Chapter Two
Emmett Hudson
Ten minutes.
Mim had spent the last ten minutes calling me just about every proper name in the book for scaring the hell out of her … McKinsey. I’d listened real good at first (my grandmother might be in her seventies, but I sure as hell don’t want to get on her bad side) but it was hard not to let my attention wander to the scowling blonde sitting across the breakfast table from me. We were both fully clothed now—she’d gone the extra mile by pouring herself into a pair of tight jeans and an “After Prom ’07” tee shirt that was too damn big for her—but the sight of her curvy, golden body was burned into my memory now.
I wanted to see more of it, of her.
Even though a blind man could see she was purposely ignoring me by staring at everything from my grandma to the side-by-side fridge that had been in the kitchen since I was a kid, every few minutes she flicked denim blue eyes in my direction.
Her face would turn just as red as she’d been fifteen minutes ago when she was standing a few inches away from me screeching and scrambling for her towel.
And then she’d flicked her gaze up to the ceiling and took a deep breath that ricocheted through her unforgettable body.
But this time when she looked over at me, I nodded slowly at her. Her soft, pink lips separated in surprise. I cocked an eyebrow. And she turned her face away quickly, deepening her glare and fisting her hands on the table.
Damn, she was sexy as hell when she was pissed off, and that was saying something since blondes had never been my type. This girl—with those long-lashed blue eyes and legs that seemed to go on for days and that goddamn voice that had given me chills even in a steaming hot shower—well, she was making me question why I was so against the hair color in the first place.
Something whacked me in the back of the head, and I winced, grabbing the back of my neck. I turned to find Mim standing behind my chair, clutching a rolled-up magazine and wearing a dark expression that’d scared the shit out of me when I was a kid. It didn’t matter how old I was or that she was a good foot shorter than me now—when Mim wielded a magazine or newspaper, I made sure to bow my head and do the walk of shame.
“Damn, I said I was sorry!”
“Sorry?” She sounded outraged as she jabbed the magazine in the blonde’s direction. I wasn’t surprised when McKinsey immediately darted her attention elsewhere—this time to a box of cereal open on the countertop—and crossed her slim, tan arms over her chest. “What I want to know is what in the world were you doing in my home and … naked … without telling anyone you were here?”
I couldn’t keep the big ass grin from spreading across my face at the scandalized way Mim said ‘naked,’ and once again, I found myself on the receiving end of the newest issue of Better Homes and Gardens just before she sank down in the chair next to me. With the way things were going, I’d be heading back to Nashville with a broken neck and would eventually be shooting my album cover in a damn brace.
Mim drummed her short nails on the table, reminding me of my summers spent here. I’d gotten into trouble more times than I cared to admit and every time she’d interrogated me, she’d slowly tapped her fingers until I fessed up.
“Mim,” I groaned.
“Don’t ‘Mim’ me, Emmett Reid Hudson!” Ah, hell. She was dropping the middle name. Nothing good ever came from Mim using my whole name. Shaking her head disappointedly, she let out a deep sigh. “Don’t get me wrong, son, I’m always happy to see you, but what are you doing here? You haven’t necessarily been breaking down doors to come see me and now, all of the sudden, you’re popping up in my shower.” She glanced over at McKinsey and touched her hand. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”
The blonde shook her head, plastered on a big smile for my grandmother’s benefit, and squeezed her fingers like they were best-goddamn-friends. “I promise I’m fine, Mrs. H. He didn’t see anything.”
If not seeing anything meant a front seat show to breasts that were more than a handful and an ass that had done crazy things to my brain even after I did the gentlemanly thing and turned away from her.
“Nothing,” I reiterated, leaning my chair back as she stiffened her back. Yeah, because nothing was everything.
My grandmother gave me a pointed look, letting me know she was expecting an answer to her question. I couldn’t just come out and tell her that my dad had called me last night when I was piss-drunk, swearing up and down that a dirty, little opportunist had sunk her claws into Mim. He’d said I needed to get my ass in my truck and get to Marietta, so as soon as I was fit to make the drive, that’s what I did. After listening to all of Dad’s and my sister’s shit-talking, I’d expected to eventually come face-to-face with a manipulative con-artist.
Instead, I got a naked, beautiful girl whose smooth skin lit up like a fire the moment I turned my eyes on her.
“I’m sorry, McKinsey,” I said, because I had no idea she’d walk in on me in the shower—much less flash me. In my defense, I’d warned her. Multiple times. It wasn’t my fault she’d been too busy singing and gyrating her hips to hear me.
I should’ve been ashamed to silently thank god for loud mp3 players and Justin Timberlake’s music, but I wasn’t.
To my grandmother, I bowed my head and said, “I came in early this morning, and since I figured you’d be sleeping, I let myself in.” She gestured her hand for me to keep going. “You know I’ve been working on my debut in Nashville, and since my label’s given me a new producer—”
“No, I did not know you were in Nashville working on a record, Emmett,” Mim interrupted. Across the table from me, I noticed that McKinsey’s blond head popped up. For the first time since we sat down, she looked at me intently. “An album?” I nodded and a smile split her face. She clasped her hands together, beaming with pride.
Saved by good news.
“Come here, you!” Mim stood and pulled me to her hard. I bent slightly to accommodate her small frame, meeting McKinsey’s blue eyes over the top of her head. She held my gaze for a full ten seconds before she eventually dragged her focus away to play with the hem of her pink tee shirt.
