Thrasher’s security detail guffaws, and I swear Thrasher glances down at my dick. I just shake my head at Holly’s sassiness once again making an appearance. Being teased isn’t something I’m used to, but with her, I don’t mind it.

Thrasher gives me a chin jerk. “That ain’t a half-bad idea. My dick is worth its weight in gold, no doubt. A whole hell of a lot of gold.”

And now I know the hick has a big dick.

The woman from Holly’s dressing room earlier interrupts. “Excuse me, Boone, but we need to get Holly to the meet and greet. Her fans are waiting.”

“Can’t keep your fans waiting. Go get ’em, girl. I’ll see you onstage for ‘That Girl’ later.”

“You sure will.”

Thrasher’s off through the hallways, his security detail leading the way and following closely behind.

“Where’s your security?” I ask Holly as we follow the woman.

“I don’t really have dedicated people. One of Boone’s guys will usually show up in the meet-and-greet room and keep tabs just in case the venue security doesn’t show. If I have to walk through a crowd, one of his guys will cover me, or venue security will help there too if Boone’s people can’t be spared.”

My teeth grind together. “That’s changing tomorrow. You’ll have someone following you everywhere at a venue, and in public, if I’m not with you.”

“That’s not really necessary.”

We pause outside what I presume is the meet-and-greet room, and I tilt her face up to mine. “It’s absolutely necessary. And not just because of your career, but because of me. You could be a target, and I’m not going to let anything happen to you.” I’m not entirely certain, but I think it’s shock I see flash across her face.

“Holly. Let’s go,” the woman calls from inside the room. She’s really starting to piss me off.

“We’ll talk about it after the show,” is Holly’s only response before she ducks inside the door.

I follow her inside and prepare to spend the next hour holding up a corner while almost a hundred fans wait their turn to meet Holly and get a quick picture and autograph. I’m surprised by who I see in line. It’s not just the bouncing—and some crying—teenage girls and the soccer moms. It’s also young guys looking to press up against her, and older men who hug her too tightly. I want to feed the women some Xanax and rip the hands and dicks off the men.

After about fifteen minutes, a guy wearing black skinny jeans that show way too much of his package, black cowboy boots, and a black pearl-snap shirt embroidered with white horses, stops directly in front of me and holds out a bottle of Budweiser.

“You look like you could use a beer.”

When I accept the bottle with thanks and shake his outstretched hand, he says, “I’m Chance, Holly’s manager.”

“Creighton Karas.”

“I know,” he says, his accent thick and clearly of the good-ole-boy variety. “You’re Holly’s new husband. For a minute, anyway.”

My eyes narrow on his smug hazel ones. “Is that your guess, or is that the word on the street?”

He tips his own beer back, and I’m mildly surprised to see he’s drinking while he’s on the job. I guess the music industry is a little different from corporate America.

“Both,” he replies. “I was glad to see the back of JC. He wasn’t doing nothing for her, and she was just getting dragged into his drama further and further.”

I sense the direction this conversation is taking, and I’m not sure I want to go there, but what the hell. I tip back my beer and take a swig.

“And me?”

“Holding out judgment until I see if you last more than one day on tour. This ain’t your billionaire-boys’-club lifestyle. This shit is hard work, nonstop, and it ain’t got nothing to do with you.”

Considering I’ve been trailing along like a lap dog today after Holly, I think I’m starting to understand what he means. The woman works her ass off and never seems to take a break. No wonder she ducked out of the penthouse at the first down moment she had.

Most women in my acquaintance would have spent their time checking out the designer wardrobe I ordered, but not Holly. And considering how she spent her morning, scribbling away in her notebook, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that she didn’t think twice about doing whatever she had to in order to work on her songs—including finding the nearest guitar. I wonder how many she’s written since the wedding, and what’s more, if she’ll ever play any of them for me.

I decide not to respond to Chance’s question, but instead ask, “When does her next album come out?”

He looks rather surprised that I’m asking. “It’s due out early spring. She’s got a break after the tour and then studio time back in Nashville. We’ve got a songwriter meeting up with us tomorrow to help hammer things out now that she’s got more songs due, from what I hear. She didn’t do too well writing when we were on the road before. She mostly stared off into space a lot and chewed on the end of her pen.”

“She’s been writing nonstop all day, and she wrote when she was in New York as well, so I’m assuming she’s got the situation handled.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “No shit? Then maybe you are good for something, Bill.”

Bill? What the fuck?

Chance reads my confusion as he sucks back another drink. “Billionaire. Bill. I do nicknames. That’s yours.”

I open my mouth to rip him a new asshole, when I hear Holly make a sound of distress. My attention zeroes in on her, and I’m across the room before I know what the fuck I’m doing.

There’s a guy, probably around twenty-five, bending her back over his arm, his mouth crushed against hers.

Not. Fucking. Happening.

I rip the guy away from her, and Holly stumbles back and steadies herself. My fist is already flying, catching the guy in the face with a right hook and then an uppercut to the gut. He drops to the floor and security is crowding around us. I don’t register the flashes coming from all around me.

Where the fuck was security sixty seconds ago?

I turn, finding Holly behind a mountain of muscle. About fucking time. He steps aside, and I take in her pale features and smeared lipstick.