Jace, page 6
“Go easy on him, Daddy.” Emmy Lou pressed a kiss on their father’s cheek.
“Nah,” Krystal argued. “Put him through the wringer. Make him work for his dinner.”
Jace stared at her, laughing again.
“Be nice, Krystal.” Her father sighed. “He’s gonna be singing with you a bit now. Might want to try to play nice.”
“Now, Daddy, you know better than that.” She rolled her eyes. “I wouldn’t know how to play nice if I tried. Why start now?” She was teasing, sort of. But it was easier this way. If she acted tough, acted like none of this mattered, it was easier to bury the eventual disappointment deep, deep down. “Besides, just because you’re sold on the two of us doing the song doesn’t mean the label will be.”
“Your daddy’s got some pull, baby girl.” He patted her cheek. “I’m gonna use it.”
He meant it. She could tell. And it filled her heart to the brim. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Damn but her eyes were burning. Easier to look away—at Jace—than face the well of untapped emotion she struggled daily to avoid.
He was watching her, his beautiful eyes searching hers. Searing and invasive. Not with hunger, what she’d expected. It was deeper than that. If she didn’t know better, she’d think Jace Black saw the pain and anger and shame eating away at her insides. And if he did, then what? She barely knew this guy. So far, he seemed okay. But things were rarely, if ever, as they seemed. Hot or not, decent or not, Jace Black was just another singer looking for a way to launch himself into stardom. He didn’t give a shit about her or her personal demons. And she’d be wise to remember that—not so easy to accomplish when one lingering look had her breathing hard with want.
“We’ll see you at home.” Emmy Lou took her hand and tugged her to and out the recording room door. “You keep that up and Daddy might rethink this whole duet thing, Krystal.”
There was no point pretending she didn’t understand what her twin was saying. Still, it wasn’t in her nature to roll over. “I didn’t do anything.”
“Not yet.” She shot her sister a look. “But you were thinking about it. That much was clear.”
A handful of snappy retorts rose up, but she swallowed them down. “Whatever. It’s not a big deal. He is…good-looking.”
Emmy smiled then. “Yes. I noticed.”
How could she not notice? His wow-factor was undoubtedly one of the reasons he’d won his reality show. And his voice. Because, holy crap, his voice had totally blown her away. Hearing her words through him… She hadn’t been prepared for how incredible he…it…the song really was. But it was. As long as the record label cooperated, she might have her first single outside of Three Kings.
Once inside the car, Krystal dozed off to the sound of Emmy Lou playing some candy game on her phone. When she woke, the faintest whispers of a new song were hovering on the edges of her mind. They parked and Krystal all but jumped out, pushing through the oversized wooden doors and into the showplace foyer with the mile-high ceiling and art deco light fixture her momma had pushed for. When it was on, the whole floor sparkled—courtesy of the mica chips and crystal veins in the marble flooring. It was over-the-top, just the way her momma liked it.
But the click of nails against the tile had her smiling and she dropped to her knees as Clementine came sliding around the corner, hobbling on three legs, rear end wagging and in full happy mode. “Did you miss your mommy?” Krystal asked, scooping up her dog. “I missed you, too. You would have been proud of me, Clem. Mommy sang her heart out.”
“And got all goo-goo eyed over a guy,” Emmy joined in. “If your mommy had a tail, he’d have her wagging it.”
Krystal laughed so hard she almost dropped Clementine. “You are hilarious, Emmy Lou.”
“Deny it?” her sister asked, hands on hips, waiting. But Krystal was still laughing too hard to answer. Emmy nodded. “I didn’t think so.”
Krystal stood, holding Clem. “Don’t you listen to her. We’re going to make something yummy.” She carried her dog into the kitchen, still smiling.
“Clementine is not going to help you cook,” Emmy Lou argued. “You’re going to put her down. And wash your hands.”
“See how grumpy Auntie Emmy is, Clem?” She giggled as Clementine gave her chin several wet doggy kisses. “I think you’d be a good little sous chef.”
Clem grunted and wiggled.
