Nashville Heat

Excerpt:
The first time I saw Dex Wilder, I was wearing a bed sheet and body glitter and serving hors d’oeuvres on the lawn in front of the world’s only full-scale replica of the Parthenon.

The party was hosted by one of Nashville’s numerous record labels. I, along with the rest of wait staff, was supposed to resemble a Greek goddess, serving record company executives, music publishers, promoters, country music radio station VIPs, retail music buyers, established artists with the label, selected newcomers and assorted hangers-on. Mostly bimbos with fake boobs and short skirts.

What I actually looked like was a toga-party call girl. My honey-blond hair had been coaxed into cascading ringlets. My skin, mostly bare above the top of the toga that showed more cleavage than I was comfortable with, was spattered in gold glitter. My make-up had been applied with a heavy hand by my new roommate. Dark eyeliner ringed my light blue eyes and thick mascara caked my already black lashes. I’d drawn the line at the lipstick Becca had tried to slather over my lips, though. I hated the stuff and had gone with cherry Chapstick instead.

I found it hard to believe Greeks ever looked like I did, oozing cheap sex and hairspray, given the fact they used public baths and propane curling irons hadn’t been invented yet, but whatever. It was a paying job and since I’d been in Nashville only a couple of weeks, I needed the cash. Badly.

Being a new arrival to Nashville, I was on the lookout for some of the country music stars I’d idolized all through my teen years, stars who had inspired me to leave my small Indiana hometown and venture south in the first place. Everywhere I went, from seedy bars where I’d played one gig so far with a couple of so-so guitar players, to the Wal-Mart on the south side, I kept my eyes open.

The catering gig was no star-making venture, but it afforded me the chance to rub elbows with Nashville’s music community, even if I was mostly cleaning up half-eaten food and tepid glasses of champagne. As menial as it seemed, it was still Nashville. And that was good enough for me.

The Parthenon soiree had netted a few notable sightings, and I had fantasies of a chance meeting leading to a record deal and instant stardom. That was the way it happened in all the E! True Hollywood Stories. So I was serving my crab cakes and indulging in a little fan-girl surveillance on that warm summer night when a man I didn’t recognize touched my arm.

“Ma’am?”

It was just one word, but in his fluid tenor and down home sexy Southern drawl, that was all it took.

I turned and looked up at him.

I’m tall, about five feet, ten inches, and this guy was a good five inches taller. He had deep blue eyes that were very slightly crinkled at the corners, straight white teeth and a pair of soft-looking lips that were formed into a slightly crooked smile. With the black cowboy hat and hint of black beard stubble, he was every cowboy fantasy I’d ever entertained come to life. Only hotter.

“Ma’am?” he said again, still grinning at me.

The silver tray I was balancing on one hand tilted to the side, and I caught it just before half-eaten hors d’oeuvres, dirty cocktail napkins and a jumble of glassware crashed to the ground at the pointed tips of his shiny black boots.