Thank the Lord for small favors, because never seeing Harper again would’ve been one massive mistake.
He’d noticed her the second she’d walked into the Second Hand Guitar, which was saying something as the bar had been packed. But then again it was always packed. The place was up there with the Bluebird Café on musicians getting discovered in Nashville, not to mention some already well-known names liked to stop in and do a little impromptu show. So the crowd of people was always thick with musical and nonmusical patrons alike.
Liam had his own soft spot for the bar. Whenever he was in town he practically lived there, writing more of his songs on one of those bar stools than anywhere else. Then there was the fact that he’d been discovered there himself.
Three years ago he’d been singing up on the stage when Hunter Andrews of the country duo Isaac Hunter had pulled out his own guitar and gotten up onstage with Liam. Five songs and two pitchers of beer later, Hunter had invited Liam to open a show the following evening. He’d ended up touring with the duo for the better part of a year, playing in cities across the country. When they’d asked him to open on their most recent tour he’d said yes without hesitation.
Now, he had two albums under his belt and a decent following. But he wasn’t big enough to headline his own tour yet, or to be recognized by everyone he ever met. People knew his songs and connected his name to them because of the radio. His name was way more recognizable than his face.
He’d conveniently kept his last name to himself. But that was Harper’s rule, right? Nothing personal.
Bunch of bullshit if you asked him. Everything about their night had been personal.
Never in his life had he seen a woman that made everyone else disappear, and he did mean everyone. As far as he was concerned they’d been the only two people in that bar the night before…well, them and the bartender who got them drinks. But that had been more like a floating hand that appeared when they wanted another one.
All he’d been focused on getting from the second he’d seen her was her undivided attention. Once he’d gotten it, he hadn’t let it go. He hadn’t been wrong about her, either. There was something to be said about a woman who listed The Godfather and Wedding Crashers in her top five movies, and whose favorite fictional character was Indiana Jones.
“It’s the hat that does it for you, isn’t it?” he’d asked her after their fourth shot.
“Nope, totally the whip,” she’d said without missing a beat.
Then there was her laugh, loud and full bodied and so damn genuine. He’d gone back and forth all night on where to focus his attention. There was a case to be made about her mouth. She had full, pouty lips that she’d painted a soft pink, and whenever she’d smile it would light up her entire face.
But then there were her eyes. Eyes so blue they were violet. He’d never seen anything like them before. Never seen anyone like her before. He’d been entranced by her. Yes, entranced. And that had all been before he’d even kissed her, let alone taken her to bed, because really the second he’d gotten inside her he’d been done for.
It had really bothered him when she kept referring to herself as a “one-night stand,” because if he had anything to say about it they would be spending more than just one night together. He was determined to break down whatever wall she’d built that morning.
His first plan of attack was breakfast.
He knew the way to a woman’s heart was not through her stomach. But it gave him an opportunity to spend more time with her, and really it wasn’t a bad idea because he wasn’t a shabby cook if he did say so himself, and he did.
He moved around the kitchen sipping on his coffee between cooking the bacon, cutting and frying up some green tomatoes, and mixing his hollandaise sauce. He was making his modified version of Eggs Blackstone—the added ingredient being asparagus and a few key spices to the sauce—a personal specialty of his own that he’d perfected over the years.
He hadn’t been lying when he said he’d never made this for a woman he’d brought home, and that was because he never brought women home with him. Though he didn’t have much of a home to speak of lately.
The cabin belonged to his brother, pro-hockey star Logan James. After two years on the road, Liam discovered that his apartment was empty more than not, so he hadn’t renewed his lease. For the last year or so he’d just stayed at the cabin when he was in Nashville. When he had breaks that were long enough, he’d head down to Florida—both Logan and their sister Adele had houses down there—or go visit his parents wherever they were.
His family was from Nashville, but when his mom and dad retired they sold their house and bought an RV. They’d been traveling all over the U.S. and parts of Canada for the last few years and loving every second of it. Liam wasn’t the only nomad in the family these days.
The bacon popped in the frying pan and he took another sip of coffee as he flipped it.
“I don’t think I’ve ever met a man who can poach an egg,” Harper said from behind him.
He turned and stepped away from the stove as he leaned back against the counter. She was sitting at the breakfast bar, her hair now brushed and pulled up into a messy bun thing on the top of her head. She’d taken a few minutes to straighten her bedhead out and put on her bra, while he’d pulled on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. He was just glad she hadn’t tried to make another run for it.
Now she was nursing her own cup of coffee as she watched him cook.
“I have many skills as you learned last night.”
“Well, aren’t you cocky this morning?”
“Honey, I’m cocky every morning.” He waggled his eyebrows and she shook her head at him, fighting a smile.
“You’re shameless.”
“That I am. Do you want some more coffee?” He nodded to her mug.
“Please.”
He pushed off of the counter and went over to the coffeemaker, grabbing the pot and filling his cup as he crossed the kitchen to the bar. He reached across and tipped the pot, brown liquid filling her mug. He’d watched her fix her first cup so he knew how much room she would need for creamer, which was about double the amount that he put in his.
He left his mug on the counter as he crossed back across the kitchen to put the pot back on the coffeemaker. Then he stopped by the fridge to grab the creamer, closing the door with his hip before he walked over to her.
“So,” he started to say as he poured the creamer into her coffee, “how much longer are you going to be in the city?” He’d been hard pressed to get certain facts out of her the night before. She’d pretty much stuck to her word on not telling him things that were too personal. But he had managed to get a few things out. Like that she wasn’t from Nashville.
She was in town visiting her aunt and he wanted to know how much time he was going to have before she left. How much time he had to win her over. How much time he had to break down all of her walls. He was by no means done spending time with this woman.
She looked up at him as she stirred her coffee, a great debate going on behind her eyes like she was deciding on whether to answer or not. “I leave on Monday,” she finally answered.
It was Saturday, so he had two days. He could work with two days.
He didn’t have any other choice.
“What are you doing tonight?”
Her hand stilled, the spoon no longer going around her cup in circles. “I don’t know.”
“Have dinner with me.”
“Aren’t you getting a little ahead of yourself there, Sparky? We haven’t even had breakfast yet and you already want to make plans for dinner?”
“Sparky?”
“You heard me,” she said as she brought her mug of coffee to her mouth and took a sip.
“Yeah I did, and I find it interesting that you’re calling me Sparky when you were the one trying to run out of here this morning like your pants were on fire.”