“After you have a potty break. Maybe? We’ll convince Auntie Emmy, don’t worry.” Krystal carried Clementine to one of the large french doors leading out into the rose garden. A faint melody was taking shape, hints of a connection forming. A solid tempo. Yearning fiddle. She stood in the door, pondering, the heat from the Texas sun and the whir of the cicadas so deafening she lost her train of thought. “Nothing like a Texas summer to remind a gal how blessed she is to have things like air conditioning,” she said over her shoulder.
“If Gramma were here, she’d tell you to stop letting all the bought air out,” Emmy answered.
Which was true. Gramma had been a child of the Depression. Waste not, want not. And letting ice-cold “bought” air drift outside was a pet peeve of hers. “Hurry up, Clem, before Gramma comes back to haunt us.” Krystal laughed as Clem came barreling back across the lawn and inside, heading straight to her water bowl. “I know, it’s hot out there, isn’t it?”
Clementine sat, staring up at her with adoring eyes.
“I know, Clem. I love you too, baby.” She blew the dog kisses, mentally flipping through some of her favorite recipes. “I’m thinking buttermilk biscuits and apple pie?” They were two of her specialties—not that she was out to impress anyone. No way. No one to impress. Not at all. If she were, she’d make her lime sour cream cake. Or her turtle chocolate truffle cake. But she wasn’t. So extra-flaky, extra-sweet, and extra-gooey apple pie would have to do.
“Good.” Emmy opened the fridge. “Roast chicken? Baked potatoes? Salad?”
“Perfect.” Krystal began pulling ingredients: flour, baking soda, buttermilk, eggs. Her favorite ceramic mixing bowl. The melody picked up.
A few words popped up. A male voice was singing. That stopped her. She frowned into the bowl of sifted flour, one cracked egg in her hand. She didn’t write songs for men. Sometimes Travis got a line here or there—part of the chorus—but never a full-out song. And yet the words were definitely masculine. A ballad. Heartfelt and raw.
She’s dancing in his arms now…
She hummed a few notes to get the feel of it.
Just friends. Easy to say. But I miss you. Every damn day…
“New song?” Emmy asked, sounding far away.
She nodded, using two forks to cut the shortening into the flour. No matter how many fancy gadgets her daddy bought her, she insisted on cooking the way her gramma taught her. A dash of this, a pinch of that, and a whole lot of butter. It calmed her, helped her focus.
Tonight’s about them. Not about us. Exchanging their vows. And pledging true love.
He kisses his bride. They both cut the cake. They smile and they laugh, but my damn heart aches.
And seeing her now, on the dance floor, smiling that smile, makes me want more. And all I can say is how I feel.
She dumped the ball of dough onto the marble countertop and rolled it out, sprinkling a bit of flour on top, before smoothing it out with the roller again and pressing the dough into the pie plate.
“It’s got a good melody.” Emmy Lou handed her a large bag of green apples. “I like it.”
“You do?” She smiled at her sister, prepping the apples and swiping the peels and cores into the bag to take to the stables later.
Emmy nodded. “Sad, though.”
Krystal laughed. Most of her songs were sad. It’s not like she set out to write heavy, emotional things—they just sort of fell out of her head and onto sheet music. “You know me.”
Emmy nudged her. “I do.” Emmy wore her heart on her sleeve—and her face. Every single one of her thoughts and emotions were on display for her fans, friends, or family members to see, manipulate, or dissect as they saw fit. That was one of the reasons the world loved her—Emmy’s sweetness and lack of guile was irresistible.
All reasons why Krystal was so protective of her.
Apparently, she wasn’t alone when it came to worrying about her sibling. Emmy Lou was wearing her “concerned” face, her blue-green eyes studying her a little too closely—a mix of sympathy and anxiety.
“Don’t give me that look,” Krystal sighed. “I’m fine.”
“I’m not giving you any look.” Emmy Lou’s brow wrinkled. “Fine isn’t good. I want you to be good. I worry—”
“Well, stop it,” she interrupted. “I don’t want you to worry. Least of all over me.” She grinned. “Besides, it’ll give you wrinkles. Momma would have a fit if you gave yourself wrinkles over me.” And she’d likely blame her, too.
