It Must Have Been the Mistletoe(32)

“Of course not,” she said. “I just didn’t know you could win with four-letter words.”

Clint’s eyes widened, then he guffawed. “I think she’s going to give you a run for your money, Bryant.”

Bryant stared at her. “I’m up for a challenge.”

Fiery chills raced up the backs of her suddenly wobbly legs. Any more innuendo in that sentence and she’d have an immaculate orgasm, Layla thought.

And if anyone could give her one, it was Bryant Bishop.



“DAMN, SHE’S HOT,” GUS Winston said, eyeballing Layla with the kind of prurient interest that made Bryant want to cleave his skull in two. “Not exactly pretty, but sexy as hell.” He looked over at Bryant. “Does that make sense?”

“Only if you’re writing poetry for her,” Bryant told him, tipping a bottle of water into his mouth. He desperately needed to cool off.

“She married?” Gus wanted to know.

“Not that I’m aware of.”

Gus grunted, then smiled. “Sweet.”

“But you are,” he reminded him.

“I know that, dammit,” Gus retorted, shooting him a scowl. “I was thinking about you.”

Bullshit, but Bryant wasn’t going to call him on it. Though the majority of these guys were faithful to their wives, some of them simply couldn’t resist the relentless temptation and, sadly, there were too many women in the audience who didn’t give a damn if the guys in the band were wearing rings or not. Clint had no less than twenty women a night throw themselves into his path with the express purpose of wanting to polish his knob and he always refused. He was committed to his wife, to his family. He was an admirable man, and nothing Clint had managed to do professionally had impressed Bryant as much as that fact.

Frankly, because of his own proximity to Clint, the band and the roadies, Bryant was propositioned almost as much as they were.

He’d never indulged.

In the first place, any woman who simply wanted to lay a musician wasn’t a woman he had any interest in, and secondly, there was something quite degrading about being the runner-up. When he made it with a woman, he wanted to know that she’d wanted him first, not that he was just a damned consolation prize when she couldn’t land the drummer.

“There’s my cue,” Gus announced, then strolled onstage. In honor of the holiday season he’d put a big red bow on the brim of his hat.

Bryant hung back, carefully watching Clint and the guys he’d put on the floor. It was nice to be able to monitor from the sidelines, to avoid the crush of the crowd. He tapped his earpiece. “How’s it looking down there, Austin?”

“The usual, boss. Screaming girls in skimpy tops, rowdy guys in cowboy hats.”

He spied a big redneck in the front row. “Keep an eye on the hoss in the wife-beater, left of center stage. John Deere hat, soul patch. He looks like he’s had one too many already.”

“I’ve been watching him,” Austin relayed. “He’s sippin’ from a flask. He could be trouble.”

“Keep me posted.”

“Will do.”

Satisfied that everyone was doing their jobs, Bryant finally allowed himself to glance over at Layla. He’d known exactly where she was—could feel her presence pinging him like sonar—but he’d been trying to avoid looking at her because…Hell, he didn’t know. To test himself? To see if he could avoid her?

Because he was an idiot was a better answer.

What he saw made his eyes widen and a hot expletive slip between his lips.

She’d set the mandolin aside, was bent at the waist, taking deep, gulping breaths into her lungs.

Shit.

Not altogether convinced he could help her, Bryant nevertheless couldn’t make himself not try. He hurried over. “Layla?”

“What the hell was I thinking?” she gasped, her hands on her knees. Her voice was thin and shrill. “Have I lost my freaking mind? I know my limitations. I know what I am capable of and what I am not, and going out there—” she gasped again, wheezed and choked on more air “—is so far out of my comfort zone I might as well not even have one.”

They were halfway through “Lead Me On.” It was a four-and-a-half minute track. He had two minutes to get her to pull it together and go onstage.

“Layla, what the hell is the problem? If you knew you couldn’t do this, then why did you agree to it?”

She looked up at him as though he was the one who’d lost his mind. “For the money, fool! Why else? Do you know what he’s paying me? I’d have been an idiot to turn that down! I wanted to pay off my land and start my house. I wanted to plant fruit trees and sweet peas. I’d forgotten about the sweet peas,” she said absently, then looked up at him. “Don’t you just love those flowers? Aren’t they the most beautiful little flowers in the world? Wholesome and sweet. Oh, God,” she wailed, her face crumpling. “I can’t do this. I—”