I’m still mulling over his veiled threat as I make my way through the crowd and deliver the cocktails. The last thing I need is to be caught in some power struggle between Isaac and his shift manager.
Why are men always so dang territorial?
Sliding the thin order pad from my apron pocket, I’ve just begun to scan my section for anyone in need of a fresh drink when I hear a voice echo out over the speakers.
“Hey.”
One word. It strikes me like a bolt of lightning — zipping along my nerve endings, lighting me up from the inside out like a supercharged shock of electricity. Before I even swivel around to look at him, I know the guy standing at the microphone is going to take my breath away. He’s just got one of those voices.
I’m not the only one who notices, either. Every girl in my section is suddenly sitting up straighter, fluffing her hair, arching her back so her cleavage is displayed a bit more perkily. I should be taking advantage of the lull between sets to scribble down drink orders, but instead I find my feet turning toward the stage without conscious thought. It’s an automatic reflex, like hearing your name shouted out in a crowd. You can’t help looking up.
There are three musicians onstage but my eyes barely spare the drummer or bassist a glance, locking immediately on the man standing at the microphone, illuminated by the streaming overhead lights. He’s wearing ripped black jeans and a t-shirt so faded the band logo on the front is illegible. His only accessory is the black guitar strapped over his shoulder.
He isn’t the most handsome man I’ve ever seen, but there’s something utterly captivating about him. Lush dark hair falls into his eyes in that messy-on-purpose way musicians pull off so effortlessly. Crooked nose, smirking mouth. Tall, with the lean build of a soccer player and a voice like a lazy Sunday morning — slow, smooth, with the faintest southern twang on the end of his vowels that makes you want to linger in bed all day.
“I know y’all came out tonight to hear Lacey sing…”
The crowd cheers, clearly familiar with whoever he’s talking about.
“But she’s running a bit late, so you’ll just have to settle for me and the boys tonight,” he drawls, mouth twisting sardonically.
The females in the crowd holler louder; the men look a bit dejected by the news.
“Now, I usually hide back there behind my guitar and leave the singing to the professionals.” He chuckles lowly, and the sound alone is enough to make a breath catch in my throat. “You’ll have to forgive me if I don’t do this stage justice.”
Forgive him?
He has nothing to apologize for. Hell, If his speaking voice is any indication, he could probably sing the Teletubbies theme song and put James Taylor to shame.
“We’re Lacey Briggs’ band. But seeing as we’re short one Lacey Briggs this fine evening… I’m Ryder, that’s Aiden on bass, Lincoln on drums… and we’re just three nobodies looking to have a good time. Y’all think you can help us out with that?”
The crowd roars.
“Well, all right then, Nashville. Let’s do the damn thing.”
Lincoln cracks his drumsticks together in the air, counting down a beat. A few seconds later, they launch into a Zac Brown Band cover song. It’s an instant crowd-pleaser — everyone starts nodding along, dancing in their seats, swaying to the beat. With considerable effort, I manage to tear my eyes away from the stage and start circulating through my section. I take several drink orders, smiling politely for the sake of my tips, but the entire time my focus is honed on the man behind me, who’s singing about fried chicken and cold beer with more conviction than some musicians can muster for their most poignant love songs.
Remember your rules, Felicity,I scold myself sternly when I catch my hips sashaying to the song rhythm.No musicians. Ever. Even if he’s hot. Even if he’s got a voice like a shot of whiskey on an empty stomach.
I try to heed the warning bells ringing inside my head, to tell myself I’m totally unaffected by the man on stage… but I can’t deny there’s a bit more bounce in my step as I make my way to the bar. I rattle off my order to Jay, the bartender, and turn to watch the performance while I wait. The band has segued into a rowdy rendition of “Wagon Wheel” and the singer — Ryder — is working the audience for everything they’re worth. He’s swaggering back and forth, serenading the girls at the front, throwing winks at the ones in the back. It’s hard to believe he’s usually resigned to guitar chords and backup vocals. He was born to be front and center. The star of the show.
I’m so entranced, I don’t even notice Carly appear at my side.
“Make sure you wipe that drool before you carry out your drinks.”
I flinch and tear my eyes from Ryder. “I wasn’t— It’s not what you think. I was just—”
“Blatantly ogling the goods?”
A blush threatens to stain my cheeks.
“Oh, relax.” She grins. “That boy is hotter than a cast iron skillet. No need to apologize for noticing.”
“I guess,” I say, striving for nonchalance. “If that’s your type.”
She bumps her hip against mine. “Ryder is everyone’s type. There’s not a girl in this room who wouldn’t like to take a ride on that bicycle.”
“Not me.” I shake my head. “I don’t date musicians.”