Emmy Lou shook her head, but she was smiling.
They worked alongside each other, the large state-of-the-art kitchen warming from the dual stoves working overtime. While Krystal knocked out another verse for her new song, Emmy Lou continued to hum the new melody. By the time dinner was done and the smell of cinnamon and apples flooded the house, Krystal was ready to pluck out the song on her favorite guitar, play around with chords, and find just the right words.
“Add another place,” Emmy said, carrying another plate and silverware into the dining room.
“Who’s coming?” she asked. With Daddy, there was always one more.
“Momma’s meeting wrapped up.” Emmy glanced her way. “She’ll be home in time for dinner.”
Now she was doubly glad she hadn’t made one of her signature desserts. If she had, she’d be putting a target square on Jace’s back. Her momma was all charm and grace when it came to useful people. Considering he’d unintentionally blocked her attempt to get Mickey on the road as their opening act, Jace Black had a strike against him. Another strike for singing the duet with her—not Emmy. One more strike, and Jace Black would officially be on CiCi King’s blacklist. And that was one thing she wouldn’t wish on her worst enemy.
“You can’t be nice to him,” Emmy Lou said.
She nodded. If she liked him, her mother would eat him alive.
“You can’t be mean to him, either,” Emmy Lou added.
Because if she didn’t like him, her mother would become Jace’s biggest fan.
“What am I supposed to do?” she asked, frowning as Clementine circled her. “Ignore him? Fake a headache?” Maybe that was the best option.
But the front door opened, followed by the sound of boots on marble. And the clickety-click of her momma’s designer heels.
* * *
By now, Jace should be used to feeling out of place. Almost like he’d snuck into a party and now he had no choice but to pretend he’d been invited or he’d get his ass kicked to the curb. He was standing in Hank King’s house, talking about Hank’s favorite Texas football team and their chances at the playoffs in what could only be described as a man cave.
Out of place? More like on another planet.
Framed concert posters. A few encased guitars signed by some of country music’s greatest talents. As if that wasn’t enough, Hank’s impressive display of platinum, gold, and silver albums covered an entire wall of the room.
They sat on overstuffed leather couches, a massive television screen opposite them—on but muted. In the far corner was a wet bar. Travis was there, pulling longnecks from the refrigerator.
“Their preseason stats are looking pretty good,” Hank said. “We got so damn close last year.”
“Momma was sure you were going to have a heart attack,” Travis laughed, handing them each a beer.
Jace took the beer and grinned. When you lived in Texas, football was part of your DNA. And the Houston Roughnecks were the favored team. Last year, he’d screamed and cussed through most of the Championship Bowl, too. “Terrible ref. Bad call.”
Hank nodded, slapping his thigh. “Damn right.”
“Don’t get him started.” Travis chuckled. “How’d it go? Singing with my sister?”
Hank shook his head. “I’d seen some of the clips from your show, so I knew you could sing, and today you didn’t disappoint.”
Just when he thought things couldn’t get more awkward, Hank King goes and gives him a compliment. What the hell should he say? Thank you? Nothing? Aw, golly, gee shucks? Considering they were both staring at him, he had to say something. “I can’t quite wrap my head around this. All of this,” he managed.
Hank smiled. “Stay humble, son. That’s probably the best advice I can give you. You remember where you come from and you’ll never stop appreciating where you are or what you have.”
“Dinner’s ready.” Emmy Lou poked her head in. “What are you watching?”
“You just missed him,” Travis said. “Played good, but they pulled him early.”
Jace glanced at Travis, then Emmy. The girl was red cheeked. “I wasn’t asking about Brock.” She sighed.
Travis cut his eyes her way. “Okay, sure.”
“Travis.” Hank shook his head.
“I asked what you were watching.” Emmy’s smile wavered.
The three of them turned toward the television. A woman in a wedding dress was sobbing in the middle of a fancy shop, a group of people on the couch looking disappointed, while some guy in glasses was trying to put a veil on the crying woman.
