”

Harper shrugged. She’d eaten lunch with Mick Jagger for three months straight when she was eleven. She just didn’t get starstruck.

“I don’t know if you’re the ultimate professional or if you’re jaded.”

“Both.”

Meg chuckled. “That’s probably very true. I hired you because of your roadie background, not your knife skills.” Harper’s back stiffened. “Now, don’t get upset. I know you’re going to leave me.” Meg held up her hand before she could interrupt. “You’ve got talent in the kitchen. Admirable talent. But you’re not really suited for the everyday food on a tour. You’ll end up doing something absurdly awesome someday. Until that someday, I want you with me.”

“Okay…” Harper trailed off.

Meg wrapped her fingers around Harper’s hands. “I like you because—for the most part—you don’t let these guys get under your skin. I’ve had many a chef cave under the pressure of this job. And not just the crazy hours we have. The tour is filled with parties, drugs, sex—hell, that’s my favorite part.” She winked. “But most can’t handle it.”

Harper had caved to one of those pressures. So many times, she wasn’t sure how she was going to live without it when next week came. She lifted her chin. “I grew up with musicians. They don’t interest me.”

“Well, not unless they’re six foot five and built like a damn Adonis.”

Harper felt her face flame, but she kept her mouth shut. What the heck could she say?

“See? If I was pounding the hell out of that fine man, I’d be screaming it from the rooftops.”

Harper’s mouth dropped open. Brain whirling, she snapped her mouth shut with an audible click of teeth.

Meg tapped Harper’s cheek lightly. “Again, my case in point. I don’t blame you. For fuck’s sake, I admire you. That’s a tree I’d have climbed in a snap. And even better, you don’t let it get in the way of working. I can’t say I’d be the same.”

“My work is important.”

Meg tucked her dark hair behind her ear. “Oh, honey. Don’t be so serious. You’re young. You’re supposed to be banging the hell out of a bunch of guys. And you will. The first rock star is always the hardest to get over.”

“Been there, done that.”

Meg’s eyebrow rose. “Really?”

Harper tucked her fisted hands into her apron. She hadn’t meant to say that, dammit. “It was a long time ago.”

“Filled with secrets, Pruitt. You’re just full up to the neck with them, aren’t you?”

She lifted a shoulder. There was no way she was bringing her teen idiocies into this conversation. Not when Meg turned into a gossipy teenager with four shots of tequila in her.

Meg folded her arms across her chest. “I think I need to get you drunk one night before the end of the tour.”

“I’d drink you under the table.”

With a laugh, Meg clapped her hands sharply. “You just might. I’d be willing to try out that bluff, though.”

“Harper, what temperature do you want these at?”

Harper turned at Annie’s voice. “Five hundred for seven minutes.” She looked back at Meg. “So, this VIP? Do you need me to do something special?”

“Yes, actually. He’s a man’s man. Absolutely freaking delicious. Wait until you see this guy.” Meg fanned her face. “But he doesn’t do chicken. So I need you to do a few fillets for him and the Oblivion boys. Something that doesn’t need to stay hot.”

“Record exec?”

Meg shook her head, and her jet black hair danced. “Designer, actually. Up and comer that’s taking L.A. and New York by storm. I think he’s looking at that kid, Simon, to model for him.”

Harper’s eyes widened.

“Yeah. The guy’s name is Roman.”

“Roman…?”

“That’s it. Just Roman. He’s a bit eccentric, and completely wild from what I’ve seen on Google. Seriously, the damage I’d do to this guy is absurd.”

Harper laughed. Meg’s raw honesty still astounded her. She hadn’t thought it was possible with all the things she’d seen in her life. “Okay. I’ll set up a simple cold menu that doesn’t include sissy chicken.”

Meg grinned. “I do love the boys that are unapologetic carnivores.”

“And I like feeding them. Just him? Or does he have a crew with him?”

“Plan for ten in all.”

Harper pulled her phone out of her pocket and tapped in a few notes. “No problem.”

“Normally I’d take this one, but Johnny’s on a freaking rampage, and I have to do some damage control. He’s made three of my girls cry this week. I need to do a little nut twisting.”

Harper winced. “Better you than me.”

“Oh, the glory of being the boss.” Meg slapped Harper’s arm. “Kick ass, kid. They’re going to set up at the pavilion behind us.”

Harper nodded and whirled back to her kitchen. Finally, her first break to actually do a menu. She shouted out orders for the main meal and snagged Annie after the chicken was set up on the steel trays.

“Okay, Annie. We’ve got at special menu to prepare. I need you to do a spring mix salad.” She moved to the huge fridge and pulled out goat cheese, plum tomatoes, sprouts, and a red onion.

“For how many?”

“At least ten.”

Annie nodded and pulled out a cutting board and one of the glittering red and black knives from the magnetic strip. Harper set her up on a corner of the counter space.

And they both got to work.

