Must Be Wright (The Wrights 3)
She couldn’t tear her gaze away from the flaming heat in his own, but she managed a narrow-eyed look. “How, exactly, do you even know I own such an outfit?”
A slow, smoldering smile drifted across his handsome face. “Instagram.”
Gypsy’s lips parted, but nothing came out. Her mind was spinning around the idea that Wyatt Jackson, hottest country singer on the map, stalked her Instagram page.
Fear pinged somewhere deep in her belly. This man had just sauntered into real trouble territory. She’d been able to resist him this long because she’d never taken his flirtation seriously. But casual interest didn’t include following her on social media when he had an untold number of women willing to fall on their backs for him with an instant’s notice.
Gypsy purposely took another long drink of her Shirley Temple, draining the glass to get the time required to refocus. “My answer is the same as it’s been for the last two years.”
“Actually, sugar, we’re going on our three-year no-date anniversary.”
“And my answer is still no. Besides, Saturdays are my busiest nights.”
“You win.” He straightened and pressed both hands to the bar and gave her a grin that hammered her good intentions. “Saturday it is. Right here in our special spot. I wouldn’t mind twirling you around the dance floor.”
Gypsy dropped her head into her hands. “Jesus Christ.” She drew a deep breath, lifted her head, and met his gaze before taking the sign still resting against her breasts—NO. JUST NO.—and putting it directly in Wyatt’s line of sight.
When she dropped the sign, his eyes were narrowed and his head tilted. “Is that a hard no?”
“It’s a bless your heart no.”
Wyatt dropped his head back and laughed long and deep. The sound skittered down her spine, swirled in her belly, and melted between her legs.
“Damn, I love the way you make me laugh, sugar.” He straightened and swept the bar with a towel. “Saturday night it is. I’ll come in and entertain your customers. Our date can begin as soon as the bar closes.”
He did love to twist words around to his benefit. “Sorry, Rockstar, I already have somebody booked to play Saturday.”
He delivered a comically shocked expression.
She stood and carried her glass back behind the bar, dropping it into the dirty dish bin. Then she faced him, one hand on the bar. “Thanks for the break. Now get out.”
“Who could you possibly have playing that I couldn’t replace?”
“Savage Justice. You recommended them, remember?”
Wyatt grimaced. “Ah, yeah.” He nodded, staring at the floor. “They’re good.”
She gestured toward the swinging door that led out from behind the bar. “Git.”
Instead, he planted one hand on the bar and jumped. But this time, he didn’t vault. He pulled one of those rock star moves and stood on the bar.
“Jackson.” Gypsy smacked his leg. “Get the hell off my bar.”
He set his boots wide, put two fingers in his mouth, and whistled so loud, Gypsy covered her ears. The music stopped, the bar quieted, and all eyes turned to Wyatt. He took off his hat and ran a hand through his hair. His name instantly fluttered through the crowd.
“How are y’all enjoying my friends Blacksmith?” Wyatt called to the crowd as if he were on his own stage.
The customers cheered, and Wyatt saluted the band, who greeted Wyatt in return.
“What an awesome crowd.” Wyatt waited as they quieted. “I hear y’all are going to be introduced to another great band Friday—Savag
e Justice. If you haven’t heard ’em play, make sure to come on out, because, like Blacksmith, they’re hot.”
They applauded the suggestion.
“I made your pretty little bar owner here another proposition, but she’s shootin’ me down, so I decided to take my idea to the masses. I’m proposing that I play for y’all Saturday night, maybe warm y’all up for Savage Justice. What do y’all think about that?”
Gypsy covered her ears just in time to block the whistles and claps and shouts from everyone in the crowd. They were still chanting “Wy-att, Wy-att, Wy-att” when she smacked Wyatt’s leg again. “Fine, you can play. Now get the fuck off my bar.”