Page 2 of One More Song

My stomach twists, because there is a part of me that’s lonely, that aches for a real connection with someone. I shake my head. “I’ve been down that road, and I’m not going back.”

Millie sighs. “Not all guys are assholes, you know.”

“Yeah, I know. Yours certainly isn’t.” I rub my hands over my bare arms. I know that not all men are cheaters and liars. My dad was one of the good ones. Even when my mom got sick, he never left her side. And after she passed away, he literally died of a broken heart. A month to the day that my mom died, he went into full cardiac arrest and passed away before the paramedics were able to get him to the hospital.

It was the day of my dad’s funeral that I walked in on Mitch and the other woman. In a way, I think I’d known he’d been cheating all along. I just hadn’t wanted to admit it.

But what was I supposed to expect from a guy whose life goal was to be the next Freddie Mercury, but couldn’t hold a tune to save his life. And yet I’d supported him. I worked two jobs, even nine months pregnant, while he sat in bars and drank away every penny I made.

I wanted him to be something he wasn’t. To love me the way he never would. And I’d given so much of myself - all of myself. Until I barely recognized the girl who stared back at me in the mirror.

That day, finding him in our bed, screwing another woman, I made a decision. I won’t ever let a man hurt me again.

After Millie leaves, I putter around the house, trying to keep my body and mind busy. I’m not sure why I’m so anxious, but there’s a prickling at the back of my neck, a flutter in my stomach, like a premonition of sorts. I shake it off. Grams always believed in all that stuff, but I’m a rational person. The only thing I’m feeling is apprehension about a stranger moving in.

I’m in the kitchen preparing a casserole for tonight’s dinner when I hear the slamming of a car door outside.

Inhaling a deep breath, I wipe my hands on my apron and start toward the foyer, but the front door opens before I reach it and three,large, tattooed men pile in.

For a heartbeat, I stand there gaping, hidden slightly from their view.

I’m too shocked at first for fear to register, which probably should be the right emotion in this situation. And I curse myself for not locking the door. But this is Stanton, where no one locks their doors.

The tallest of the three men gives a low whistle as he flips his sunglasses up and takes in the foyer. His voice is a deep Irish brogue when he says, “And ye thought Maryll doesn’t have a sense of humor.”

A man with two full sleeves of tattoos and jet-black eyes scowls at him and places a guitar case against the entrance wall. “She wasn’t kidding when she said it was in the middle of nowhere. Fuck me.”

The third man is the first to see me, and his brown eyes twinkle with amusement when they lock on mine. “At least she was thoughtful enough to provide a cook.” He chuckles, taking a step toward me, oozing charm and arrogance.

“What’s yer name, lass?” the Irish guy asks, smiling at me like he didn’t just break and enter.

“My name?” I blink at them.

“I think she’s starstruck.”

“What?” I snap out of my initial shock of having three giant men barge uninvited into my house. Panic should probably be my first response, but as intimidating as they look, there’s nothing threatening in any of their expressions. Except maybe the guy with the full sleeve tattoos who is still scowling, and looking like he’d rather be anywhere else in the world than here.

“Can I help you?” I ask, not budging from my spot near the kitchen door, ready to bolt if I need to.

The one with the Irish accent steps toward me, a cocky grin stretching across his handsome face, and he rubs a large hand across the scruff on his jaw, studying me. “That depends on what ye’re offering, darlin’.”

My eyes widen at that. Is he serious? “Excuse me?”

“Don’t mind Dusky, sweetheart.” The brown-eyed hottie with the deep dimple in his cheek places an arm over the man’s shoulder. “We’ve had a rough few days, and are just looking for a bed to crash. So if you can point us toward the bedrooms—”

“First of all,” I say, standing as tall as my five-foot-four frame will allow. “I’m not your darling or your sweetheart, and you all need to leave...now. Before I call the police.”

Dimples raises his brows and Dusky chuckles, but the man with the full sleeves of tattoos narrows his eyes at me, and mutters, “Jesus, Ash, you can’t even follow a fucking GPS. You brought us to the wrong place.”

“Then blame Maryll, because this is the fucking address she gave me,” a fourth man, who I hadn’t seen before pushes between Dimples and Dusky.

Oh my God.

Gray eyes, the color of a winter storm, seer into me. Cold. Intense. His entire presence seems to take up the whole room. Like he’s sucked the oxygen from it.

Or maybe I’ve forgotten how to breathe.

My gaze flickers down his body. Sharp, defined muscles strain against a simple black t-shirt. I lift my gaze, taking in the face that’s so beautiful and yet haunted. He’s hard edges and tattoos andtrouble.

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