Crazy in Love (Blue Lake #3)(10)

He stopped on a stair halfway down the hillside and turned back. She jolted to a stop, crossing her hands in front of her.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Have you heard any of my songs?”

She opened her mouth to say something, and then stopped. “I haven’t, but don’t take offense. I don’t listen to rock.”

Fair enough. “What do you listen to?”

“Country.”

“Shit,” he swiped his hand across his jaw. “Should’ve known.”

“What?” Smirking, she planted her hands on her hips. “Don’t I look like a country girl?”

“I should’ve glanced down.” He pointed to the boot toes poking from beneath the hems of her jeans. “Those boots give it all away, but I was too distracted by the twinkle in your eyes to notice your shoes. Forgive me.”

She groaned and did some serious eye-rolling.

He was going to have to bring his A game to win this one over.

“Who are your favorites?” he asked.

Along the way, he’d probably met a few of her favorite musicians. Dropping names was not beneath him. Not if it meant he could finally impress the stone-cold innkeeper.

“Faith Hill, Sugarland, Keith Urban.” She grinned. “I’d sit out here on my ass and get frostbite if it meant I could listen to Keith Urban play live.”

Although the notion was ridiculous, a tiny twinge of jealousy niggled in Cole’s side. Why wouldn’t she be willing to do the same for him? There’d be hundreds of screaming fans here tomorrow night. Hundreds of women who’d gladly get frostbite for him, too.

“What is it about Keith that’ll make you sit out in the cold?” he asked.

“There is no sound in the world like a man playing a guitar—”

Check.

“—and singing his own songs, written straight from the heart.”

Damn it. He’d tried his hand at writing, and had been told his words fell flat. Apparently, his lyrics lacked emotion.

“How do you know that dreamy Mr. Urban writes his own stuff?”

“I don’t,” Rachael said. “But it feels like he does. That’s what’s missing from musicians today. When I’m watching a concert, I want to feel like I’m witnessing an intimate moment between a man and his guitar.”

Cole erupted with laughter, and covered his hands over his middle.

“What?” She looked like she was going to slug him. “Why are you laughing?”

“You want me to have a passionate moment with a musical instrument, in front of hundreds of screaming fans?”

She shrugged. “Wouldn’t hurt.”

His show wasn’t personal. Not really. He didn’t play acoustic or talk to the crowd much, but people had fun at his concerts, they truly did, and that was a personal experience on some level. They smiled and laughed and sang along to really catchy songs.

Rachael didn’t know what she was missing.

“Come to my show tomorrow night,” he pleaded, and damn it, the tone didn’t fit him well. “Or the show Saturday night, if you have plans. You’ll see that I don’t need to get kinky with my guitar to throw one hell of a party.”

She strode past him and continued to descend to the stage. A few of his crewmembers had spotted him, and pointed him out to Rita. Frowning, she tapped her watch. The woman needed a Xanax.

“Tempting offer, but I don’t think so.” Rachael craned her neck around as she continued a few steps ahead. “I went to Prince’s concert in 2003 and partied like it was 1999. That’s partying in the present and past all at the same time—it was really overwhelming, as you can imagine.” She sped her pace, her ponytail swinging behind her like a silky golden pendulum. “I’m interested in seeing a concert that’s going to strike me as private. Like I’m witnessing something I wasn’t meant to see, you know? I want to see something real.”