Lust Thy Neighbor (28 page)

K
insey Brock knew Emmett Hudson would be a star the moment he swaggered into her life. Hell, by the time she was released for the crime his scheming sister accused her of he already had a number one single.

Now, eight years and a helluva lot of heartache later, Kinsey’s long since given up on the boy who stole her breath away and took all the love she had. She has someone in her life, and he’s all she needs. She’ll challenge anyone who tells her otherwise. But after a chance encounter sends Emmett hurtling back into her life, every emotion she’s forced herself to forget since he gave up on her is pushed to the surface.

Because this time, the country megastar’s not giving up on her.

No matter how furious he is about the discovery of the other man who's become Kinsey's world.

SECOND VERSE is available 4/29. Download the prequel, FIRST VERSE, for free on Amazon today.

Now

S
ome people asked to hear the most anti-romantic and downright depressing songs at weddings. This particular affair catered to the upper echelon of Atlanta society and boasted a guest list that would make any music or sports super-fan emerald with envy. It also made me question why in the hell the bride and groom hired a wedding singer when there were
at least
two Grammy winners in attendance. Probably more than that. So far, the wealthy and famous had asked me to perform a little from every genre of music, and while a few covers were definitely questionable, this newest request ... well, it sure as hell took the prize of being one of the most inappropriate post-nuptial songs
ever
.

“I’m not sure I know that one,” I told the wasted blonde by the stage. Resisting the nervous urge to toy with my necklace, a bad habit I always turned to whenever I felt pressured or nervous, I glanced over my shoulder. The groom’s former frat brother was still fumbling his way through the longest toast I ever heard. My fingers were crossed he’d keep up the story about streaking through a fast food parking lot long enough for me to wiggle out of the song request. And with any luck, he wouldn’t proposition me again, like he had when I handed him the mic a few minutes ago.

I lied that I was seeing someone and that it was serious, not that he seemed to give a damn. He simply shrugged, leered at my breasts, and drunkenly assured me he had no problem whatsoever with being my other man for the evening, even if that meant showing me a “helluva good time” in the swanky outdoor venue’s restroom facilities. I might have gagged a little when he delivered that last line but only because getting sick to my stomach was easier than calling him a sleazy two-pump chump and getting myself banned from the reception.

I flicked my gaze back to the blonde, noting her narrowed eyes and pursed lips. “Isn’t there something else you’d rather hear?”
Anything else
, I silently added.

“Nope, nothing else’ll do it for me.” She hiccupped then wobbled in her six-inch designer pumps. The band’s bassist rushed forward to steady her, but she snatched her arm away and hissed, “Don’t touch me. Don’t you dare touch me!”

Damien held up his hands in surrender and backed up slowly, his eyes wide, his mouth silently forming the words,
Good luck with this one, Kinsey.

I shot him a dark look that she was too busy polishing off her drink to notice. Swallowing the last drop of champagne, she wagged her finger at me. “Look, it was on your song list online, so I know you know it. Just sing it.” She faked a smile. “
Or
I’ll let Jax know he wasted his money on you.”

And now she was threatening to complain to the groom. I doubted she’d give a damn or listen if I told her that I was doing a favor for a friend and that it wasn’t my website she perused. Tonight wasn’t the first time I’d covered for Katrina since we met six years ago when she was singing at the same wedding the floral company I used to work at was hired to decorate, but this was definitely the shortest notice. Sick as a dog with a summer bug, Kat sounded hoarse and weak when she called less than twenty-four hours ago. I couldn’t exactly say no when she said she needed me, and my voice, more than ever—not without sounding like an epic ass.

But,
Kat owed me big time after this.

The blonde snapped her fingers and the muscles in my shoulders and neck automatically stiffened. I clenched my hands by my sides. Before I moved in with Mrs. Hudson my senior year of high school, I had a foster dad with a habit of snapping his fingers inches from my nose to grab my attention. It had driven me up the wall even as a teenager but now it made me feel a little less than human.

“So, can you do it or not?” the woman demanded.

