Page 172 of Burn the Wild

When I finish singing, the applause is loud and sharp. Whoops and surprised cheers come from the audience. I laugh, wave off the claps, and cover “Delta Dawn.” I’ve been dying to perform it my entire life, and tonight, I sing better than I ever have. By the time the chorus rolls around, people are clapping and dancing on the sawdust-covered floor.

When I finish, the bar erupts.

My heart beats in a rapturous rhythm. I slip off the bar stool and hand the guitar back to its owner. Ford, now beside me, holds out his hands, gesturing for more applause. And it comes. So loud, so thunderous, it’s the best standing ovation I’ve ever had.

“Baby, you were amazing,” a woman says as Ford helps me off the stage. “You should be famous.”

I smile. “Maybe one day.”

Ford pulls me into a corner. “You’re shaking,” he murmurs against my hair.

Exhilarated, I tug on his shirt. “I’m just happy.”

“You blew the doors off the place, Bluebird,” he husks. “You were perfect.” Pride shines in his eyes. My entire body heats. The way this man makes me feel special is incomparable.

“You’re a star, baby.”

“Yeah,” I admit breathlessly. “But I don’t want to be.”

“What do you want to be, then?”

“With you.”

A muscle works in his jaw. His eyes grow soft. “I want that, too.”

“You do?”

“I do.”

Our gazes lock, heat.

More. So much more to say.

It feels bigger than this bar. Bigger than tonight.

Like Ford agrees with me, he touches my cheek. “Let’s get a motel. I need to talk to you. We aren’t finished.”

“Okay. One dance before we go?” This cloud-nine high is too good to get off. I want to stay on it as long as I can. With Ford.

He grins. “Can’t say no to my girl.”

My girl.

With a wild hoot, Ford swings me into a frisky two-step. Forget one dance. We dance until midnight. Eventually, the bar clears out in a horde of stomping boots and raucous conversation. As we head to the truck, people mill in the dusky parking lot. I feel eyes on us.

Beside me, Ford tenses. I don’t miss the way his hand palms the small of my back.

“What’s wrong?”

“Not sure yet. Stay close to me.”

My heartbeat kicks up when I see it. I gasp and tug on Ford’s arm. “That black SUV—it’s here.”

His eyes narrow. Before he can say anything, a man from the bar ambles over to us. “Hey, you’re that missing singer.”

“Wrong girl, buddy,” Ford grunts. He tries to grab my hand, but the cowboy steps between us.

Another voice. “Holy shit, it’s Reese Austin.”

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