13

Pyper was in heaven. Absolute, unquestionable heaven. What wasn’t to love? She was seated front-row-center at The Stage, with an incomparable view of the District on a Saturday night. She watched from a tall stool as a vibrant collection of bodies, street traffic, loud laughter and eager shouts clamored for attention in and around the legendary honkytonk. The life-tide became a force all its own, rolling along Broadway, weaving past the entryways of dozens of bars, storefronts and restaurants. Best of all, though, were the nightclubs, the historic locales that operated in the shadow of the mighty Ryman, catering to the best up-and-coming musical talent and welcoming home the ones who had made it big. Just beyond those golden gates, street musicians worked hard, some with talent equal to the acts that performed inside. Those hungry artists entertained tourists and locals alike with songs and performances that could stir the soul.

Neon lights flashed, illuminating the window behind a slightly elevated wooden dais where Chase currently wrapped a performance of his classic “Color of Life.” Pyper’s smile spread as she propped her chin in her hand and watched. He absolutely rocked the happy, enthusiastic crowd.

A tall, ponytailed waitress weaved neatly through the packed crowed. Black apron bulging with tips and straws, she approached Pyper’s spot, delivered a cheery wink along with a tall, icy lemon-lime soda. Pyper responded in kind then chugged, continuing to absorb. Nothing here was left to chance. Positioning was critical. Folks on a jaunt through downtown Nashville wandered past, peeked inside, and once they heard the music, they were caught with a hook. The recipe for success here was ages old, and tonight was no different.

She snapped to proper focus when the last chords of Chase’s song faded and he addressed the audience. “Ladies and gentlemen, y’all are so kind. Thank you for that wonderful welcome. It’s always an honor to be able to play at The Stage. Standing here, performing at what has to be one of the greatest venues in The District, I feel like I’m at the center of Nashville’s history. Nashville’s heart. I don’t take that lightly.”

Pyper registered the delighted response of the crowd. Take him or leave him, love him or otherwise, there was no denying Chase Bradington knew how to command—and win—a venue. She rejoiced at the thought, giving him snaps of respect.

As if he could read her thoughts, he glanced her way, sent an acknowledging grin before continuing. “For now, to keep the good times going, I want you to help me greet the real star of tonight’s show. Please give it up for Miss. Pyper. Brock.”

Right on cue, Piper lifted from her perch and trotted the pair of steps leading to the stage. In the more private, second-level seating area that rimmed three sides of the bar, she spotted her dad and Kellen Rossiter watching while they leaned against a railing. Smile blooming, she waved to the crowd and acknowledged a few of the folks seated close by. She drifted into the applause and made her way to the spot where Chase stood at a solitary mic stand. Crossing the scarred wooden floorboards she threw another wave toward the house.

At that point she caught Chase’s reaction to her entrée, and her footsteps faltered. Deep, smooth eyes never once left her face; his expression spoke clearly of the words amazement and captivation. He took hold of the mic stand and brought it into position between them, smiling warm. Pyper couldn’t help but be swept straight to him.

“You know,” he began, finally readdressing the crowd, “you can call me an old fashioned southern boy, but there’s something incredibly attractive about the site of a woman who strolls onstage wearing dark blue denim, a pair of worn leather boots and a cowboy hat. Pyper, you are gorgeous.”

Oxygen fled her lungs. What was this all about? While she battled a sensual tremor, Chase tugged her gently to his side and kissed her cheek. His lips slid against her skin like the brushstroke of a feather, and he smelled so good…

For the benefit of the crowd, Pyper continued to smile, but somehow she needed to earn back a bit of control and assert herself. “Well, my goodness. Who here can say charm and gentility have died? Isn’t he the sweetest thing? Thanks so much for the welcome. How y’all doin’? Havin’ a good time tonight?” Cheers flowed in, easing that tense layer of awareness that crept along her shoulders.

Chase resumed strumming his guitar; the band followed his lead. “Folks, I want to tell you a story about the night I met this lady. It was at the Opry. The night her daddy, Tyler Brock, was awarded membership into the performance family.” Cheers and applause rose up. “I was honored to be a small part of that event.”

Pyper cocked a hip and initiated a playful stare-down with her colleague. “Oh, that’s right. The very night you crashed into me and nearly bowled me straight over.”

“Darlin’? I could only hope.” In emphasis, Chase delivered a wicked grin and winked. Pyper’s intellect flew away on fast feet. Meantime, Chase addressed their cat-calling, jovial crowd. “Isn’t she a sassy piece of work? As I was saying, the night we met, we had a discussion about country music and its history. Its love affairs.”

Where was this piece of repartee headed? Pyper’s cheeks flushed scarlet beneath a blush. Where should she take this? “Yeah, we did, because Opry staff landed you in the It Takes Two dressing room. A spot at the Opry created to honor such legendary romantic pairs as Johnny Cash and June Carter, George Jones and Tammy Wynette.” Applause and whistles broke out in the midst of their country music fans. Pyper’s pulse thrummed. “Your point is?”

“My point is, since it seems we’re going to be singing together every now and again, why not pay them homage? How about we launch into a cover of Johnny and June’s classic, ‘It Ain’t Me, Babe’ before we introduce the new song we’ve been working on?”

“It Ain’t Me, Babe.” They had horsed around with the song a time or two in recent days. The lyrics formed a spirited ode to the push and pull of relationships that, on one level, should never happen, but on another were as destined as the sunrise. Was he trying to build a bit of romantic connection to their performance?

Pyper’s eyes went narrow, but playful. “I’m game. It’s a great song.” More applause rushed in while she accepted a tambourine from one of their backup musicians. Prompted by Chase’s intro, Pyper returned to front stage center and whispered, “I’m so not afraid of you.”

