Page 142 of Sing You Home (Nashville Star 1)

Sal stirs in bed, opening her eyes to stare out the window.

The room’s cast in a golden glow. The early afternoon’s faded to sundown. The soft rustle of sweetgrass can be faintly heard in the distance. And by her side, Luke. A half-smile graces his face.

“Hi,” she says.

“Hey,” he says softly.

As if moving as one, Sal angles her body slightly while Luke reaches out to pull her tightly into his arms. Melting into him, she trails a finger down his muscled chest. He catches her hand and kisses the diamond band on her finger.

Then Sal slips out of bed, aware of Luke’s appreciative eyes on her. She tosses on a silk tank top and a pair of cotton shorts.

Luke, leans up on his elbow, a wolfish grin on his face.

Sal smiles at the look she knows so well. “You look hungry.”

“Starved. For you,” he says smoothly.

He makes a grab for her, trying to wrap an arm around her waist to tug her back to bed, but Sal playfully evades his reach. She tosses him a look as she shimmies across the room, knowing full well what she’s doing to him.

“Well, I, for one, am hungry.” She arcs a brow. “For real food, Luke. Nourishment, remember that?”

His eyes gleam. “Can’t say it rings a bell.”

Sal laughs breathlessly. “Stay here, country boy. I’ll go wrangle us up some food.”

“Just bring yourself back,” he says, stretching lazily in the sheets. A smile curves her lips at the sight of her tan, hot-as-hell husband. “That’s all I need.”

Smiling, Sal pads softly downstairs to the kitchen. She shakes her head seeing Luke’s broken guitar. Damn idiot.

Ravenous, Sal opens the fridge. She’s barely eaten anything since Tootsie’s. She couldn’t think of anything but Luke.

And now, now she can’t believe last night ever happened. Sal closes her eyes briefly, thankful for every lucky second chance she’s gotten in this life.

Her eyes scouring the contents of the fridge, Sal decides on a simple meal of wine, rotisserie chicken and cheese.

A floorboard creaks in the foyer.

A smile curls her lips.

Luke couldn’t wait.

Sal turns, shutting the fridge, a raunchy remark on her lips, when she gasps.

The bottle of wine slips from her grasp. It hits the floor, shatters. Glass shrapnel cuts her ankles, her calves, but she barely feels a thing. All she can do is stare at the horror in front of her.

Roy.

He came back. To their house. To get her.

He stands in the center of the kitchen, his massive frame silhouetted by the glow of the setting sun. In his hand, he holds a knife.

Sal sucks in a breath. Cold fear creeps over her bones as she meets Roy’s beady eyes.

Wrath radiates from his pores. His fists, fists she knows all too well, open and close, open and close.

She wants to scream but she stays quiet. She has to be smart. She won’t let Luke be hurt; she’ll die first. Instead, her gaze scours the kitchen for a weapon, her mind instantly lighting on the shotgun Luke has stored away in the closet. If she can just get to that ...

“What are you doing here?” She almost gags on the words.

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