Love definitely wasn’t on the setlist…
Opening for their idols on their first tour, Oblivion is living the dream. Mostly. Frustrated at being shoved out of his mediator role by their new manager, Deacon McCoy loses himself in brutal workouts. He only comes up for air long enough to refuel—and to tease the deliciously cute chef who makes him crave a lot more than what she’s offering on her serving plate.
As the child of roadie parents, Harper Pruitt has heard every pickup line twice. To her, musicians are one step above the scraps on her cutting board. All she wants is to get enough experience to run her own catering company, but Deacon and his bottomless stomach are too tempting to resist. He’s far from the typical rock star and before long, she finds herself experimenting with him, inside and out of the kitchen.
Apron – and panties – optional.
When Harper sees that Deacon’s dream band with his best friends may be turning into a nightmare, she can’t walk away. Deacon’s so much more than just a peacemaker and the man behind the bass. But she has her own dreams to chase…even if she’s starting to think what she’s building with him might be the biggest one of all.
*click me for an Excerpt*
August 12, 12:00 PM – Food For Thought
Harper Pruitt hauled another tray out of her seven-tiered food cart. Lunch was the big meal when it came to a rock tour. The roadies and technicians would be working right up until the 7:30 p.m. curtain time, so they needed to fuel up now. Then she and her staff would break it down and start all over for the musicians and their guests.
Already the first wave was lined up in the doorway to the make-shift cafeteria. Pop-up tents, two dozen banquet tables, and a whirring portable air conditioner gave a brief reprieve to the outrageous heat of Alpharetta, Georgia. Honestly, how was anyone supposed to think clearly when the air was thick enough to chew?
“C’mon, Harper. It doesn’t need to be perfect. We’re just going to demolish it anyway.”
“You will wait until I’m ready, Randy Pruitt.” Her brother, a third generation roadie, was always first in line for food. He might be whip-skinny, but he could pack it away.
She snapped the last of the trays over cold packs she’d designed after much of their first week had been spent cleaning up after the rapidly melting ice. No matter how hard that air conditioning unit chugged, it was still hot as hell with seventy plus bodies in the room.
She might be low man on the cooking staff, but she had standards, dammit. She made the best lunch these idiots would ever taste. Refusing to believe that everything was wasted on the tour animals that called themselves roadies, she ignored the shuffling feet and groans behind her.
Any man or woman that didn’t want a broken finger knew better than to rush her. She knew how to handle the burly, the grouchy, and most definitely the too friendly.
Setting out the last tray—rolls and bread—she stepped back a good four feet, put her hands together in a mock prayer, and bowed. “You may begin.”
And boy did they. Within eight minutes her pretty display looked more like a sad deli counter. The bed of lettuce leaves she’d used were scattered like discarded pages from a TV writer’s room during sweeps week. All but the chicken salad had been scraped clean.
She hauled the tray out of its housing. What the heck did they have against her chicken? Unless it was slathered in jar mayo or mustard, a lot of these guys turned their noses up. Each day she tried to sneak in a little something new, believing that even roadies deserved culture—but alas, they proved her wrong again and again.
She waved at her brother as he jammed ham and turkey into a roll—his third sandwich, thank you very much—and crammed it into his mouth on the way out the door. Randy was still young enough to be excited about the prospect of sweating over the lighting rig that had to be set up.
It was the last leg of this particular tour. She’d graduated from culinary school and hopped on a plane the next day to work this job. She had six weeks to prove herself to Meg and Danny so they’d hire her on full time.
“All set, Harper?”
She blinked out of her thoughts and smiled at Mel, one of her cleanup staff. “Yeah, you can start loading up.”
The clang of metal trays and crinkle of white paper table covers was part of her everyday symphony. Roll it out, roll it up, rinse and repeat. Crap, she was only six days into the tour and already she was tired of tuna salad and cold cuts.
“Sorry, we’re all done for the lunch rush, but you can come ba—” She stopped mid-turn, her eyes stuck on one of the most impressive male chests she’d ever seen. And seriously, she’d seen a lot of nice ones over the years. But sweet Pete.