When my grandmother drew away from me, she gave my shoulders one last squeeze of encouragement. We sat back down, and she immediately asked the question I knew had been burning on her mind since she raced into the upstairs bathroom to find out what all the screaming was about. “Will you be here for a while?” she asked tentatively.
I’d told my dad I’d stick around through the rest of the weekend, but hell if I didn’t want to stay longer. “At least a couple weeks.”
Mim clasped her hands together and smiled, and McKinsey’s eyes widened and her pretty lips rounded into a big O.
Finally, I grinned.
♫
“Are you joking?” the voice on the other end of the line angrily demanded. “The little bitch has Grandma wrapped around her finger, and all you can say is, ‘Oh, she’s not that bad.’ You’ve been there for about five minutes. You don’t know a damn thing about her.”
“She’s. Not. Bad,” I repeated, wondering why I’d answered my older sister’s call. Hazel had done nothing but whine about McKinsey since I said hello. Now, six minutes into the call, I was ready to disconnect and power off the phone for the rest of the day. I’d come out to the porch to work on a song I’d been hammering at for weeks. Not to listen to my sister hiss and moan about a girl she’d never met. “Besides, a day and a half is plenty of damn time to figure out she’s nothing you and Dad said she was.”
I wouldn’t tell Hazel that McKinsey had practically barricaded herself in her room since Saturday afternoon to—in her words—give me a chance to spend some time with my grandmother. In Mim’s eyes, the girl was golden. From what I’d managed to coax out of my grandma, she’d had a shit life so far—bad parents and a brush with juvie several months ago. I’d wanted to ask my grandma what she got in trouble for, but she had cut me off with a warning:
M
cKinsey Brock had just turned eighteen. And Mim swore that made her off-limits.
Damn, I hated that word.
“Jesus, Emmett, she’s a foster kid,” my sister’s voice obnoxiously sliced through my thoughts.
What did that matter? I sucked a breath through my teeth. “Yeah, and?” Where the hell was Hazel going with this?
“And Grandma doesn’t need money—the woman is loaded. I bet this girl weaseled her way in to take advantage.”
I rubbed the bridge of my nose. I loved my sister—I was raised with our mother telling me I’d go straight to hell if I didn’t—but I sure as hell didn’t like Hazel most of the time. “I think she was lonely.” Admitting that caused a pain in the back of my throat because I hadn’t spent nearly enough time with Mim over the last few years. My sister must not have felt a shred of guilt because she only sniffed loudly. “Look, Haz. McKinsey’s good company for her. We both know Mim is a good judge of character, and she’d be able to spot a weasel from five miles away. You and Dad sent me here for nothing.”
“Then why are you staying so long?”
Dad had asked me the same thing when I talked to him last night. I held back the desire to tell my sister to mind her own damn business and civilly replied, “Because I haven’t visited Mim’s place in years.”
“Right. Or maybe it’s because …” But I tuned out the sound of her voice when the screen door flew open and McKinsey stepped outside on the front porch. She was wearing a pair of cutoff shorts that showed off her long, long legs and her ass and a green tee shirt that advertised Samson’s Nursery. I could smell her from where I was sitting—she was wearing something sweet and vanilla-scented, feminine.
Sexy.
Off-limits, dumbass. Off-limits, I reminded myself.
I stared at the back of her body a little longer than necessary, then hung up on my sister just as I said, “Mornin’.”
McKinsey jumped, then froze completely, and finally took in a deep breath before slowly turning around to face me. My throat went dry. Today, she was wearing makeup. The dark liner around her big blue eyes made them look twice as intense, and I was smart enough to recognize what a goner I’d be if she were only a little older. She licked her lips.
Hell, maybe I was a goner already.
“Good mornin’,” I repeated.
I expected her to stammer and flush like she did whenever we ran into each other in the hall, but she surprised me. “Do you like scaring the piss out of people?” She leaned her shoulder against one of the white pillars behind her and lifted one of her eyebrows. “Or do you just have a problem with me in particular?”
“Are you blaming me for you being distracted eighty percent of the time?” I countered, following her eyes to see that they’d landed on the guitar and notepad beside me. “Including right now.”
She traced the curves and corners of the guitar slowly, her eyes appreciative. “I’ve never seen a Gibson that looked like that,” she admitted with a shrug and a little scrunch of her nose. “What kind of—?” She cleared her throat and rubbed her hand over her chest. I forced myself to look at her face. “What genre do you sing?”
“Country.” A soft smile tugged at her lips. Even though my brain told me to shut the hell up and get inside the house, I kept talking because I wanted her to keep smiling. “Well, a hybrid of country and rock.”
She rocked forward on the toes of her tennis shoes then back, resting her shoulders to the pillar again. “Figures.”
“Figures?” My phone vibrated, so I jammed it under a pillow. Hazel could wait. “Oh, Angel, you’re going to have to explain.”
Her breath noticeably hitched as she pushed away from the pillar and turned her back to me. Raking her hand through her hair, she looped a hair tie through it until it was piled on the top of her head in a messy knot. God, I’d love to pull that rubber band out just to twist all that blond hair through my fingers while I kissed her until she couldn’t even string two words together.
Off-limits, dumbass. Off-limits.
“I would explain.” She pulled her phone from her back pocket. “But since Mrs. Hudson’s out this morning, I’ve got to call my boss to take—”
“No need,” I said. She looked over her shoulder at me, her big blue eyes surprised, and I had my keys out of my pocket before she could make another sound. “I’ll give you a ride.”
Off-limits. Off—
Aw, screw it.
Because when had I ever played by the rules?