Gypsy told everyone the same lie—that Wyatt Jackson wasn’t getting anywhere near her heart.
“Aren’t you supposed to be somewhere in middle America right now,” she asked, “having bras and panties thrown at your feet?”
“I’ll elbow Blacksmith off that stage in a heartbeat,” he said, pouring liquor with both hands, “if there is even the slightest chance you’d throw your panties at me.”
She smiled and glanced at the band. “Thanks for hooking me up with them. They’re always a big draw.”
“Glad to hear it. They’re good guys.”
Wyatt had helped Gypsy grow the business over the years by throwing her tips from other successful bars he’d visited, giving her contacts for the hot up-and-comers, and putting a bug in their ear to play at the bar.
Now he took orders and delivered drinks with the speed of two bartenders.
“Let me know if this singing gig ever dries up for you,” she said. “Maybe I’ll find a place for you here.”
His smile heated, and he tipped his head side to side, his gaze on his work. “You as a boss? That’s a sexy idea.”
Now that she was sitting down, Gypsy let herself relax. Her feet throbbed, and she leaned down and slid her hand into her boot to massage her calf.
Wyatt was so efficient, he cleared the customers waiting for drinks on this side of the bar within fifteen minutes, all while carrying on casual conversation with the regulars.
It didn’t take long for the tourists to start whispering. If Wyatt heard, he didn’t acknowledge. Instead, he pulled an IPA for himself and returned to Gypsy. Leaning one forearm on the bar, he stared directly into Gypsy’s eyes as he sipped his beer.
It took all her willpower to keep her gaze off his lips. “Seriously, don’t you need to be on stage somewhere?”
“Only place I need to be is right here, right now.” He put his drink down and pressed both arms against the bar’s edge. His forearms, exposed beneath the rolled sleeves of the shirt he wore over a white tee, were tight and tan.
“Looks like you’re still working out,” she said.
“Gotta take care of myself. I ain’t getting any younger, and touring ain’t getting any easier.”
Wyatt was thirty-six. That fact always blew Gypsy away because she always felt like he was closer to her age, twenty-six. He was so vibrant and active, it seemed unfathomable that he was ten years older. She’d always seen guys in their thirties as settled and solid. But Wyatt was still sowing oats. The man should have a million acres of oats by now.
Losing his brother had taken a toll on Wyatt. Between the loss, the stress and the touring, he’d ended up in the hospital with pneumonia. He’d told Gypsy that experience pushed him into a lifestyle change. No partying, no late nights, no booze, no drugs. She distinctly remembered he hadn’t said no women.
“I’m home for Belle’s birthday,” he said. “Are you free Saturday?”
“To hang out with toddlers? No thanks, I do that at home every day.”
“Belle has made it very clear that she is not a baby anymore. She’s a big girl now. Five going on twenty-five.”
Someone came up behind Gypsy and ordered a pitcher of beer. Wyatt picked up a glass pitcher and tossed it in the air. She winced as it turned end over end just before he caught it and slid it under an open tap.
She let out her breath. “You stop my heart every time you do that.”
“Don’t worry, I have a few tricks up my sleeve to give your ticker a kickstart if needed.”
Oh, she just bet he did.
A woman pushed forward, elbowing Gypsy in an effort to get her boobs up to the bar. “Oh my God,” she said in that sickeningly sweet high-pitched fangirl voice. “I love your music, Wyatt.”
Wyatt’s smile was practiced and charming, but not real. Not like the ones he gave Gypsy. She shouldn’t feel so damned thrilled about that. “Thank you, darlin’. What brings you to town?”
Another fact that pleased her was that in all the time she’d known him, he’d never called another woman—including the hundreds of fans he’d interacted with at the bar over the years—sugar. Stupid, she knew, but when he was the closest thing she’d had to a crush in the last four long years, she deserved a break.
While the woman babbled about coming into town with friends for a bachelorette party, Wyatt handed the pitcher to the other customer and took the payment. He cashed out the amount for the beer and tossed the rest in the tip jug.
When he turned back to the bar, he cut a look at Gypsy, who feigned a yawn and patted her mouth, making Wyatt snicker, all while the tourist was caught up in her own star-sputtering glee.
Wyatt made a quick cosmo and slid it across the bar to the fan. She stopped talking, glanced at the drink and back to Wyatt.
“For the bride-to-be,” he said, “with my congratulations. I’d love to talk, but we’ve got a thirsty crowd.” He placed a coaster on the bar, grabbed the nearest pen, and signed his name, offering it to the woman. “Thanks for stopping by.”
Gypsy waited to see how the woman reacted to Wyatt’s assumption that she wanted an autograph when she hadn’t asked for one. But he obviously knew his fans, because the girl sputtered gratitude after gratitude and took both the coaster and the drink off to her friends while Wyatt started on another drink order.
She rolled her eyes. “Oh. My. God.”
He smirked. “That’s what she said.”
“Ha.” Gypsy shook her head, sipped her drink, and waited for a lull in the crowd to ask Wyatt the question that first came to mind when he’d mentioned his niece. “How is Belle doing with your brother being gone?”
“They say kids are resilient, and I guess they’d be right, because by all accounts, Belle is doing well.” A little spark left his eyes. “I wish adults could be the same.”
Gypsy had tried to bring up the loss of his brother a couple of times over the last year, but Wyatt always deflected, hiding behind that good-ol’-boy façade. She hoped he could talk with his bandmates about it, because there was nothing easy about losing a family member to suicide.
“You know,” she said, trying to keep her voice level so he didn’t think she was pitying him, “if you ever want to talk about it, I’m here.”
Right before her eyes, the authentic, grounded Wyatt she adored morphed back into the rock star playboy who enjoyed pushing her every last button. “How about Saturday night?” He crossed his arms on the bar, leaned in, and looked at her as if he could barely keep his hands to himself. “Wear that off-the-shoulder ivory number that stops just below your amazing ass and those mouthwatering suede thigh-high, high-heeled boots.”
She couldn’t tear her gaze away from the flaming heat in his own, but she managed a narrow-eyed look. “How, exactly, do you even know I own such an outfit?”
A slow, smoldering smile drifted across his handsome face. “Instagram.”
Gypsy’s lips parted, but nothing came out. Her mind was spinning around the idea that Wyatt Jackson, hottest country singer on the map, stalked her Instagram page.
Fear pinged somewhere deep in her belly. This man had just sauntered into real trouble territory. She’d been able to resist him this long because she’d never taken his flirtation seriously. But casual interest didn’t include following her on social media when he had an untold number of women willing to fall on their backs for him with an instant’s notice.