“Guess the game’s over?” Jace had been too caught up in the conversation, the room, everything—to notice.
“I have no idea,” her father said. “Why is she crying?”
“Do women cry like that when they go wedding dress shopping?” Travis asked. “Why? It’s a dress.”
“What did that say? Fifty-five hundred dollars?” Hank asked, pointing at the television.
“For a dress?” Travis asked.
Jace was laughing now; he couldn’t help it. He knew exactly what the show was; his sister, Heather, loved it.
“My first car cost less than that,” Hank went on.
“Oh, for crying out loud.” Emmy Lou sighed, taking the remote from her father. The television went black. “Food’s getting cold.” She shook her head, one eyebrow cocked. “Momma will have a field day if she hears you were watching wedding shows.”
Hank slid an arm around his daughter. “Maybe I was just getting ideas for you or your sister’s big day. You think you’ll want a fifty-five-hundred-dollar wedding dress?”
Jace followed, half listening as they wandered through the massive home. Through open doors, he spied an office, a music room with a baby grand piano, back through the showplace foyer, down the hall to the dining room.
CiCi King was there. Smiling. She had a…predatory smile. One that made him nervous. “You sit by me, Jace.” She sat, patting the chair next to her.
He swallowed, doing his best not to frown. Or run. Instead, he nodded, hoping like hell he wasn’t sweating half as much as it felt like he was. “Yes, ma’am.”
With her platinum hair, perfectly enhanced body, and Southern charm, she was something to look at. But she had a shiny, brittle quality that put him instantly on edge. Her blue-green eyes were hard, no matter how big her red-painted smile was. “I want to hear all about your recording session. What do you think of Hank’s li’l ol’ studio?”
Travis snorted.
A swift kick to the shin had him darting a look across the table at Krystal. She didn’t make eye contact, but she wrinkled her nose and her brows rose high. What the hell was that about? If she was trying to tell him something, it wasn’t working.
“I don’t have a lot of experience, Mrs. King, but today has been beyond incredible.” Which was a little too aw-shucks-golly but true.
“You call me CiCi now, you hear?” She patted his hand. “Sounds like we’ll be seeing a lot of you. No point in keeping things formal.” She stared down the table at her husband, her smile softening. “You get things squared away?”
Hank nodded. “We wrapped up the paperwork at the studio. Jace will be with Three Kings for the next ten shows.” He cut into the chicken, put a serving on one plate, and passed it along. “We only got through three of his songs before we ran out of time, but I can’t wait to hear the rest.”
By the time everyone had their plates and serving dishes were traveling, Jace risked another look Krystal’s way. She, however, was staring pointedly at her plate, stabbing her potato with the tips of her fork.
“I must say, I cannot wait to hear you two together,” CiCi gushed before staring into the basket. “You make these biscuits, Krissy?”
Krystal nodded.
“They look a little dry,” CiCi went on, passing the basket on to him, her fingers brushing along the back of his hands.
He wasn’t sure what bothered him more: her maybe-accidental-maybe-not touch or how easily the woman belittled her daughter.
Jace nodded, grabbed two biscuits, and passed along the basket. “We sound good, if I do say so myself.” Hank had played back some of their recording and it had set the hairs on the back of his neck straight up.
“You should.” Hank nodded. “Good to recognize talent when you hear it. You two were meant to sing that song together. Sent a cut to Wheelhouse already. Ethan heard it, loved it, can’t wait to get it out.”
Krystal looked up then, the sweetest smile on her face.
“See, Krissy?” CiCi nodded, cutting her chicken into tiny pieces. “I know you were upset over the way things worked out, but if Ethan loved it, then it’s a surefire hit. I may never have been on that stage, but I do know this business. Wouldn’t hurt you to listen to me every once in a while.”
Krystal’s smile faded. Her gaze bounced his way before returning to her father.
“I made a call, CiCi.” Hank’s voice dipped, drawing all eyes his way. “Krystal is singing with Jace. It was the right call. They sound…well, it was radio gold. And Ethan was smiling like the cat that ate the canary.”