Within an hour they had a three course meal set up: large salads with a fillet across the top, drizzled in Harper’s own honey sesame dressing, a sushi plate for the Oblivion guys, and a chocolate mousse garnished in her candied strawberries, drizzled in ganache.

And because she knew the Oblivion people could pack it away, she added a bunch of bacon-wrapped chicken. She’d never seen so many skinny people with huge appetites in her life.

Annie opened up one of the carts and they loaded up. The karma gods were looking out for her because miracle of miracles, they actually had a paved path that led to the pavilion where the meeting was to be held.

As they crested the hill, she caught sight of Deacon. He’d donned what she thought of as his off-stage rocker clothes. Battered jeans, and equally battered shit kickers. He had his leather cuffs on, which definitely meant work-mode. But instead of one of his vintage t-shirts, he had a button down silvery grey shirt on, untucked, and his hair was down.

In the five weeks since she’d met him it had grown to lay on his shoulders in heavy chestnut waves with just the hint of sun-kissed gold. The aviator glasses completed the entire look.

And destroyed her damn panties.

The man was above and beyond delicious, and for the first time he truly looked like a rock god.

“That is a hot pack of men over there. I don’t know how Jazz doesn’t trip over her tongue daily.”

Harper hid a smile. “Gotta agree with you.”

“Is it wrong that I want to do a lot of illegal things to the lead singer?”

“There’s a line.”

“I don’t care,” Annie said with a sigh. “It would be worth it.” They were both at the rear of the cart, pushing it up the incline. “Can I ask you something?”

“Only if I can reserve the right to say no comment.”

Annie blew out raspberries. “That’s probably going to be your answer.”

Going on instinct, Harper took a deep breath. “Yes, I’m seeing Deacon.”

“No shit?” Annie’s bright blue eyes widened. “I’d heard some people talk, but you seem so…I don’t know. Unaffected, maybe?”

Harper hissed, wishing for her work gloves when the metal cart bit into her palm. “Have you looked at him?”

Annie laughed. “You are human.”

Harper slid her gaze to the redhead with the wild curls that just wouldn’t be contained under her work bandana. “Of course I’m human.”

“Well, duh. But what I mean is, you work all day, and then you disappear at night. We see you in the morning, and you’re never late.” Her words tumbled over each other in her haste to spit out whatever she wanted to say before they got to the pavilion. “But all you do is work. We never see you at the parties.”

“So, I’m a human bore?”

“Oh, God, this isn’t coming out right.” Annie banged her head on her hands wrapped around the edge of the cart.

Harper snorted. “Relax, Annie. I know I’m not exactly Miss Social.” Her gaze zeroed in on Deacon again and those shoulders that made her crazy. “I’m not hiding this thing with Deacon, but I’m not shouting it from the rooftops either.”

“Considering Johnny Cage has gone through about five—that I know of, mind you—girls on the staff, yeah, I don’t blame you.”

“Deacon’s not like that.”

“Oh, really?” Interest burned in Annie’s voice.

Dammit. She’d totally fallen for that one. “We’re having fun. That’s all there is to it.”

“Put in a good word for me. I want to have fun with Simon.”

“Bat those big blue eyes at him and you’ll be golden.”

Annie rolled her eyes. “Oh yeah, the orphan Annie look is totally going to get the hot rock god.”

“Like you’d say no if he banged you to ‘The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow’.”

Annie stopped in her tracks, and Harper braced herself on the cart so it wouldn’t wheel back down the incline.

“What?”

Annie’s laughter rang out loud enough that Deacon and Nick turned to look at them. Which only made her laugh louder. “I can’t believe you said that.”

“You were begging for it.”

Annie sighed. “I so totally would.”

Harper’s laugh mixed with Annie’s and suddenly the cart was moving a helluva lot easier. Harper looked up, and Deacon’s wide, dimpled grin filled her view. “Hello there.”

“Hi, yourself. Need a hand?”

Her lips would not behave. They instantly slid into a goofy smile. “I wouldn’t say no.”

“You should have texted me, I would have come down to help.”

“It’s my job to get sweaty, big guy, not yours.”

His eyes tracked to Annie then back to her and his dimple deepened.

“Deacon meet Annie.”

“Pleasure.”

Annie’s gaze was decidedly lower. In fact, it was centered around his bulging biceps. “Pleasure’s entirely mine.”

“Head out of the gutter, Annie. Or I’ll make you go back to the tent.”

“Right.” Her twinkling eyes made it above Deacon’s neck, and they softened immediately. He had that effect on any and all women. Harper included.

Kind eyes that had an innate warmth that made everyone feel at ease. Pair that with the dimple and the mop of soft hair he was disarming. Today, with the added bonus of rocker wear, he was downright lethal.

They finally got to the level ground of the pavilion and Deacon rounded the cart to slide his hand around her waist.

