Real Sexy (Real Dirty Duet #2)(66)

Esteban cocks his head at us and fluffs his wings. "Lovebirds."

The damned parrot always gets it right.





44





Nashville Cold Case Solved; Guidebooks Got It Wrong

Twenty years later, the questions surrounding the murder of country legend Gil Green have finally been put to rest, and it's not what the guidebooks told you. Rhonda Fischer, late wife of Frank Fischer, proprietor of the infamous Fishbowl bar, finally got her say. A letter from the slain woman was entered into evidence at the trial of her sister, Laurelyn Lear, who agreed to a plea bargain. Sentencing is scheduled for later this week.

Fischer's daughter, Ripley, now finds herself in the spotlight for a completely different reason. She and country music darling Holly Wix have released a brand-new duet. "Don't Tell Me No" debuted at #1 on the country charts and is the first single off Ripley Fischer's freshman album, Finding Myself, which is slated to release next month.

Fischer has also been making headlines as the woman at country music bad boy Boone Thrasher's side. The couple recently made a hefty joint donation at a Nashville pet shelter where the couple adopted a dog. Thrasher announced yesterday that he and Fischer will be touring together next year. 

Thrasher's latest album hits stores in two weeks, and is rumored to include several songs written for Fischer. The release of the latest single gives credence to that, as fans were stunned when they learned the chart-topping hit was actually a marriage proposal.

Fischer publicly stated that since Thrasher put the question in a song, he'll have to wait for her answer in one too.





Epilogue





Ripley




Three months later

My gaze darts from one person to the next while Boone tries to explain the Karas family tree to me, but I'm lost. I don't think it's crazy, because I dare anyone to try to figure this out during the course of one baptism.

How many secrets can one family have?

Apparently, when it comes to the Karas family, a lot.

Creighton's sister, Greer, and her husband, Cavanaugh Westman, a guy I've only previously seen in movies, accept the solemn duty of being godparents to the squirming baby in white lace.

Rose and I are quite well acquainted now that I spend a good deal of time at Homegrown Records. After all, once a baby spits up on you, there's a sort of bond that's formed-less official, but still sacred.

It's not until after Rose is placed back in Holly's arms and the remainder of the standing, sitting, and kneeling happens that the service is over and we follow the crowd to a massive fancy white tent set up behind the church. At least a dozen men wearing dark suits are set up as security, and one checks identification for a second time before letting us in.

"They have more security here than they did last week," I whisper to Boone.

Last week we attended an event that was so incredibly surreal, I still can't believe it actually happened. I walked down a red carpet, and while I've done that before, it never gets old, and then I performed at a freaking awards show.

I was so insanely terrified, but the woman proudly watching as her baby is passed around today calmed my nerves by giving me a slightly creepy alternative to picture them in their underwear.

"Just pretend that if anyone says or does anything mean, Crey will make sure they disappear."

Staring at all the security, especially the guys flanking an older man who looks like he stepped straight out of The Godfather, I'm starting to wonder if Holly wasn't joking.

Before I can quietly ask Boone if bullets are going to start flying, the older man walks up to Creighton, who has reclaimed baby Rose, with open arms.

"The first of a new generation. She's a perfect little princess."

Holly steps forward. "Dom, don't you even start. Crey already spoils her something fierce."

"She's my granddaughter, and I'll spoil her however I want," Dom replies as he leans forward to press a kiss to each of Holly's cheeks. "She is perfection. You have done us proud, my dear."

A heavily tattooed man-at least I assume he's heavily tattooed, because even his thick beard and man bun can't hide the ink curling up out of the collar of his shirt-wraps his arm protectively around the woman to the left of me.

"You just wait. When he finds out I knocked you up, he's gonna send his goons down for a shotgun wedding."

"Shhh. I'll tell him when we're ready. Not a minute before." The woman covers the tattooed hand on her belly with her own as she looks around. She catches my gaze on her and raises an eyebrow. "You're sworn to secrecy. I may not look tough, but I was a mob princess before mob princesses were cool." She blinks. "Wait, maybe they've never been cool. Okay, yeah, scratch that. We're still not cool. At least, I'm not."