Wide, firm pecs filled out a vintage Journey t-shirt with little room to spare. In fact, the faded scarab logo had little tears in it from the stretch to accommodate his toned muscles. That had to be some seriously amazing man flesh under there.
She forced her gaze up, and up, and wow.
He smiled, and a dimple dug into his left cheek. The slash of white teeth and the dent was bad enough but man…the eyes. Green. Middle-of-the-forest green, earthy, and cool—the kind that contact commercials promised with their too beautiful to be real colors.
They had to be fake.
Who had green eyes with flecks of sunlit gold in the center? Not real people, that’s who. Or…
“Anything protein will do. I just finished up a workout, and I could sure use some fuel before soundcheck.”
Or rock stars. Of course he was a musician. While there were a few men on staff that bumped her hotter-than-hell-meter into taking notice, the first one to put her meter into the red had to be off limits.
“I really don’t have anything left.” She caught one tray out of the corner of her eye. “Well, I have some chicken salad left, but…”
“That’s perfect. Chicken salad is perfect.” He crossed one arm over his drool-worthy chest and gripped his triceps, rubbing absently. A wide tattoo stretched across his left forearm in bold, black letters that looked like they’d been through an earthquake with a teasing red devil tail wound through the letters. Oblivion.
No looking, Harper Lee.
Man, his bicep really bulged beautifully. And on the arm he gripped a flash of more black and red ink teased beneath the edges of his t-shirt sleeve. A sleeve that was seriously working hard at not ripping. That just wasn’t right. She forced her eyes up to his face and that dimple was back, deeper than ever.
Crap. Now he was going to think she was interested. Damn, double damn, and triple crap. She snatched the ice cream scooper out of her apron and snagged one of the paper salad boats stacked up beside the plates.
“Another scoop if that’s okay.”
She tried to ignore the deep tone of his voice. She was such a sucker for baritones. “You don’t even know how it tastes.”
He leaned down into her space, and she bit back a groan. He smelled like cedar chips and something fresh. The ocean? She took a giant step back. “Whoa there.”
Unrepentant, he picked up a fork and scooped out some. “See, tastes…”
He stopped chewing, and she winced. She’d made her own dressing, sprinkling in some balsamic for a kick to make it just a little less boring. The tender breast chunks had sucked up the vinegar. Definitely not a traditional chicken salad.
“What is this?”
She pulled the paper boat closer to her chest. “I think I might have some turkey—”
“No, seriously. That’s awesome.” He took her scooper out of her limp fingers and put another two helpings on his paper boat. Then he reached around her for a few of the last few tomatoes on the veggie tray.
“Wow.” He shoveled another forkful into his mouth, those sharp, perfect teeth slicing through a tomato with ease. “I usually have to choke down whatever protein I can find with a Coke, but this is awesome. Can you make me this every day?”
“That would get pretty boring.”
“Have you tasted this?” He turned his fork out to her.
“I made it. I taste everything before I put it out.”
He shrugged. “More for me.” He transferred the boat, a wad of napkins, his fork, and his phone all to one hand. Long fingers handled the entire bundle with ease. He held out his right hand. “I’m Deacon by the way.”
Oh, hell no. He had tingles written all over him.
You met Deacon McCoy in SEDUCED, now you can watch just how far a big man can fall.
What people are saying about ROCKED…
HIGHLY recommended if you like your stories hot, and your men strong but peacemaker-y. If you dig sassy & strong ladies, that’s a plus.
I’m crazy about this series and just can’t get enough of these stories and characters. They are well written and the characters extraordinarily developed.The Book Nympho
I love rock star stories, but this is one that stands out for me. There’s just something about it that keeps you eagerly reading until the last page. I think it had to do with all the strong emotions I felt while reading. I experienced intense rage, laughed a lot, and fanned myself to cool myself off from all the heat Harper and Deacon were giving off.
Confessions of a YA & NA Book Addict