“Nah,” Krystal argued. “Put him through the wringer. Make him work for his dinner.”
Jace stared at her, laughing again.
“Be nice, Krystal.” Her father sighed. “He’s gonna be singing with you a bit now. Might want to try to play nice.”
“Now, Daddy, you know better than that.” She rolled her eyes. “I wouldn’t know how to play nice if I tried. Why start now?” She was teasing, sort of. But it was easier this way. If she acted tough, acted like none of this mattered, it was easier to bury the eventual disappointment deep, deep down. “Besides, just because you’re sold on the two of us doing the song doesn’t mean the label will be.”
“Your daddy’s got some pull, baby girl.” He patted her cheek. “I’m gonna use it.”
He meant it. She could tell. And it filled her heart to the brim. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Damn but her eyes were burning. Easier to look away—at Jace—than face the well of untapped emotion she struggled daily to avoid.
He was watching her, his beautiful eyes searching hers. Searing and invasive. Not with hunger, what she’d expected. It was deeper than that. If she didn’t know better, she’d think Jace Black saw the pain and anger and shame eating away at her insides. And if he did, then what? She barely knew this guy. So far, he seemed okay. But things were rarely, if ever, as they seemed. Hot or not, decent or not, Jace Black was just another singer looking for a way to launch himself into stardom. He didn’t give a shit about her or her personal demons. And she’d be wise to remember that—not so easy to accomplish when one lingering look had her breathing hard with want.
“We’ll see you at home.” Emmy Lou took her hand and tugged her to and out the recording room door. “You keep that up and Daddy might rethink this whole duet thing, Krystal.”
There was no point pretending she didn’t understand what her twin was saying. Still, it wasn’t in her nature to roll over. “I didn’t do anything.”
“Not yet.” She shot her sister a look. “But you were thinking about it. That much was clear.”
A handful of snappy retorts rose up, but she swallowed them down. “Whatever. It’s not a big deal. He is…good-looking.”
Emmy smiled then. “Yes. I noticed.”
How could she not notice? His wow-factor was undoubtedly one of the reasons he’d won his reality show. And his voice. Because, holy crap, his voice had totally blown her away. Hearing her words through him… She hadn’t been prepared for how incredible he…it…the song really was. But it was. As long as the record label cooperated, she might have her first single outside of Three Kings.
Once inside the car, Krystal dozed off to the sound of Emmy Lou playing some candy game on her phone. When she woke, the faintest whispers of a new song were hovering on the edges of her mind. They parked and Krystal all but jumped out, pushing through the oversized wooden doors and into the showplace foyer with the mile-high ceiling and art deco light fixture her momma had pushed for. When it was on, the whole floor sparkled—courtesy of the mica chips and crystal veins in the marble flooring. It was over-the-top, just the way her momma liked it.
But the click of nails against the tile had her smiling and she dropped to her knees as Clementine came sliding around the corner, hobbling on three legs, rear end wagging and in full happy mode. “Did you miss your mommy?” Krystal asked, scooping up her dog. “I missed you, too. You would have been proud of me, Clem. Mommy sang her heart out.”
“And got all goo-goo eyed over a guy,” Emmy joined in. “If your mommy had a tail, he’d have her wagging it.”
Krystal laughed so hard she almost dropped Clementine. “You are hilarious, Emmy Lou.”
“Deny it?” her sister asked, hands on hips, waiting. But Krystal was still laughing too hard to answer. Emmy nodded. “I didn’t think so.”
Krystal stood, holding Clem. “Don’t you listen to her. We’re going to make something yummy.” She carried her dog into the kitchen, still smiling.
“Clementine is not going to help you cook,” Emmy Lou argued. “You’re going to put her down. And wash your hands.”
“See how grumpy Auntie Emmy is, Clem?” She giggled as Clementine gave her chin several wet doggy kisses. “I think you’d be a good little sous chef.”
Clem grunted and wiggled.