“No, I can’t.” Once again, I spared a glance at the groomsman, who winked at me before carrying on about partying with the groom in some sunny locale I’d never be able to afford. I curved my mouth into a professional smile before telling the blonde, “Sorry, but I’ll—”

“Sorry? Oh my god, are you serious? Do I need to Google the goddamn lyrics for you?”

I sucked in a breath through my teeth. Even though I avoided country music nowadays, I knew the lyrics like the back of my hand because this song was popular the one summer I tried to drown myself in the genre. I also wouldn’t want a song about drinking wine and sobbing over my break-up until I tripped over a puddle of my own tears played at
my
wedding. Besides, while the band was setting up, the chain-smoking maid of honor had given me the bride’s three page typed list of titles that were absolutely
not
okay to perform and while this one wasn’t on it, it fell right in line with the rest of the doom and gloom ballads.

And speaking of the bride....

Oh, dear lord. The
new
Mrs. Jackson Wolfe was headed right toward us, her ivory couture gown swishing around her lithe body and reminding me of an avenging fairytale princess with not a golden hair out of place. If not for the tight smile stretching her immaculately made-up face into an unnatural expression and her clenched hands, she rivaled the blushing brides on the covers of the magazines I sometimes leafed through in the checkout aisle.

When she stopped about a foot and a half from the other woman, I smiled apologetically. “Mrs.—” I started, but she held up a manicured hand, halting my words.

“Katrina, right?”

Don’t respond like a bitch. Don’t respond like a bitch,
I repeated the mantra silently. “Actually it’s McKinsey.” I held out my hand, but she simply stared at it like I’d handed her a vial of my blood and suggested she use it as hand cream. “Kat has been sick the last couple days, so I’m helping her out tonight.”

The bride arched a dark blond eyebrow. “I wasn’t aware of this. Why wasn’t I aware of this?”

Realizing she absolutely wasn’t going for the handshake; I gave up and finally closed my fingers around the charm dangling from my necklace. Years ago, I replaced the red-painted key with a simple but gorgeous jeweled key necklace my best friend gave me for my twenty-third birthday, but I hadn’t been able to break the habit of fiddling with my jewelry.

“Kat said she cleared everything with your planner,” I said.

Putting her hands on her hips, Mrs. Wolfe rolled her eyes up toward the night sky before exhaling. “No wonder I wasn’t aware. Well,
McKinsey
, R.J.’s wrapping up his speech, so it’s almost time to go back on.” She turned her attention to the other blonde, who was now looking at her like she wanted to use the hairpins holding her up-do in place to gouge the bride’s eyes out.

“Have you met my brother yet, Heather?” The bride motioned a man from across the courtyard. “He came all the way from Tokyo where he’s an executive for....”

As soon as the bride passed the other woman along to her reluctant brother, she released an exasperated breath, shaking her head as she watched them go. “Sorry about Heather. Jax’s bitch of a mother thought it would be cute to invite his clingy ex-fiancée.”

Heather’s song request now made complete sense. The woman was still in love with her ex, the groom. “Seriously, its fine,” I assured Mrs. Wolfe.

“After the next song, my
husband
wants his cousin to sing for a little while.” Her voice went from breathlessly ecstatic to dripping with scorn between the words husband and cousin. I followed her gaze across the sea of partygoers, burlap and rose centerpieces, and antique hanging lanterns to a couple—a leggy redhead and a man whose shaggy dark hair and visible wrist tattoos screamed rocker in spite of his suit and tie.

Immediately, I realized who he was and let out an awestruck squeak. “Holy ...
wow
. I love his band’s music.”

“Well, I don’t.” She yawned though I was sure it was more for dramatic effect. “We’ve got so many musicians here, and Jackson wants the one who does, like, death metal to sing a song at our wedding, but whatever. I mean, what can I do? Jax is the one who wanted a wedding singer.” She glanced around me and exhaled deeply. “Thank god! Looks like R.J.’s finally done embarrassing himself and being foul. Do me a favor and sing
Take My Breath Away,
okay
?
And not the version from that Tom Cruise movie but the Jessica Simpson cover. Thanks.”

