Liberty withheld a laugh at Odette’s use of Jezebel.

“It’s Jesse-Belle,” she corrected. “I’m sure there won’t be an issue if I need to speak to Devin alone, artist to artist.”

Like hell there wouldn’t be.

Two scruffy-looking guys approached, hands in pockets, booted feet shuffling nervously. “Hey, Devin. Heard you wanted to talk to us?”

“Liberty, this is Lee Stoltz and Eric Hofer, from Double Trouble. We’re with the same record label, and they’ll be opening the show for the next ten stops.”

“I’m with the same record label too,” Jesse-Belle pointed out, cutting off Liberty’s response.

Devin, Lee and Eric made small talk about guy stuff, ignoring Jesse-Belle. Liberty had a moment of sympathy for the girl, knowing firsthand how hard it was to be excluded from the boys’ club.

But her sympathy vanished when Jesse-Belle interrupted with “Come find me later, Devin. I’ve got more important things to do than listen to these two blather about nothing interesting.” She stomped off in a huff.

Eric drawled, “I reckon it’s time for her afternoon nap.”

“Yeah, maybe if she throws a hissy fit, her mama will let her stay up past her curfew tonight,” Lee added.

Devin laughed. “You’ve worked with her before?”

“Worked with half a dozen young things just like her. They’re interchangeable.”

Not very flattering.

“What Eric means is the label is tryin’ to broaden everyone’s fan base by creating an interesting slate of musicians for every tour,” Lee said. “We’ve been lucky to open for lots of different acts in the past year. And we’re happy the bosses at the label put us with you. It’s an honor. Me’n Eric have been big fans of your music since your first album.”

“I appreciate you sayin’ so. One thing you oughta know—the label didn’t assign you to this tour. I requested Double Trouble.”

Lee and Eric exchanged a grin. “Way cool, man. Thanks.”

“If you’ll excuse me, I need to eat before they tear down the buffet.” Devin steered Liberty to the tables of food. After a minute or so of standing there, he hadn’t grabbed a plate.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothin’ looks good.”

“It is all good, trust me.”

“I do.” He tugged her close and kissed her forehead.

She froze at his public display of affection. Granted, he hadn’t started macking on her, but it was the first time he’d acted like she was more than his personal assistant.

He noticed she’d stiffened up. “You okay?”

“I don’t know if I’m ready for this.”

“Ready to be in my bed?”

“Ready to be all kissy-face and hand-holdy in public. Especially when I’m supposed to be alert to our surroundings.”

His beautiful blue eyes cooled, and she knew he’d misunderstood.

“When I feel you looking at me, or when you touch me, I forget about everything—including doing my job. As much as I like the promise of this new intimacy between us, it throws me off when we’re out here.” She placed her hand on his chest. “And out here is where I need to be extra vigilant about your safety.”

“I get it. And thanks for clarifying that for me. I’ll cool it when we’re in mixed company.” Devin’s fingers circled her wrist and he placed a soft kiss in the center of her palm. “But when it’s you and me alone? Cool is the last thing I’ll be. I’m so hot to be all over you I’ll be lucky if I make it through the show tonight.”

“But . . . aren’t we talking? Setting up some parameters about this first?”

He shook his head. “You know how wired I am after I walk offstage. For the past three weeks, since I’ve just said no to groupies”—he bestowed that megawatt smile—“I’ve been punishing myself, takin’ cold showers or doin’ sit-ups and push-ups until I wanna puke. But tonight—and every night from here on out—no more punishment. I’m gonna get what I want.”

“Which is what?”

“You. In every dirty, raunchy scenario I’ve fantasized about.”

Her pu**y clenched in sheer happiness.

“Out here? I’ve accepted that you’re in charge of my safety. But the only parameter I’ll have when we’re alone is that you’re no longer in charge.” He rubbed his mouth over the back of her knuckles. “See you after the show.”

Devin managed to finish half his food. He changed into performance clothes—nothing spangly or weird, but his fans paid good money for tickets, and they deserved to see that he’d put effort into his appearance. Some singers were content arriving onstage in an old T-shirt, holey jeans, and a ratty ball cap. Once in a while he did that. But tonight seemed like a special occasion.

Then, to kill time before he went onstage, he propped his bare feet on the coffee table and picked up his guitar. He strummed the melody of the song he’d been working on for the last month. He had the words and music to the chorus. But the opening chords escaped him. He’d intended the theme of the piece to be getting that second chance only to blow it again. Nothing worked. After an hour of restless plucking, he set aside his guitar.

Two beefy security guys lounged outside his door and immediately snapped to attention when he walked out.