“After you have a potty break. Maybe? We’ll convince Auntie Emmy, don’t worry.” Krystal carried Clementine to one of the large french doors leading out into the rose garden. A faint melody was taking shape, hints of a connection forming. A solid tempo. Yearning fiddle. She stood in the door, pondering, the heat from the Texas sun and the whir of the cicadas so deafening she lost her train of thought. “Nothing like a Texas summer to remind a gal how blessed she is to have things like air conditioning,” she said over her shoulder.
“If Gramma were here, she’d tell you to stop letting all the bought air out,” Emmy answered.
Which was true. Gramma had been a child of the Depression. Waste not, want not. And letting ice-cold “bought” air drift outside was a pet peeve of hers. “Hurry up, Clem, before Gramma comes back to haunt us.” Krystal laughed as Clem came barreling back across the lawn and inside, heading straight to her water bowl. “I know, it’s hot out there, isn’t it?”
Clementine sat, staring up at her with adoring eyes.
“I know, Clem. I love you too, baby.” She blew the dog kisses, mentally flipping through some of her favorite recipes. “I’m thinking buttermilk biscuits and apple pie?” They were two of her specialties—not that she was out to impress anyone. No way. No one to impress. Not at all. If she were, she’d make her lime sour cream cake. Or her turtle chocolate truffle cake. But she wasn’t. So extra-flaky, extra-sweet, and extra-gooey apple pie would have to do.
“Good.” Emmy opened the fridge. “Roast chicken? Baked potatoes? Salad?”
“Perfect.” Krystal began pulling ingredients: flour, baking soda, buttermilk, eggs. Her favorite ceramic mixing bowl. The melody picked up.
A few words popped up. A male voice was singing. That stopped her. She frowned into the bowl of sifted flour, one cracked egg in her hand. She didn’t write songs for men. Sometimes Travis got a line here or there—part of the chorus—but never a full-out song. And yet the words were definitely masculine. A ballad. Heartfelt and raw.
She’s dancing in his arms now…
She hummed a few notes to get the feel of it.
Just friends. Easy to say. But I miss you. Every damn day…
“New song?” Emmy asked, sounding far away.
She nodded, using two forks to cut the shortening into the flour. No matter how many fancy gadgets her daddy bought her, she insisted on cooking the way her gramma taught her. A dash of this, a pinch of that, and a whole lot of butter. It calmed her, helped her focus.
Tonight’s about them. Not about us. Exchanging their vows. And pledging true love.
He kisses his bride. They both cut the cake. They smile and they laugh, but my damn heart aches.
And seeing her now, on the dance floor, smiling that smile, makes me want more. And all I can say is how I feel.
She dumped the ball of dough onto the marble countertop and rolled it out, sprinkling a bit of flour on top, before smoothing it out with the roller again and pressing the dough into the pie plate.
“It’s got a good melody.” Emmy Lou handed her a large bag of green apples. “I like it.”
“You do?” She smiled at her sister, prepping the apples and swiping the peels and cores into the bag to take to the stables later.
Emmy nodded. “Sad, though.”
Krystal laughed. Most of her songs were sad. It’s not like she set out to write heavy, emotional things—they just sort of fell out of her head and onto sheet music. “You know me.”
Emmy nudged her. “I do.” Emmy wore her heart on her sleeve—and her face. Every single one of her thoughts and emotions were on display for her fans, friends, or family members to see, manipulate, or dissect as they saw fit. That was one of the reasons the world loved her—Emmy’s sweetness and lack of guile was irresistible.
All reasons why Krystal was so protective of her.
Apparently, she wasn’t alone when it came to worrying about her sibling. Emmy Lou was wearing her “concerned” face, her blue-green eyes studying her a little too closely—a mix of sympathy and anxiety.
“Don’t give me that look,” Krystal sighed. “I’m fine.”
“I’m not giving you any look.” Emmy Lou’s brow wrinkled. “Fine isn’t good. I want you to be good. I worry—”
“Well, stop it,” she interrupted. “I don’t want you to worry. Least of all over me.” She grinned. “Besides, it’ll give you wrinkles. Momma would have a fit if you gave yourself wrinkles over me.” And she’d likely blame her, too.
