Chapter 2

"Hey, sweetpea." Kirsten brushed the snow off her guitar case. "It's coming down out there."

Cherry grinned over at her, hands filled with pitchers of beer. "It's a busy night. You make sure you put your tip jar out, huh?"

"Totally. You need some help?" It wasn't like she hadn't spent years waiting tables in this place. Waiting tables. Cooking in the back. Washing dishes. Whatever it took to keep her in guitar strings and cat food.

"Nope. You set up and make music. There's a crowd in the big room already, waiting for someone to take the stage."

"Thanks." Cherry really fostered a good place to play, letting people know that if they sat in the main room in the sprawling pizza place, they'd hear a live show several nights a week. So, folks came just for that.

"Kirsten!" The cheer set up for her as soon as she stepped up to the stage. She wasn't ever going to be famous or anything, but god, she did love pretending to be a star under the single spotlight focused on the spindly chair and mic.

"Ladies!" She ran one hand through her short hair, encouraging the pink spikes to stand a bit taller. Then she pulled out her guitar, which raised up another shout. "How are we doing tonight? Having a party?"

She sat in the chair, strumming a few chords, tuning up as she listened to the women telling her about their evening, about their fun, about their requests. She recognized so many of the ladies—and a couple of the men—here for her and beer and pizza.

Not necessarily in that order.

Still, it was good for the ego how a hoot went up when she got set and started her first song, people singing along with her, which was like, an artist's dream. She loved that shit.

It didn't matter that she didn't sing any of her own stuff. That wasn't the gig.

This was about dancing on the postage stamp dance floor, about singing along, and more than that about encouraging customers to stay and eat more, drink more. Cherry gave her a piece of the action as well as her tips, so how could she complain? No one else in town was that generous for as easy as the gig was.

She did a ton of easy listening, then a couple of super poppy hits, before leaning into her alt-country roots. The boot-stomping number she ended her first set with had a lot of people dancing, even without the benefit of a backup band, and she let the last few notes roll out with some gusto, doing a ching a ling on her guitar to signal the end of the song.

There was a huge cheer, and she waved to everyone. "I'm taking a half-hour break. Y'all be good."

"Good set. Kirsten!" someone called, and a guy stuck another ten into her jar. Hello beer money.

"Thanks, y'all!" She left her guitar on stage under the light and went to sit at the bar.

Evie and Chey—two of her best buds—were sitting at the bar, sharing potato skins.

"Hey, sweetheart! You sound good." Chey kissed her cheek.

"Thanks! It's a good vibe in here tonight." She did love that, when everyone seemed into it, and all she had to do was ride the wave.

"It is. It's busy for sure, especially for a Tuesday. It feels almost like a Friday."

"If it was Friday, there'd be a DJ and a packed dance floor." And she didn't regret that, not a bit.

"Mmm." Chey grinned. "And we wouldn't be here."

"Old ladies," she teased.

"Shit yes," Evie said. "I have dogs and horses and shit. They wake up early."

"And I'm a baker. I have to be up at the crack of dawn." Chey winked at her. "You sound amazing. Love the new nose ring."

"Thanks! It's a little amethyst." Her own little bit of violet.

"I love it," Evie agreed.

"Hey, Kirsten. Beer tonight?" Gage, the bartender on duty, gave her a slow once-over.

"Looking fine, lady."

She cracked up. "You too, schoompsie poo." Gage always knew how to make a woman feet hot. Gay, straight, or a mix of both.

Gage blew her a kiss and then headed on, flirting outrageously with absolutely everyone. The man was a money-making machine.

They chatted, the beer cold, the potato skins, which arrived in another order soon after she sat down—thank you Gage—hot. She was just thinking she needed to get back on the stage and earn her keep when a ripple went through the crowd.

Whispers started up, and by the time they reached the bar, they sounded like, "Is that really her? Wow. She's a star. What is she doing here? Oh, I love her music."

Nope. Nope. She was not going to listen. She couldn't get wigged out, no matter who was here. She had a gig to do, and there had been a couple of B-list celebrities who had wandered through Summit Springs.

She could handle it.

Evie raised an eyebrow. "Not even going to go peek at who just showed up?"

She scoffed. "This is Summit Springs, not Aspen or Austin or something. It's not like Melissa Etheridge just walked through the door."

"What if it's Tori Amos?" Chey asked.

"My mothers would cream their jeans."

Evie cackled. "Lord, now you're calling me old again."

"You're not that old," she said.

The ripple got louder, then stopped, which meant whoever it was they'd brought her to this room to sit. Sure enough, everyone was staring, so she winked at Chey, and they both turned to see who the big name was.

Damn.

Skyla Bridey was the hottest ticket in country music right now, and the sequined ball cap didn't really disguise her bright curls and dimples worth a shit.

Wow.

Seriously.

Wow.

How the hell was she supposed to get up there and sing with a professional in the audience?

How the hell was this supposed to work?