His For One Night. Sarah M. Anderson

it’d all paid off last year when White Trash Wonder had hit. Suddenly, sold-out rodeos like the All-Stars had led to sold-out arenas. Years of lessons and performances and navigating the business world as a teenager had suddenly paid off, and Brooke had officially been labeled an overnight success, country music’s Next Big Thing.

      And she’d ruined it by getting knocked up by Flash Lawrence.

      She’d had to miss the Grammys, for crying out loud. She’d been in labor when she’d won Best New Artist.

      She wanted to be home with her son right now, she realized. She wasn’t ready to do this again—the long and lonely nights, the negotiations, the travel and, most especially, the constant media scrutiny. But she didn’t have a choice. Her uncle and former manager, Brantley Gibbons, had embezzled not just most of her money but a great deal of his other clients’ funds and invested them in the Preston Pyramid Scheme—which had, of course, collapsed around his ears just about the time Brooke was breaking out.

      Brooke and her mother weren’t penniless—she still had royalties coming in on her two albums and had managed to keep the bulk of her profits from the last few months of touring after Uncle Brantley had “relocated” to Mexico to avoid criminal charges. But she couldn’t afford to stay out of the spotlight any longer. She had to strike while the iron was hot.

      Getting back out there was for the best, her mother had said. Because of course she had.

      “Ladies and gentlemen,” the MC began. “Our final act tonight is none other than the Grammy and Country Music Association winner, Brooke Bonner!”

      Brooke took a final sip of her not-quite-hot tea and locked her smile in place. She’d been fourteen when she had first performed at the Bluebird, just a scared little girl and her acoustic guitar. It seemed fitting to start over where it had all started.

      Brooke stepped out of the hallway to an impressive roar of applause. She smiled and nodded and tried to turn her body so no one would make a grab at her ass as she worked her way to the center of the Bluebird, where chairs and mikes had been set up.

      As she settled into her chair, the hairs on the back of her neck stood up and she had the strangest feeling that he was here—Flash Lawrence. Which was ridiculous. In the thirteen months since their one-night stand, she hadn’t heard from him. And she hadn’t contacted him, either. She’d come so close when she’d realized she was pregnant. But she’d Googled him and seen all these horrible headlines about barroom brawls and trials and...

      And she’d passed.

      Her life was crazy enough with her career. A baby would make it crazier still. But a violent, immature cowboy? That was a hard no. She wanted her son to know his father but not at the risk of his well-being. Or hers.

      A shiver raced down her back. She was imagining things, that’s all there was to it. There was no way that her one-night stand was in the audience. It just wasn’t possible. Just to be sure, she turned in her seat to wave at the people behind her who were still clapping.

      Damn. There, at the bar—a long, lean cowboy was perched on the last seat, the brim of his black cowboy hat throwing his face into deep shadow. He wore jeans with an absolutely huge belt buckle, with a leather biker jacket over a black Western-style button-up shirt. She couldn’t see his eyes, but she could feel him looking at her.

      Oh, no. Oh, hell.

      Maybe she was wrong. It wasn’t like cowboys of a certain height and weight wearing black hats and big belt buckles didn’t exist around Nashville because they absolutely did. But her blood pounded in her veins and her hands shook, and there was no mistaking the flight or fight reaction.

      Because she wasn’t wrong.

      The cowboy shifted in his seat, tilting his head back. His gaze collided with Brooke’s, and even though she hadn’t seen him for thirteen months, even though she’d only ever spent one amazing night with him, heat pooled low in her belly and she trembled with want.

      Her big mistake was sitting less than thirty feet away. The one time she’d gone off schedule and done something just for herself—not for her career or her mother or anyone—and she’d been paying the price ever since. She loved her son, but...

      She wasn’t ready. Not for Flash Lawrence.

      Not for any of this.

      The lights dimmed and an expectant hush fell over the crowd.

      Well. The show had to go on, so Brooke did the only thing she could.

      “It’s so good to be back, y’all. I’ve been working on new material for my next album—should be out in a few months—and we’re thinking of calling it Your Roots Are Showing.” The crowd laughed appreciatively as she flipped her hair back with an exaggerated toss of her head. “Aw, you guys are great.”

      She desperately wanted to turn in her seat for this next part. If that was Flash, what would he think when he heard the song title? But she didn’t. She was giving him nothing to work with, and, besides, there was a literal audience here tonight. All it would take for the wildfire of gossip to catch and burn would be one too-long look, one touch, one wrong move, and her comeback would be forever tainted.

      So she didn’t turn, didn’t even acknowledge that there was anyone behind her. She played to the people she could see when she said, “So the first song that’ll be on the new album that I want to sing tonight is called ‘One-Night Stand.’”

       Two

      God, she looked amazing.

      Brooke Bonner wasn’t wearing the skintight crop top and leather miniskirt she’d had on the last time Flash had seen her. For this small crowd, she was wearing a black hippy-style skirt that came just below her knees and showed off her turquoise cowboy boots. A long sweater vest thing without sleeves was held in place over a deep-cut white shirt with the kind of studded belt that Flash’s sister Chloe sold for her Princess of the Rodeo clothing line.

      Turquoise dripped off her ears and around her neck but—he had to lean to the side to see—her fingers were bare. He couldn’t tell for sure, but he didn’t think there was even a tan line for an engagement ring on her finger.

      Thank God.

      When she’d disappeared from the public eye a few months ago, Flash had been terrified to think she might have met someone, might have gotten married. If she had, he’d have had to walk out the Bluebird’s door without a look back. He wasn’t going to screw up a marriage. But no ring meant he settled in and ordered another ginger ale. He was here for the duration.

      Had he ever seen a more beautiful woman? He’d met a lot of hot women and slept with his fair share of them, but there was something about the way Brooke was put together that drew his eye. He couldn’t look away, hadn’t been able to since the very first moment he’d seen her in Fort Worth. He’d kissed her hand and that had been that.

      Brooke wasn’t wearing a hat tonight, so he could see the glory of her dark red hair as it flowed down her back in long waves. His fingers itched to bury themselves in that hair, wrap it around his fist like he’d done the last time, holding her head so he could kiss her again and again.

      Apparently, absence really did make the heart grow fonder, because Flash was so glad to see Brooke right now that he wanted to sweep her into his arms and carry her far, far away from this crowded little place and show her how damned glad he was to see her.

      He’d spent a year trying not to miss this woman. A year of trying to put the most intense sexual experience of his life out of his mind. He’d tried to pick up buckle bunnies since that night, but he hadn’t succeeded. Not once in thirteen months.

      He was afraid Brooke Bonner had ruined him for any other woman.

      And that would be a damn shame.

      No way in hell he wanted to be tied down. Especially