Emmy Lou shook her head, but she was smiling.
They worked alongside each other, the large state-of-the-art kitchen warming from the dual stoves working overtime. While Krystal knocked out another verse for her new song, Emmy Lou continued to hum the new melody. By the time dinner was done and the smell of cinnamon and apples flooded the house, Krystal was ready to pluck out the song on her favorite guitar, play around with chords, and find just the right words.
“Add another place,” Emmy said, carrying another plate and silverware into the dining room.
“Who’s coming?” she asked. With Daddy, there was always one more.
“Momma’s meeting wrapped up.” Emmy glanced her way. “She’ll be home in time for dinner.”
Now she was doubly glad she hadn’t made one of her signature desserts. If she had, she’d be putting a target square on Jace’s back. Her momma was all charm and grace when it came to useful people. Considering he’d unintentionally blocked her attempt to get Mickey on the road as their opening act, Jace Black had a strike against him. Another strike for singing the duet with her—not Emmy. One more strike, and Jace Black would officially be on CiCi King’s blacklist. And that was one thing she wouldn’t wish on her worst enemy.
“You can’t be nice to him,” Emmy Lou said.
She nodded. If she liked him, her mother would eat him alive.
“You can’t be mean to him, either,” Emmy Lou added.
Because if she didn’t like him, her mother would become Jace’s biggest fan.
“What am I supposed to do?” she asked, frowning as Clementine circled her. “Ignore him? Fake a headache?” Maybe that was the best option.
But the front door opened, followed by the sound of boots on marble. And the clickety-click of her momma’s designer heels.
* * *
By now, Jace should be used to feeling out of place. Almost like he’d snuck into a party and now he had no choice but to pretend he’d been invited or he’d get his ass kicked to the curb. He was standing in Hank King’s house, talking about Hank’s favorite Texas football team and their chances at the playoffs in what could only be described as a man cave.
Out of place? More like on another planet.
Framed concert posters. A few encased guitars signed by some of country music’s greatest talents. As if that wasn’t enough, Hank’s impressive display of platinum, gold, and silver albums covered an entire wall of the room.
They sat on overstuffed leather couches, a massive television screen opposite them—on but muted. In the far corner was a wet bar. Travis was there, pulling longnecks from the refrigerator.
“Their preseason stats are looking pretty good,” Hank said. “We got so damn close last year.”
“Momma was sure you were going to have a heart attack,” Travis laughed, handing them each a beer.
Jace took the beer and grinned. When you lived in Texas, football was part of your DNA. And the Houston Roughnecks were the favored team. Last year, he’d screamed and cussed through most of the Championship Bowl, too. “Terrible ref. Bad call.”
Hank nodded, slapping his thigh. “Damn right.”
“Don’t get him started.” Travis chuckled. “How’d it go? Singing with my sister?”
Hank shook his head. “I’d seen some of the clips from your show, so I knew you could sing, and today you didn’t disappoint.”
Just when he thought things couldn’t get more awkward, Hank King goes and gives him a compliment. What the hell should he say? Thank you? Nothing? Aw, golly, gee shucks? Considering they were both staring at him, he had to say something. “I can’t quite wrap my head around this. All of this,” he managed.
Hank smiled. “Stay humble, son. That’s probably the best advice I can give you. You remember where you come from and you’ll never stop appreciating where you are or what you have.”
“Dinner’s ready.” Emmy Lou poked her head in. “What are you watching?”
“You just missed him,” Travis said. “Played good, but they pulled him early.”
Jace glanced at Travis, then Emmy. The girl was red cheeked. “I wasn’t asking about Brock.” She sighed.
Travis cut his eyes her way. “Okay, sure.”
“Travis.” Hank shook his head.
“I asked what you were watching.” Emmy’s smile wavered.
The three of them turned toward the television. A woman in a wedding dress was sobbing in the middle of a fancy shop, a group of people on the couch looking disappointed, while some guy in glasses was trying to put a veil on the crying woman.
