Facing the Music (Rosewood 1)

The tail end of the boat came out from behind the trees and at last she could see the man at the wheel. It was an Auburn alumnus, all right. The brown hair with golden highlights from the summer sun . . . the tanned skin and broad shoulders from hours training out on the football field . . .

Of all the rotten damn luck she was having.

At that moment her eyes met the smug baby-blue gaze of none other than Blake Flippin’ Chamberlain.

God must be rewarding him for his patience and work with children. That had to be the answer. There was no other reason why he would trip over a scenario this sweet.

Blake killed the engine and slowly pulled his boat up to the dock. He tied it up, taking careful steps to secure his baby and make Ivy wait as long as humanly possible. From what he could see, she wasn’t going anywhere, even if she wanted to.

He climbed onto the dock and strolled causally over to the Hudson cabin with his hands thrust into his pockets. Taking his time, Blake soaked in every delicious detail, from Ivy’s irritated scowl to the full globes of her breasts pressed beneath her inadequate hands. He’d never been so jealous of a pair of hands in his life.

His jeans tightened uncomfortably as his inspection ran over her mostly bare body. He was frankly surprised by the reaction. Not because she wasn’t a beautiful and sexy woman—she was; that was a given—but because his dick had a deep, abiding hatred of Ivy. So did the rest of him, but it was his penis that had become the center of national attention for being woefully inadequate. At the moment, however, he had ample evidence to the contrary.

What the woman was doing outside in nothing but a pair of bikini bottoms he didn’t know, but he wouldn’t complain. From what he could see—and he could see a lot—she hadn’t yet opted to go under some Beverly Hills plastic surgeon’s knife. It had been nearly six years since he’d laid eyes on those curves, but he’d spent his teenage years learning and memorizing every inch of her body.

Blake whistled again, this time the whistling equivalent of “Whoo . . . you’re sure in a pickle, girl.” Ivy ducked behind a nandina bush growing at the foundation of the cabin, but it didn’t help.

“Well, look at who’s back in town . . . and naked at that.” He planted his hands on his hips and shook his head. “I was cruising around the lake and I said to myself, ‘That looks like Ivy Grace Hudson running ’round that cabin with no clothes on. But that couldn’t be true. She’s too big of a star for a little town like Rosewood.’ ”

At first, he’d been relieved when Little Miss Rock Star had turned down the first request to do a charity concert. Then he’d gotten pissed off. How dare she be too busy to take the time to help the people who made her who she was? She had America duped with her sweet smile and angelic voice. Someone needed to write a song about her and tell the other half of the story for a change.

Of course, then her name got smeared across every tabloid in the country. Suddenly the clouds parted, her schedule cleared up, and here she was to save the day.

Why her? There were plenty of native groups to choose from. Couldn’t they have gotten Alabama or Skynyrd or Jimmy Buffett? Hell, even one of those American Idol singers would be better than the girl who turned her back on her town and made her career on his humiliation.

Then again, she was way hotter than Jimmy Buffett. Damn. Even the red flush of embarrassment across her cheeks was enticing.

“What changed your mind, huh?”

Ivy’s lips twisted into an angry knot, but she didn’t answer him. Instead, she slunk farther behind the bush.

“What’s the matter, Ivy Grace? Boy band got your tongue?”

“You don’t have any idea what you’re talking about, as usual, Blake. I came because your grandmother asked me to, personally. I wanted to help out and when my schedule opened up, I was able to say yes.”

“Swooping in to save us all, then? Very thoughtful of you to think of us poor normal folks.”

“Don’t you get all humble and small-town smug with me. You and I both know you wouldn’t be cruising around this stinky old pond if you hadn’t blown out your knee after a couple of seasons in the NFL. Don’t criticize me for succeeding just because you didn’t!”

As if on cue, Blake’s bad knee started throbbing. Shifting his weight, he tried not to wince. It was hard considering that only two years ago, some three-hundred-pound defensive lineman had snapped it like a twig and ended his career. “So that’s how it’s going to be, huh?”

“Listen,” she spat. “I’m not the one who started being ugly. Don’t dish it if you can’t take it.”

“You’re right. Most gracious apologies. You were just running around naked, minding your own business, and I interfered and started saying nasty things.”

“I am not naked! But I would appreciate you being a gentleman and turning away, please.”

At that, Blake had to laugh. His eyes had been glued to her since the moment he climbed from his boat, and that wasn’t changing anytime soon. “You and I both know I’m not much of a gentleman. And even if I was . . . ain’t nothing there I haven’t seen before, Ivy Grace.”

The wider his smile grew, the more red-mottled her cheeks became. “That doesn’t mean you get the pleasure of looking at it anymore. You gave up that right when you put your hands up that cheerleader’s skirt.”

Blake sighed heavil

y. How many times would he have to pay for that sin? He’d been drunk and lonely and the girl had thrown herself at him. He’d apologized a million times over, but Ivy didn’t want to hear it. She didn’t care that everything in his life had crumbled from that point on.

“Do you want to stand in your birthday suit and fight about what happened six years ago, or do you want to tell me why you’re outside like this so I can help you?”

“I don’t need your help,” she said, her chin tipping up defiantly despite her situation.