Page 22 of My Forbidden Mountain Man

“Not staring,” I correct, brushing my thumb over the back of her hand. “Admiring.”

She rolls her eyes, but there’s no heat in it. Just that quiet amusement I’ve learned to read like my own heartbeat.

“You’re up next, you know,” she teases, nodding toward the stage. “Rusty’s been asking when you’ll grace us with your singing voice.”

I snort. “Not happening. Not unless you want these glasses to crack.”

Getting all cheeky, she tries to give me a challenging look. “Coward.”

I pull her into me, ignoring the way a few patrons whistle. Let them look. They’ll only ever see the surface—her leaning into my chest, my arm around her waist. They won’t see the way her breath hitches when I press a kiss to her temple, or how my chest goes tight knowing this woman chose me. Keeps choosing me.

“Fifteen minutes,” I murmur against her skin. “Then you’re back to making magic.”

She hums, fingers curling into my shirt. “And after that?”

“After that,” I say, “I’ll take you home.”

A cheeky grin plays on her lips—that rare, unfiltered expression she only wears when we’re like this, when the worldshrinks down to just us and the space between our bodies. “What then?”

My mouth finds the warm skin of her temple, breathing in the scent of coffee and the faintest hint of sweat from being under the spotlight all night.

“Then we spend the rest of the night in our bed,” I murmur, letting my voice drop to that register I know makes her shiver. “And then, I show you how magical my fingers can be when they’re not busy holding my glass while I wait for you to finish.”

The flush that blooms across her cheeks is immediate, pink, and perfect. She scoffs, but it’s on fallen ears. She can’t help but pretend I don’t affect her.

Otherwise, she’d put on quite a show getting all embarrassed and bashful on me.

“You’re going to distract me if you keep coming to these things,” she mutters, all false irritation.

I chuckle against her hair. We both know the truth—she plays better when I’m here, when she can glance up between chords and find me watching, when she can carry my quiet pride back to the stage like a secret tucked between notes.

“Liar,” I whisper, nipping at her earlobe. “You love having your own personal groupie.”

Her laugh vibrates through me, bright and unguarded, and just like that, the future feels simple.

More nights like this. More music. More of her breath catching when I touch her, more of my name sighed into the dark.

The mic crackles on stage—Rusty calling her back. But for these last stolen seconds, she’s mine.

And when she walks away, it’s with the promise in her eyes.

A promise of my own private performance later. One I’ve got VIP tickets to.