“Guess the game’s over?” Jace had been too caught up in the conversation, the room, everything—to notice.
“I have no idea,” her father said. “Why is she crying?”
“Do women cry like that when they go wedding dress shopping?” Travis asked. “Why? It’s a dress.”
“What did that say? Fifty-five hundred dollars?” Hank asked, pointing at the television.
“For a dress?” Travis asked.
Jace was laughing now; he couldn’t help it. He knew exactly what the show was; his sister, Heather, loved it.
“My first car cost less than that,” Hank went on.
“Oh, for crying out loud.” Emmy Lou sighed, taking the remote from her father. The television went black. “Food’s getting cold.” She shook her head, one eyebrow cocked. “Momma will have a field day if she hears you were watching wedding shows.”
Hank slid an arm around his daughter. “Maybe I was just getting ideas for you or your sister’s big day. You think you’ll want a fifty-five-hundred-dollar wedding dress?”
Jace followed, half listening as they wandered through the massive home. Through open doors, he spied an office, a music room with a baby grand piano, back through the showplace foyer, down the hall to the dining room.
CiCi King was there. Smiling. She had a…predatory smile. One that made him nervous. “You sit by me, Jace.” She sat, patting the chair next to her.
He swallowed, doing his best not to frown. Or run. Instead, he nodded, hoping like hell he wasn’t sweating half as much as it felt like he was. “Yes, ma’am.”
With her platinum hair, perfectly enhanced body, and Southern charm, she was something to look at. But she had a shiny, brittle quality that put him instantly on edge. Her blue-green eyes were hard, no matter how big her red-painted smile was. “I want to hear all about your recording session. What do you think of Hank’s li’l ol’ studio?”
Travis snorted.
A swift kick to the shin had him darting a look across the table at Krystal. She didn’t make eye contact, but she wrinkled her nose and her brows rose high. What the hell was that about? If she was trying to tell him something, it wasn’t working.
“I don’t have a lot of experience, Mrs. King, but today has been beyond incredible.” Which was a little too aw-shucks-golly but true.
“You call me CiCi now, you hear?” She patted his hand. “Sounds like we’ll be seeing a lot of you. No point in keeping things formal.” She stared down the table at her husband, her smile softening. “You get things squared away?”
Hank nodded. “We wrapped up the paperwork at the studio. Jace will be with Three Kings for the next ten shows.” He cut into the chicken, put a serving on one plate, and passed it along. “We only got through three of his songs before we ran out of time, but I can’t wait to hear the rest.”
By the time everyone had their plates and serving dishes were traveling, Jace risked another look Krystal’s way. She, however, was staring pointedly at her plate, stabbing her potato with the tips of her fork.
“I must say, I cannot wait to hear you two together,” CiCi gushed before staring into the basket. “You make these biscuits, Krissy?”
Krystal nodded.
“They look a little dry,” CiCi went on, passing the basket on to him, her fingers brushing along the back of his hands.
He wasn’t sure what bothered him more: her maybe-accidental-maybe-not touch or how easily the woman belittled her daughter.
Jace nodded, grabbed two biscuits, and passed along the basket. “We sound good, if I do say so myself.” Hank had played back some of their recording and it had set the hairs on the back of his neck straight up.
“You should.” Hank nodded. “Good to recognize talent when you hear it. You two were meant to sing that song together. Sent a cut to Wheelhouse already. Ethan heard it, loved it, can’t wait to get it out.”
Krystal looked up then, the sweetest smile on her face.
“See, Krissy?” CiCi nodded, cutting her chicken into tiny pieces. “I know you were upset over the way things worked out, but if Ethan loved it, then it’s a surefire hit. I may never have been on that stage, but I do know this business. Wouldn’t hurt you to listen to me every once in a while.”
Krystal’s smile faded. Her gaze bounced his way before returning to her father.
“I made a call, CiCi.” Hank’s voice dipped, drawing all eyes his way. “Krystal is singing with Jace. It was the right call. They sound…well, it was radio gold. And Ethan was smiling like the cat that ate the canary.”
