I woke up thinking I was seven years old. An aroma I hadn’t smelled since that age filled my nostrils, pulling me out of my abstract dream.

Scrubbing my hands over my bristly face snapped me back into the present, but the scent was still there. Curious and searching my brain for the memory, I stumbled out of my room in nothing but pajama pants, following my nose like a cartoon character.

It led me down to the kitchen, where I found Paisley pulling the last fried pie out of a pan full of aromatic oil.

“Good morning!” she said, beaming at me. “Peach jack?”

“Good Lord, yes,” I said, my mouth watering. “I didn’t know you could cook.”

“Just a few things,” she said, waving a hand dismissively. “But all that talk yesterday got me missing my mom. She made these anytime we were nervous about a big day, or if we had a rough night, or even if she just thought we might need them. I tell you what, I had the worst time getting skinny with that woman’s cooking.” She laughed musically—a warm, pleasant sound. It struck me that I could get used to hearing it if I wasn’t careful.

“Let’s see how good you are,” I teased, sitting down as she put two plates on the table.

“Don’t get your hopes up,” she laughed. “I’m better at writing songs, and I suck at that lately.”

I rolled my eyes at her self-deprecation and took a huge bite. The taste exploded in my mouth, transporting me back in time. I could hear my mother’s voice, see her face in my mind’s eye. I choked on the emotion.

“That bad?” she asked with a wince.

“No,” I said quickly, croaking around the knot in my throat. “No, it’s perfect.”

“Oh, good.” She blew out a sigh and grinned at me. “I’m actually really proud of these. I spent forever learning how to make them like my mom did.”

“You did good,” I told her sincerely. “Real good.”

She blushed and made happy noises.

I grinned and shoveled another forkful into my mouth. They were fantastic, and so was she.

For a moment, I could almost pretend that it was real. That she and I were just two people eating breakfast, chatting about little bits of nothing.

I helped her clean up afterward; it was the polite thing to do. The little appreciative glances she gave me sort of emphasized the small touches. Her hand on my arm or my back as she passed me, her hip bumping my leg as she stood at the sink rinsing dishes.

I didn’t know if it was on purpose, or if Paisley was just the touchy sort of person. Either way, if I pushed too far too fast, the whole thing would blow up in my face. I had to wait until she was throwing herself at me before I made a move. If I misread the signs and pissed her off, she would kick me out without a dime. I needed those dimes. Billy sure as hell needed them.

So I let her touch me, and I returned her smiles, and I kept the conversation flowing. She would have to make the first move. Shouldn’t be too hard for a powerful celebrity to take the lead, right?

The subtle flirting continued for a few more days. I liked to watch her think and cook and obsess over her music. I started getting to know her, from a slight distance—the way she transformed from a powerful pop star into a little kid when her sister called, the way she crossed and uncrossed her toes when she was deep in thought. I learned that she mostly ate dessert for breakfast, which was fine with me.

I was getting comfortable there, even though the house was too big and she was too pretty. I liked sitting in the piano room with her while she worked and she liked having me there. I could see it in the way she glanced over at me in between notes, or when she paused to write something down. I met her glance as often as I could without looking creepy, solidifying myself in her awareness.

Paisley was getting comfortable with me, too. She had started asking for fighting lessons on a daily basis, and I was more than happy to oblige. There was nothing like sparring to break the ice, and we broke it hard. She learned quickly, and actually managed to get a few solid hits in on the third day.

“All right, doing good,” I told her. “Now you’re gonna learn some grappling.”

“Grappling? I thought this was boxing?”

“Nah, darlin’. This is MMA.” I shot her a wicked grin, and she met my gaze with a steely glint in her glittering eyes.

“Show me,” she said.

I tossed her around like a rag doll. She seemed to be enjoying it a little too much; her eyes and lips darkened, and her tongue played with her smile. I had her pinned beneath my body, her neck locked in my elbow so her chin was held tight against my shoulder. My hips pinned hers to the floor, and her thighs splayed out on either side of me. I could feel her heart race, feel her nipples harden against my chest through her thin shirt.

“How are you going to get out of this?” I asked, ignoring the hard heat raging between my legs.

“Why on earth would I get out of this?” she asked in a murmur.

My blood ran hot and it took every ounce of self-control to keep from grinding against her. “Because I’m attacking you,” I said firmly. “I’m a crazed stalker, out to get me a piece of Paisley Abbott. Come on, how you gonna get me off?”

“I can think of a couple ways…”

“Paisley.” I put a warning in my voice, but it came out sounding like a plea.

“All right, all right,” she laughed. “Um… I don’t know, you’ve got my neck. You could just squeeze, and it would be over.”

“Not if your chin’s in the way,” I told her. “Duck your head, there you go. Now how you gonna push me off of you?”

She pushed at me with her little hands, and it tickled. I flinched and laughed, and she punched my ribs.

“Well, help me!”

“All right, all right,” I laughed. “Sorry. Slide your leg under mine, get it up in between. There you go. Bend it… No, you’re not going for the nuts, girl! Damn. Okay, get your elbow under you. Yeah. You’re going to push your hip up into mine and roll like a gator. Got it?”

“Yeah,” she gasped.

She started, and I could feel the weight shift.

“Good, keep going. Push with your foot, your arm, get that whole side of your… Whoa! Good. Now straddle me.”

“What?” Her voice was muffled against my chest.

“Keep me down!” I jerked, and she slammed her butt down across my thighs. “Good. Now you want your head back, right? Yeah, you do. Start hitting my ribs, as fast as you can. Don’t worry about form or power or any of that, just hit me as many times as you can.”

I refused to pander to her, so she had nearly worn herself out by the time she got me to loosen my grip. “Now relax,” I told her. “Slide your head out.”

She did, her glossy hair flying all over the place, exploding in static. Grinning, I brushed it off of her face.

“Good work,” I told her.

“Thanks,” she laughed, glowing under her chocolaty halo, still straddling me.

She locked eyes with me, then, and I let her look. Moistening my lip with the tip of my tongue, I took a moment to appreciate the sensation of her soft, firm butt warming my thighs. The moment stretched out while she caught her breath, as the red faded from her face. Her eyes took me in, trailing down my face to my shoulders and back again, lingering on my mouth. Come on, baby, I thought. It’s all you.

“I need to ask you something,” she said softly, her voice hoarse with exertion.

“Ask me anything,” I murmured, tucking her hair behind her ear. The answer’s yes.

“I…” She hesitated, pressing her palms to my chest and looking away. “I have to go to this red-carpet thing. Country music awards, very fancy, very boring, and very public. I don’t want to look like a diva, walking around with my personal security guard in tow, so…would you be my plus-one?” She met my eyes when she asked the question, turning the full force of her female intensity on me.

“Yeah, absolutely.”

“Oh, thank God,” she said, collapsing on my chest with a happy sigh. “I really thought you were going to say no. You don’t seem like the gala type.”

“What the hell is a gala?” I asked.

She only laughed and slid off of me, which was less than ideal. “It’s tomorrow night. Do you have a tux?”

“Yeah, wadded up in my duffel bag,” I said sarcastically as I pulled myself to my feet.

She smirked. “Let’s go get you one, then. Job-related expense. I’ll cover it.”

“Oh… Ah…” On the one hand, she was my employer, this was her idea, and we had already agreed that she would cover the costs of doing my job. On the other hand, I had just spent an hour rolling around with her, platonic or not, and I didn’t feel right letting her buy me stuff.

“Let it go, big man,” she said, linking her arm through mine. “It’s happening.”

I wasn’t about to argue with her when she looked at me like that. I let her buy the tux. It was a business expense, after all.