Page 6 of All of You

I glanced at him from the corner of my eye while keeping my show smile pinned to Danes—Ben looked entirely unperturbed by Country’s favorite bad boy shaking his hand.

Okay. Bonus points for being absolutely unimpressed by celebrity thus far.

Colton Danes had a backlist of Country number ones just shorter than mine. He sang the kind of Country that strongly featured what I’d refer to as spoken word set to a Country twanged background that was so ragingly popular these days. In my opinion, his musical ability amounted to three out of ten, but he had the looks, could get along decently with a guitar, and he’d managed to charm the audience of some other competing television show the year following my win on SouthernStar.

Say what you would about the TV show-to-musical-stardom machine, but it worked.

Though, apparently, none too well on Ben Holder.

“So, doll face, when am I gonna see you?” Danes ducked his head and wrinkled his brow in false concern.

I looked side to side, no doubt failing to hide my disdain. “Well, you’re seein’ me now, right?”

“Oh, sure, but I mean just you and me.” He dropped his voice just a bit, like we were in an intimate setting instead of him saying all this in front of both my date and his.

His date, petite and blond and looking entirely out of place in the conversation, making me wonder where he’d found her since he usually went out with fellow celebs, glanced at me when I extended my hand. “Whit Grantham.”

“Kaylee. Nice to m-meet you.”

Her hesitation told me what I could see written all over her face—incredible discomfort hung over her, and she hadn’t been expecting me to introduce myself. I suspected Danes hadn’t bothered to introduce her to anyone yet.

“Ben Holder,” he said, offering Kaylee his hand.

She took it and gave him a huge smile. I could admit it—he merited that response. Yes, Kaylee was with one of Country music’s hottest young stars, but Ben Holder had him beat by a mile, even before you factored in anything beyond the cover.

Ben was a full-sized man, where Danes seemed miniature next to him. He was shorter, maybe five-foot-nine, but he also just seemed… small. And manicured—his hair expertly disheveled and sun-streaked by a pro, his face suspiciously free of any shine or color variation that only a makeup artist could elicit, and his fingers covered in rings, despite his wearing a Countryfied tux.

In comparison, Ben looked positively refined.

“I’ll see you on stage, right?” Danes said, putting a hand on my arm, which made me jerk back.

People touched and pulled at me often, but this guy seemed to think he had been invited to touch me, or that his flirty attempts at getting me alone in front of my date would do anything other than annoy me.

Just no.

CHAPTER THREE

Ben

If there existed a person more exquisitely beautiful in this world, I couldn’t tell you who it is. The woman walking next to me with one delicate hand on my arm was so gorgeous, she was hard to look at.

I’d had the same response to her weeks ago when we first met, and yet, somehow, I’d let the memory of my response to her dull. I’d had to, because if I let myself remember just how astoundingly pretty she was, I never would have agreed to attend the event at her side.

And even now as Colton Danes, one of Country’s biggest young stars, propositioned her in front of his date and me, I couldn’t think about anything other than how much I wanted to just look at this woman.

Whit Grantham.

If Colton Danes was one of Country’s hottest stars, then she was the hottest. In every sense of the word. I knew she was big, but she’d landed on my radar after she’d released her latest album last spring titled After Today. It had been a bit of a throwback, but with a fresh feeling about it.

New music hadn’t filled my ears in years—I’d always liked classic Country, and the new stuff just wasn’t my thing. Waylon, Willie, Johnny, and Merle had kept me company in Afghanistan and in the long months after as I’d climbed out of the pit.

But someone had recommended Whit Grantham’s album to me, said it was thoughtful and lovely, and so, I’d sampled it. And liked it. And bought it. And I’d listened.

Something about it… affected me. It had felt familiar, like she’d looked at me and knew me, though we’d never met. There were several songs about soldiers, which made a lot more sense now knowing that Major Reese Flint, my mentor and effectively my boss, was her cousin.

So when I met her at Flint’s house a few weeks ago, then saw her perform from back stage, then escorted her around Fort Campbell for a few hours after the concert for a publicity tour of the post… well, I’d acted normal.

What I’d expected of myself, who knew, but I’d kept my cool. Other than when first seeing her and stuttering over her and my own name, I think I kept it together.

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