Page 2 of Whispered Southern Secrets

As I walk across the stage, the intro to the song begins. I release a humorless chuckle, becausecome on,of course I’m going to sing the same song as the best performance of the night. I bring the mic up to my lips and I’m only half joking when I say, “Guess this is a popular song tonight. Not sure how I’m going to follow that.”

Inhaling a deep breath, I allow the music to take over. I close my eyes and feel every word in the lyrics—begging for someone to stand by me, that I can be brave as long as someone is by my side, and I’ll be there for them in return. My voice feels rawcarrying the weight of my longing, but also it’s filled with hope. By the time the song ends I’m breathless. This time I don’t add my name for another song as I exit the stage. It's time for my second cocktail so I head straight for my spot at the bar.

The bartender is already ready for me. He hands me my cocktail with a single nod and goes back to tending to his customers.

“That was a great song choice, ma’am.” The smooth voice comes from my right. I turn my head and am practically knocked off my stool by his piercing blue eyes. Why is he talking to me? I’m hallucinating. No worries.

“You too.” My voice is an octave too high and hitches. I want to smack myself.

“You have an incredible voice,” says one of God’s chosen angels. Or is this man Lucifer himself? He has the voice of an angel but looks like a night of sin. He leans forward and whispers in a way that sends shivers and goosebumps along my skin. “Wasn’t very nice of you showing me up that way.”

“Thank you. But you set the bar pretty high. That was a tough act to follow.”

I check my phone and see it’s beginning to get late. I’m going to need to get going soon. I should leave anyway before I do something stupid like shamelessly throw myself at this man. A beautiful face and, damn him and his sexy voice. This guy only has to speak and I’m putty in his gigantic hands.

“Got somewhere to be?” I look up from my phone and shake my head. He holds a hand up in apology. “Sorry, ma’am. It’s none of my business. I was worried you might have a fella waiting for ya or on his way, and I didn’t want to get into any trouble.”

I arch a brow. “A little trouble never hurt anyone.”

“Oh.” He chuckles, the sound deep and rich. “I can see that you’re trouble.”

I give him a playful smirk. “And I never hurt anyone.”

“Doubt that.” He seems genuine when he says, “I bet there’s a trail of broken hearts.”

That’s where he’s wrong. I’m the one with the broken heart. Hopefully this time it’s broken completely so I never have to fall in love again.

I swallow down that little lump at the back of my throat. “A little trouble. Little is the key word.”

He raises his glass, which looks to be water, and I raise mine. “To getting into a little trouble.” We clink our glasses in cheers.

“So, what’s your name?”

I shake my head. “Nope. I don’t do names here.”

“Fair enough.” I’m taken by surprise because most guys are annoyed. This one just nods. “So, Trouble, can I ask where you learned to sing?”

I huff at his nickname for me. I was just wondering if anyone had given me one, now I know. One person does have a name for me. “My grandmother. You?”

“Father and Mama. Both of my parents have a passion for music.”

“Evidently that passion was passed down. Apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree.”

A solemn expression passes over his face, but there’s still a faint smile. “I guess even the bad apples.”

“You’re a bad apple and I’m trouble.” We both smile at one another.

“Grandmother, huh?”

“Yeah. She’s great. She still always has to have music playing. When she’s cooking, working, cleaning, knitting…”

He smiles and my voice trails off. His gorgeous eyes zero in on my chest. “Yeah, I like your shirt.”

Of course I’m wearing my dorkiest shirt when I meet the most beautiful man in existence. They call out “JD” and he stands up. “Don’t go anywhere,” he tells me.

But I do go somewhere. I follow him up to the stage and take a seat at one of the tables in the front. Clearly this man has every intention of taking someone home tonight because he begins singing “Tennessee Whiskey.” That’s one of the sexiest country songs, and his voice is perfect for it. Pure seduction. The timbre in his tone and smoothness, the way he sways to the beat has more than likely gotten two hysterectomies reversed, five women pregnant, several men are now bi-curious, and the sound of ovaries exploding is all around me. And I was just talking about my grandmother to him.

They called out JD when he went up there. Is that his name? His initials? I want to ask, but my rules. I’m already breaking them by being so invested. I need to leave. It’s time for my Shirly Temple. The song finishes, but my feet are rooted. He walks down from the stage. I should run for the door, yet I remain. My heart is pounding against my chest as his feet come toe to toe with mine.

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