Mason nodded and pushed an envelope across the table. “Chrissie asked me to give you a front row ticket to this evening’s concert.”
“I can watch from the wings,” Dante said, shaking his head.
“She wants you in the audience tonight.” Mason leaned back and folded his arms in front of his Chrissie Tate T-shirt. “She told me to make you take the ticket if I had to.”
Dante raised an eyebrow. “How do you plan to do that?”
“I’m banning you from backstage,” Mason said, his voice firm as if he knew Dante wouldn’t beat him up. “If you want to see the show, you’re watching from the front row.”
Dante stood and swiped the ticket off the table. “Fine.”
…
Hours later, after a punishing workout, Dante stood shoulder to shoulder with Chrissie Tate’s adoring fans, stared up at the stage. He always watched her concerts from the backstage area. But if she wanted him here, he’d follow her orders. Hell, he wasn’t here to play bodyguard tonight.
Damn right I’m not.
He was here for her.
He glanced around at the eager crowd. Men and woman staring up at the stage as their favorite country star finished “Rush of Love.” She belted out the lyrics that went hand in hand with the music video they’d shot.
Yeah, I’m here for her like every other fool in this place.
But no one else in this concert hall—in this whole freaking hotel—had professed their love to Chrissie Tate last night while buried inside her.
His jaw tightened as he turned his attention back to the stage. Chrissie stood in the center of a pool of light. A microphone was positioned on a stand in front of her, and she had her acoustic guitar over her shoulder.
“Tonight I want to perform a new song for you all,” she said.
The crowd roared with approval. Out of the corner of his eye, Dante saw the man to his right, who looked like a linebacker, dancing with glee in front of his seat.
“I finished writing the words this morning,” she continued. “But this is one that I’ve been thinking about for a while. My band hasn’t heard it yet, so I’m going to give them a break.”
Behind her, the drummer set aside his sticks and prepared to listen. The others stepped back, giving Chrissie the stage.
“And for the record,” she added with a playful smile, “I didn’t run this by my manager or my label. You’re the first ones to hear it.”
The linebacker was close to knocking over everyone in their row with his happy dancing. But Dante maintained his position, his attention on the star of the show. And he swore she was looking right at him.
Wishful thinking. Like hoping she’ll promise to love me after a few weeks on the road together and a helluva lot of sex, some kinky, some not-so-boring.
Chrissie played a few chords on her guitar, and the Sin City theater fell silent. She leaned into the mic. “This one is called ‘When Love Comes Last.’”
Fuck.
Dante took the hit. Those words felt like a swift uppercut, and he braced for the lyrics, knowing it would be like a series of jabs. But he’d stand tall and listen to her sing.
Because she’s right. Sometimes love takes second place.
He’d known that from the start of his first marriage. He had loved his ex-wife, and he’d remained loyal to her. But sometimes, his country came first.
The first verse of the song washed over him. And the message was pretty damn clear. Love needed time and space to grow. Holding hands, long kisses under the moonlight—she’d incorporated the tried and true elements of a country love song. But then she reached the chorus.
He watched as she hesitated, repeating a chord or two as if she’d lost track of the song. Instead of staring out into the lights, she appeared to be scanning the front section. Or maybe that was wishful thinking on his part.
But then, she seemingly summoned her courage and sang.
With every kiss, I steal you away from someone who needs you more…