Then, she dismissed me with a flick of her head and a swish of her dress as she hurried off in another direction, probably to directly confront the caterer about not being
aware
of the ingredients used in the wedding cake.

Only another hour
, I reminded myself, returning to center stage and giving the band the bride’s request.
One more hour of this shit, and I can get back to
my
world.

But less than a minute later, when I was six words into the song and I was sure the craziest thing that would happen tonight was the groom’s drunken ex-girlfriend begging me to sing Keith Urban tearjerkers about lost love, my eyes landed on the last face I ever expected to see in person again. Thousands of painful knots began to form in the pit of my stomach and an invisible fist violently beat the air from my lungs, even as I tried to convince myself that maybe I was wrong, that maybe my eyes and mind and body were all playing an awful trick on me.

But then his intense green eyes captured mine, gradually widening in recognition, and I felt like I was drowning.

It was the boy who’d stolen
my
breath away eight years ago, the summer I went blonde, the summer I was naïve enough to fall for anything, the summer that changed
everything
.

It was the man whose face had stared back at me from the cover of magazine after magazine ever since I got out of jail for the crime his scheming sister had accused me of.

It was the same man who had said, “
I fucking can’t”
when I had needed him the most—and then who had followed through by never seeing me again.

Until tonight.

S
tanding in front of the mirror in the narrow restroom trailer with my shoulders slumped, I forced myself to breathe. In and out. Inhale and exhale. It didn’t help because the panic resumed, so I decided to simply hold my breath until I came to grips with seeing him in person after eight years.

Emmett Hudson.

Realizing I said his name out loud, a chill snaked from the roots of my dark brown hair to my red-painted toes. Even the mention of that man was a brutal shock to my system.

It had taken every ounce of self-control to get through the rest of the song, but I managed without risking another glance in his direction, even though everything about him still drew me in like a poisonous magnet. I had gratefully handed over the mic to the groom’s famous rocker cousin and immediately made a beeline toward the restroom. During the walk across the courtyard, paranoia did a number on me.

I could have sworn I felt his green eyes—eyes I still saw every day in the form of a miniature version of him—trained on my back.

“Don’t be stupid,” I spat out harshly. I glanced up at my reflection and nearly flinched at what I saw hidden beneath the long, wavy hair framing my heart-shaped face. Fear. Big, terrified blue irises looked back at me, and I tried to remember the last time I saw myself look so wild and scared. Realizing it probably had something to do with Emmett, a strangled noise escaped my throat.

Stiffly, I grabbed a wad of paper towels from the dispenser then glowered at my reflection. “Don’t. Be. Stupid. He forgot me a long, long time ago.”

Wetting the paper towels beneath the steady stream of cold water, I dabbed my forehead, not giving a damn that my makeup might smear. Once my flushed skin returned to normal, I walked outside. To calm my nerves, I hummed along with the sensual rock ballad drifting from the party and started toward the music and lanterns. Any moment, I would have to go back on stage. I might not be an award-winning singer, but I wasn’t about to let an unwelcome blast from my past stop me from keeping my word to Kat.

“Sing the set and get out of here,” I whispered under my breath. “It’ll be easy.”

I only made it a few steps before
he
decided to make things difficult by knocking my world on its side. Again.

“McKinsey?” One word—my name—and every inch, every centimeter, of my body froze. I closed my eyes as a memory assaulted me: Emmett Hudson saying my name with his lips and hands and his body on the fourth of July eight summers ago. I’d fallen for every promise hidden in the way he whispered my name that night and every night after that. It had taken months to cleanse the sound of his voice wrapping around my name from my head, my heart.

Now, with just those three syllables spoken in a deep, sexy drawl that would’ve made my knees flimsy once upon a time ago, he’d selfishly restarted the timer. I’d have to make myself forget all over again.

Thanks a lot, dickwad
.

“McKinsey?” he repeated.

Smoothing my hands over my hips, I turned, slowly lifting my eyes from the grass to the man standing several feet away. My breath hitched. No matter how many times I caught a glimpse of him on TV or on the covers of magazines, seeing him in person was a soul-wrecker.