“And that just might be your first mistake.” His quick retort and wolfish grin played havoc against her senses as the intensity of his gaze stroked her as sure as a caress.

The band lit up. Subtle percussion built followed by a harmonica intro that was joined by a thumping bass and the build of Chase’s guitar.

Pyper threw herself into the song as she would any other, but this rendition was special, and she knew it. Judging by the flare of pleasure in Chase’s eyes, the same held true for him.

They were a dynamic team—no mistake. The cover and their debut of “Forgiveness” and “Burning Bridges” brought down the house...



Relieved to take in some cool, sweet air outside the bar, Pyper paused for a moment and closed her eyes, replenishing her body and soul for a moment following the conclusion of her set with Chase. Restored, she ambled comfortably along the still busy street, drawn as always to the corner turn off Broadway that led toward the timeless edifice of the Ryman Auditorium.

There, she came upon Chase, back propped against a nearby brick wall. An incline in the road led directly past the historic church turned iconic performance venue and he seemed to drink in the flavor of the night as well. Although he was tucked into shadow, he was in no way obscure. No man with his level of magnetism could remain invisible for long.

Pyper moved to join him, but a pair of middle-aged ladies beat her to the punch. “Mr. Bradington. Good show tonight.”

“Thank you. I appreciate that. Glad you came out.”

Surprisingly, they didn’t stop, or ask for an autograph. They continued to walk on by. The one closest to Chase cast a sneer over her shoulder. “Too bad you fell so hard and so far. After the way you’ve lived your life? Sorry, I just can’t remain a fan. Goes against my good conscience.”

Pyper’s heart broke—for, with that cavalier, uninformed judgment, they were gone, traipsing into a land of self-righteousness and up a hill that would lead them away. They never paid heed to the fact that Chase watched their retreat, or that he sank against the wall at his back. Unaware of Pyper’s approach, he shook his head and focused on the ground.

Defeat rolled off him in waves she could taste.

An easy stride in place, she stepped forward, intent on pushing him away from the bleak storm clouds those women had left behind. “So…you took me by surprise with the whole June and Johnny reference, and that unexpected duet.”

Chase looked up; the smile he extended was fake—she recognized the fact only because she was getting to know him better…and better.

“Hope you didn’t mind. It felt good, and it segued well into ‘Burning Bridges.’ The audience seemed to love it.”

“They did. Even those two.” Lifting her chin, Pyper indicated the two women who had already vanished into the night.

His shoulders sagged just a trace. “You heard that?”

“Didn’t like it, or agree with it, but, yeah, I heard that.”

In a startling move, Chase bashed a booted heel against the wall where he stood. Other than that, his focus remained straight ahead, his arms folded against his chest. When she moved closer, she noticed the tight set of his jaw, the sharp flash of those coal eyes.

“It makes me sick.”

“What? Them? Don’t give ‘em the time of—”

“It’s not just them, Pyper.” He ground out an angry sound. “Truth to tell, I don’t know who and what I am anymore.” He spoke in a harsh tone.

She felt the quaking roll of his temper unfurling, which caused her to rear back slightly. “What do you mean?”

Giving a snort, Chase shook his head as he watched the passing car traffic. “If I try to live by Christian values, folks shoot me down because of my past. On the other side of the coin, if I try to remain true to my old roots in country music, I’m labeled as a newborn, self-righteous holy roller. I don’t know who I’m supposed to be.”

Pyper studied him, sank into his words, and the emotion that gave them fuel. “You’re supposed to be who and what you are, Chase. You’re supposed to be who and what God created you to be. Nothing more, nothing less.” She moved a bit closer. “Honey, don’t buy into their disdain.”

Chase delivered a long, pained look. “Tough proposition when people refuse to trust me. I brought it on myself. I know that. Still, when you work hard to reform, when you hope for a clean slate, rejection stings. I’d like to be the good guy.”

“Seems to me you’re winning that battle. Keep it up.”

More silence passed. “You and I had some fun playing around with ‘It Ain’t Me, Babe.’ I sprang it on you for two reasons. First, I knew you’d handle it like the spirited ball of fire you are.”

Pyper didn’t even have time to react to that revelation before he continued.

“Second? June and Johnny had it right when it comes to the kind of feelings that run between me and you. I’d like to be the one, but I’m probably all wrong. Doesn’t seem to stem the tide, though. Right or wrong, I think you’re…”

The sentence dangled, but Pyper filled in the blanks with ease. He saw—he felt—that she was someone worth a heart-risk, no matter what the equation. She felt the same way about him.

“Just remember, no matter what the world ever tries to say or do, I always want to be the kind of man who’s worthy of a woman like you.”

“It’s not about worth, Chase. You’re worthy and then some, but you need to tune out all the static. Listen in here”—she settled a hand against his heart—“instead of out there. You’re doing just fine.”

“Fine enough for you?”

So, he wanted to push on the topic. Pyper’s throat went dry. So did her lips. She decided at once to respond with nothing less than that same level of honesty and revelation he had granted. “More than fine enough. We’re taking the leap, right? Finding the answers, like we talked about?”

He pulled her close and held on tight. Pyper absorbed the welcome warmth of his body, the feel of his heartbeat quickening against her cheek.

“Thanks, crash.” The breath from his murmured words skimmed along her hairline, igniting heat and a tingle of happiness. “That’s all I needed to hear.”

That night, not even thoughts of a morning breakfast interview with the one and only Petra Goode could keep her mood from lifting high. While a spectacular night in the District transformed from reality to precious memory, while stardust and sparkles followed her to sleep, so did the image of a rugged man with soulful dark eyes and a plaintive voice full of deep, raw longing that begged for bad bridges to burn and disappear into the promise of hope.