Don't Promise (Don't 3)

“Hmm. That’s fucking hard to answer. You can’t put limits out there like that.”

“Only one.” I eyed him. I liked games like this.

“Well, we both know you’re out.” He winked. “Unless you open the category up to which country singer I want in my bed.”

“I’m not on the list of choices. Come on, tell me.” I scooped more rice onto my plate. “You obviously love this music. You have to have a favorite. Who is it?”

Luke set his plate on the hearth and extended his muscular legs until he was standing. I watched him stroll to the other side of the room, stoop, and open the door to a wooden cabinet.

He held up a twelve by twelve cardboard sleeve.

“Is that vinyl?” I rose from the floor and walked toward him.

“I bought this when I was sixteen in one of those rusted out barns that ran as an antique store.”

I took the album with the tattered corners and flipped it over. “Robert Earl Keen is your favorite?”

“Hell, yeah.” The cover was tattered and worn. I wondered how many times Luke had listened to it.

My music was about as far from this as it could be. My concerts were filled with electronic graphics on huge hi-definition screens, pyrotechnics, and more dancers than I could remember their names. I put on a full-fledged show. The kind that sold out in mega stadiums.

There were lights that twinkled and dazzled and my band was so loud the ear plugs I wore barely helped. Comparing my music to this was like saying Johnny Cash and Beyoncé sang the same thing.

“Want to hear it?” Luke seemed excited. He let the album fall to the center of his palm. Tucked on the bottom shelf of his stereo system was a turntable. It was wired into his sound system.

“Yes. I’d love to.”

I waited while the first few seconds crackled and popped. And then there was a gravelly richness of music in the air around us. Luke walked back to our Chinese picnic and I followed.

“Yeah, I could listen to this album every day.”

“It’s great. He’s great.” I’d never met the Texas singer, but I strained my ears to hear him. What drew Luke to his music.

It was stripped down and raw. There weren’t a hundred different instruments competing to be heard. The producer didn’t jam it with effects. It was pure music.

I blinked. “I guess I don’t get it.”

“What?”

“If you like this why did you stay for my show?”

“Because you’re damn gorgeous, Alexa. And I know you winked at me.” He smiled.

“I’m being serious. Tell me—if I wanted Luke Canton as a fan—what would you tell me to do? How do I reach you with my music?”

Because that’s what I wanted. I wanted to pull a man like Luke into my heart. And the music in my lyrics was the writing on my soul.

He rubbed the side of my calf. “I am a fan. A very big one.” Luke stretched his back. “I think I paid high-dollar for a private concert. You could sing for me now.”

“You’re not serious.”

“Do you know how much that check was I wrote?” he asked.

“It was for charity. For the kids,” I pressed. “You don’t really want me to sing for you after hearing that album. Not if you like this kind of music.”

He tilted his head. “I like lots of things. And I’ve decided I can never get enough of Alexa Wilde. Your voice is gorgeous—like the rest of you. Sing, baby.” His voice was determined.

It made me blush. Shameless flirting worked. And the funny thing was he didn’t need to do it. He already had me. We had crossed every personal boundary two people could cross. We had given each other our souls. We had made a co-conspirator pact. And I was trying to pretend that there wasn’t a chance we had possibly made a baby.