“Working here.” But she didn’t try to pull away. She couldn’t. Not when every touch reminded her that he wanted her. Worse yet, that one of them was going to be her last—far too soon.

The tips of his fingers had snuck under the ties of her apron, the hem of her shirt, and brushed the dip of her spine, down into her jeans. Long clever fingers that knew just where to touch, even in a room full of people. She wanted to close her eyes and let him pull her inside the cocoon of warmth they created together.

To let him drag her inside until the energy and passion that swirled between them turned off her brain. A place that only Deacon could create.

He pushed her back until the cart blocked them from prying eyes. Well, most of her anyway. Her ancient jeans gave way to his wide palm, cupping her ass. He slid one thigh between hers, bringing her tight against him. “Lunch isn’t until one.”

She shot a look at the cheap watch taped to the cart. “It’s 12:57, smart guy.” There, her voice didn’t even tremble.

He ground her against his muscled thigh, those damn clever fingers already sliding between her cheeks. She moved restlessly against him, conscious of how sweaty she was from working. He didn’t seem to care.

In fact, his eyes were glowing with intent behind his amber sunglasses. So thoroughly Deacon and yet not. Just a touch darker. The subtle change in his demeanor started with a stare. Then the scrape of his leather cuff against her ass as he reached a little deeper until the tips of his fingers teased inside her.

She dragged in a breath. The man made her crazy. He also made her bold. The clench of his jaw as he watched her always revved her up.

“I can do a lot of damage in three minutes,” he said in the voice that usually followed her into sleep.

She gripped the front of his shirt. The smooth material was hot to the touch thanks to the sun-strength heat that seemed to pour off the man.

He pulled her closer until the seam of her jeans bit into the front of her. The sudden friction and the slow pulse of his almost penetration somersaulted her from playful teasing to the freight train collision of an orgasm. His mouth hovered over hers, but didn’t connect.

Instead, her pussy was detonating with the quickest orgasm of her life, and he was eating her with his eyes.

“I want inside you so bad,” he whispered into her mouth. His lips were velvet against hers, his breath filling her mouth with mint and chocolate. So close and still not covering her the way she wanted, while the punishing burn of denim and cotton sliced her brain into two. Rational logic ran for the hills as color blasted around the fringes of her vision.

In the center was Deacon. Her fingernails dug into the impenetrable muscle of shoulder and neck, as she tried to drag him down to her.

“You’re soaked,” he panted against her mouth. “My cock would slide in so easy.” His ridiculously long fingers could only reach so far. Just a tease.

Just a fucking tease.

“Like the cliffs, when I was so deep inside you that we wore Red Rock dust for days. It was etched into my palms from trying to climb inside you.”

“Deacon,” she said against his mouth. It was all she could manage as memories of that night finished her off. “I can’t—I need.”

And then he was finally giving her that one thing. His mouth. Sealed around hers, his tongue as invasive and hard as his cock could be. Fuck—if she had her way, the way it would be later.

He pushed further down until she heard the tear of her ancient seams and her button gave way just enough that he finally got his fingers inside of her. He growled into the kiss and held himself there. She clenched around him, her body strung so tight her muscles shook. He ground her against his thigh, his groan as strangled as hers. Shaking, decimated, appalled, she folded silently into the white noise of her release.

By the time she realized where she was again she had handfuls of his hair in her fists and she was pretty sure she’d actually blacked out for a second.

Noises and laughter insinuated themselves into their cocoon. The madness that had switched off rational thought dissipated. Deacon withdrew from her quickly. Off-balance, she grabbed his forearms.

“Wow.”

Harper whirled around, backing into Deacon and his steel girder of a fucking hard-on. He twisted his fingers into her belt loop, holding her there.

Annie was back. She stood frozen with a clipboard pressed to her chest. “Now I know why you disappear. I would, too.”

“Crap.” Harper pushed her hair out of her face. Deacon was as bad as she was about getting his hands in her hair.

He cleared his throat and she felt him buttoning his shirt behind her. When he shifted away, she made a circle and sure enough, her clip was on the ground.

Harper stood and wound her hair back on top of her head. Her gaze clashed with Deacon’s and she saw the heat there and the humor.

Training, a lifetime of goals, and some untapped well of willpower saved her. She pushed him back. “Go away. You are a troublemaker.”

He wrapped his long, elegant fingers around her wrists and pulled her forward. It didn’t matter that Annie was right behind them, didn’t matter that she should be professional right now, she went up on her toes and met him in a quick, hot kiss. She poured all the frustration and thanks into the meeting of mouths. When she dropped back down on her heels, she drowned in his shielded gaze.

Cripes, he still had his sunglasses on. She thanked whatever karma points she was cashing in that her apron covered her busted button because it felt like she was peeled open and on display.

For a split second, he was going to ask her to do something stupid. She could see it in his eyes. In the way he looked around. In the tightening of his jaw. Finally, he let her go and took a step back. “Tonight.”

“Tonight,” she agreed.