Page 1 of Blame It On Midnight

Chapter One

Benton Bridgestone was in a foul mood, and nothing could make it better. Nashville wasn’t his scene, and if it weren’t for his brother’s first concert of the new tour, he wouldn’t be anywhere near the city. Nothing good happened in a place like this.

He’d skipped the afterparty at some swanky spot on Broadway and instead wandered away from the crowds. He wasn’t much for socializing on a good day, and today was about as far from that as you could get. But the thought of staring at the walls of his hotel room wasn’t appealing either, and he found himself sitting on a barstool nursing a beer, in some off-the-beaten-path honkytonk, while a guy with more hair than a man deserved did his best to entertain with a guitar and a harmonica.

The musician wasn’t half bad, Benton thought grudgingly, as he stared down at the bottle in his hand. Absently he wiped at the condensation on the neck while his mind went to the things he needed to set aside—things that had put him in such a shit mood. But it wasn’t easy. There was a lot at stake.

Why in hell was Daisy Mae making things so damn hard? Hell, their little girl Nora was nearly six years old now, and he could count on one hand the times she’d seen her mother in the last two years. He wasn’t denying the chance for a relationship, but suing for full custody?

Fuck that, he thought with a scowl.

“You want another?”

Benton didn’t bother to look up. He grunted his answer and cracked his neck. Christ, he was strung tighter than a prairie rattler. The bartender handed him another cold one, and Benton tipped it back. He emptied half of the bottle in one shot. Planned on finishing it with the second.

“You’re too handsome to be drinking alone.”

He paused and angled his head a bit. The feminine voice had a hint of rasp that made it interesting enough for a man to take a look—but not this one. Bent hunched forward and ignored the woman who’d claimed the stool two down to his right.

“The only thing worse than a handsome man drinking alone is a pretty girl buying herself drinks.”

“Lady,” he ground out. “I’m not in the mood.”

“I can see that.”

He didn’t respond, and she kept quiet. Benton thought he was off the hook until he noticed long, tanned legs slide over the stool beside him, then dangle there like they were a treat. She wasn’t wearing sparkly pink or baby blue cowboy boots like most of the women he’d seen tonight. Instead, her dainty feet were shoved into a pair of flip flops that looked as if they’d seen better days. On her ankle was a tattoo.

“It’s a unicorn.”

“What?” Annoyed, he glanced up and was met by a pair of eyes that were the greenest he’d ever seen. Fringed by long, wispy lashes and eyebrows that arched perfectly, they were without a doubt one of the prettiest sets of eyes he’d ever encountered.

But he wasn’t looking. Women were trouble as far as he was concerned, and other than a few ladies back home that scratched his itch when it needed scratching, he wasn’t biting.

“My tattoo.” A pause. “It’s a unicorn.”

His eyes dropped to her mouth, a rookie move on his part, because damned if she didn’t have the kind of lips a man had no problem visualizing wrapped around his?—

“I see you have one too.”

Benton dragged his eyes from her mouth until the whole package came into view. It was quite the package. Her long hair was a shade of caramel he’d never seen before. There were bits that shimmered among the loose waves when she moved her head. Lightening in a bottle was what it looked like.

“You’re not from around here,” he said. Her skin was flawless, her bone structure perfection, and she had a little mole to the side of her right eye. It looked like it had been painted there for the express purpose of attracting the male gaze.

“Is anybody?” she asked, flashing a smile. She finished her drink and signaled the bartender. “You want another?” she asked Benton.

Benton weighed his options. He could finish up his beer and head back to the hotel. Maybe find an earlier flight and get the hell out of Nashville. Or he could keep drinking with the aim of dulling the anger inside him.

The bartender raised his eyebrow, and Benton nodded. Guess he was drinking.

“Are you going to tell me about it?” The woman asked, taking a sip from her crystal tumbler. It was at least a double whiskey.

“What’s that?” he asked, turning toward her. She was something with the hair, those eyes, and a smile that should be bottled and sold.

“Your snake tattoo.” She pointed at his neck.

“Long story.”

“I think we have some time.”

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