Billionaire Country. Silver James
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“I’m headed to my office unless you have someplace else in mind?”
She tucked her chin and shook her head. “No. Not really. I texted a friend of mine, but he hasn’t replied yet. I was going to camp out on his couch.”
Tucker didn’t like the idea of this male friend of hers. Which was ridiculous. Except he liked Zoe and was worried about her being stuck in Nashville all alone. He didn’t say anything until he pulled into the parking lot at Bent Star and cut the T-Bird’s engine. With both hands on the steering wheel, he slid his eyes her direction but didn’t look at her full-on. “Do you have another place to stay, Zoe?” She lifted a shoulder, head still down. “I can take you to a hotel.”
“I’m good,” she insisted. “Don’t put yourself out. I’ll just head to my friend’s.” He watched her shoulders slump in a defensive move. “Can I get my stuff from the trunk?”
“Sure.” He slipped out of the car and retrieved her guitar case and duffel. He carried both around to the passenger side and after watching her struggle for a long moment, set down the bag and extended his hand. “Here. For leverage,” he added when she scowled at him. Once she was out of the car, she slung the straps of the duffel over her shoulder, handed him his phone and clutched her guitar case.
“Well, thanks for all the help and stuff. Sorry for getting you caught up in all my drama.” She offered a wan smile, turned away and started walking.
Tucker glanced down at his phone and noticed a reply text. “Well, crap,” he muttered. His mother would disown him if she ever found out he let a down-on-her-luck pregnant girl just walk off into the sunset. “Zoe!”
* * *
She kept walking, picking up speed when Tucker yelled her name. If she could get downtown, she might find one of the clubs with an open mic night where she could sing for tips or something. That would get her a room until she could reach the guy she’d hoped to stay with.
Pounding steps echoed behind her, then a warm hand settled on her shoulder, halting her.
“Your friend texted back.” He held out his phone so she could read it. “He’s out of town, touring with a band.” She closed her eyes to hide the tears prickling there. Just once she wished things could go her way. She felt wrung out, and so tired she hurt all over.
“You don’t have any other place to go, do you?” Tucker’s voice sounded full of compassion. She hated that he might pity her but before she could make up something, he continued. “And I’m betting you don’t have much money, either.” He tugged the duffel off her shoulder and hefted it over his own. Then he relieved her of the guitar case. “C’mon. I have a couple of things to take care of at the office. Then we’ll go eat something and figure out things from there.”
“Look, you don’t—”
“Yeah, I do. I’m not going to just dump you out on the street, Zoe. I wasn’t raised that way.”
They walked back to the redbrick Victorian building. Once upon a time, it had been a firehouse. There was no sign to designate what sort of business occupied the space. Tucker hadn’t mentioned what he did for a living. Given the expensive boots and the classic car he drove, he had money.
He held the front door for her and ushered her inside. He could do...almost anything. Lawyer. Real estate. Heck, this was Nashville. He could be in the music business. The reception area had a country-western feel with lots of leather furniture and barn wood with a logo shaped like a Texas Ranger’s star behind the desk.
Tucker led her down a long hall that opened into another waiting area, still decorated in the same theme, only the artwork consisted of album covers and awards. Agent, she decided. Tucker must be a music agent. Either he window-dressed a good story or he had some major clients, according to the stuff lining the walls.
“Have a seat. I’ll be a little while,” he said, then disappeared behind a closed door—with her guitar case and bag. She was too tired to object.
She wandered around the space, stretching her legs. The secretary’s desk held only a phone console. She found the restroom and availed herself of it. As she wandered back to the sitting area, she noticed a worn acoustic guitar sitting on a stand. Unable to resist, she picked it up and settled in a large chair that could accommodate two people, if one of them wasn’t pregnant.
Zoe curled up, as much as her belly allowed, on the wide padded seat. Using her thumb, she tested the tone of each string, listening intently. Surprised to find it in tune, she strummed a few chords. The old Gibson had an amazing sound. She riffed through a progression of chords, humming softly. Lost in the music, she didn’t realize she had an audience.
She sang a Carrie Underwood song, then launched into a rollicking Miranda Lambert tune. She finished up with Kelly Clarkson’s heartbreaking ballad, “Piece by Piece.” Zoe didn’t get to sing ballads often. Working the bars, the folks there wanted up-tempo dance tunes. But her soul found solace in the ballads, the songs like this one, or like Cam’s “Burning House.” She lay her cheek against the swell of the guitar and just let her hands wander along until they started picking the melody to Striking Matches’ “When the Right One Comes Along.” She raised her voice to sing, getting through the first stanza of the duet. She took a breath before starting the part where the male voice would harmonize, and almost dropped the guitar when a voice picked up where she’d left off.
Jerking her head up, she gaped at the five men standing there, but it was the singer who held her attention. He’d picked up the song on his own guitar and winked at her as he waited for her to catch up. Her voice found his pitch, and as she began to sing again, he altered his tone to match hers. Outwardly, she remained calm but inside? Inside she was squeeing like a fangirl sitting in the front row of this man’s concert. Deacon Freaking Tate. Along with his band, the Sons of Nashville. She managed to get through the song, even adding some harmony from the guitar in her lap.
When they finished, the band applauded, but she was so flustered she couldn’t speak. Was this what it felt like to be famous? Fame had been a pipe dream from the time her daddy had put that first pawnshop guitar in her hands.
Deacon walked up to her, a big smile on his face. She’d thought he was sexy on TV but in person he was off the charts. He held out his hand.
“Deacon Tate.”
She sucked in a breath and thought, Of course you are. Then she introduced herself, placing her hand in his. “Zoe Parker.”
“Nice to sing with you, Miss Zoe Parker.”
“Trust me, the pleasure’s all mine.”
“Aren’t you married?” a gruff voice barked from behind the band. “And doesn’t your wife carry a gun?”
Deacon laughed, the sound as rich and lyrical as his singing voice. “Yes, and yes, Tuck. You didn’t tell us you had such a talented lady waiting for you. We’d have finished sooner.”
Zoe forgot to breathe as Tucker pushed through the cluster of band members and halted next to Deacon. Only then—with them side by side—did she recognize the similarity. “Are you... I don’t...?” she sputtered.
“Zoe Parker, I’d like to introduce my brother, and the chief operating officer of Barron Entertainment, Tucker Tate,” Deacon interrupted. He bumped Tucker with his shoulder, amusement lighting up his handsome face. “And there’s no need to be jealous, little bro.”
Her gaze darted between the two men for about five seconds as her brain roller-skated on a hamster wheel. Tucker Tate? He was like a gazillionaire. And important. Breath caught in her lungs. No hyperventilating, she ordered herself. Something twinged low in her back and the pain that had been building there all day exploded as her water broke.
Zoe looked up, horrified and embarrassed. The men stared at her, then at each other. She pressed her hand over her mouth as they erupted into shouted orders and pandemonium as everyone started running around shouting and flailing their arms.