Page 35 of Country Music Cowboy
“Sure,” she agreed, turning away from the serious kiss Brock was laying on Emmy Lou. It didn’t help when, once more, her gaze collided with Travis.
The corner of his mouth cocked up as he shook his head. “It’s gross, I know. But you get used to it. Sort of.” He grabbed the pies and backed out of the kitchen, calling out, “Come on, lovebirds.” Emmy Lou and Brock grabbed the plates and utensils and followed Travis.
“That’s part of it, isn’t it?” Krystal asked.
“What?” Loretta asked. “Sorry.”
“My brother.” Krystal paused. “The chemistry, I mean.”
Loretta blinked, doing her best to remember where they’d left off before they’d been interrupted. “Yes. That’s what Mr. Powell said. Our performance had solid chemistry.”
“Oh, Loretta.” Krystal had been putting coffee cups on a tray but she stopped now, to look her in the eye. “I’m not talking about onstage.” She smiled, almost sad. “Denial won’t get you anywhere. Take it from me. Accept it; you have the hots for my brother. Now, what are you going to do about it?” She picked up the tray. “Can you grab the coffee pot?”
Chapter 7
Travis threw the wet towel on the bed and reached for his pencil, scribbling another note down on the sheet music. He hummed it through, nodded, and pulled on his boxers. Another few notes played through his head, so he added them before he finished sliding on his jeans and a worn, soft rodeo T-shirt.
Sockless, he sat on the side of his bed and ran his fingers down the strings of the acoustic guitar—mentally working through the harmony and rhythm that wasn’t quite perfect. He strummed his fingers over the six strings and smiled. His sisters had bought the custom Gibson Hummingbird as a joke, thinking he’d never use it. But he didn’t mind the hand-engraved and inlaid artwork. He was man enough to play a guitar with flowers on it. Since it already had flowers, the hummingbird didn’t really matter.
What did matter was the deep tones of the guitar and the way it felt beneath his hands. He played through what he’d come up with, nodded, and glanced at the clock. It was just shy of nine o’clock in the morning.
There was no set time for breakfast, but this morning was different. They had company. And even though he’d been up all night, he’d been looking forward to seeing Loretta—to see what she thought of the song he imagined them singing together.
If she was open to it.
He’d worked through the tempo when he’d gone running this morning. As his feet fell, pounding out a beat, his fingers moved along the guitar he could still feel in his hands.
The tune was mostly done. But now, the words began to reveal themselves.
The lyrics were risky. Sexy. Authentic. Raw. He’d tried to go a different way, but the song fell flat and the melody began to fade. He’d made the decision not to force it. Up until now, most of the songs he’d written were collaborations. But this…this one was too loud to ignore. It hadn’t been a conscious decision; it had just happened. And it was awesome as hell.
Still barefoot, carrying his Gibson Hummingbird, he headed down the hall and toward the kitchen.
His father and Margot sat at the large farm table, sipping coffee with the morning paper spread out between them.
“Morning,” he said, heading straight for the coffee. “Anything new?”
Margot shrugged, but then she saw his guitar. “Whatcha got there?”
“It’s called a guitar.” He winked, poured himself a large mug of coffee, and leaned against the counter.
“She’s on the back porch,” his father said, not bothering to look up from his paper as he shifted just enough to reveal a pastry box. “There might be one or two left.”
Travis shrugged. “I’ll have to come back for one later.”
That got his father’s attention. “Come again?”
But Travis was already headed out of the kitchen, his pace quickening as he headed through the man cave and onto the porch.
Even with both rocking chairs open, Loretta was perched on the top step. Beside her sat his Molly Harper’s #1 Fan mug, steam rising off its contents.
“Good morning.” He headed straight for her, nervous and excited all at the same time. He’d shared his music before. But sharing it with his family was different. What if she hated it?
She leaned against the wooden railing, her topaz eyes finding his as she cradled her cup between her hands. There were dark smudges beneath her eyes.
“Or is it?” he asked, sitting on the top step beside her.
She eyed the guitar. “Is that a Gibson Hummingbird?”
