Page 8 of My Forbidden Mountain Man (Summer in the Pines #1)

Rusty’s Tavern hums with the kind of energy only open mic night can bring—a mix of off-key enthusiasm, half-drunk courage, and the occasional gem of talent. But I’m not listening to the woman belting out her heartbreak over twangy chords.

My attention’s fixed on the way Violet’s fingers move over the strings of her guitar, sure and steady, like she was born with calluses already formed.

She’s not center stage—never wants to be—but she’s the damn backbone of the whole thing. The regulars know it, too. They lean in when she plays, like her rhythm’s the pulse keeping the room alive.

It’s what gives even the shyest of wallflowers the confidence to ask her to play for them. It’s what keeps people coming to the bar every Thursday night.

The song ends, some sad ballad about lost love and whiskey, and the crowd claps halfheartedly. Violet flashes a small smile, the kind she reserves for moments like this—when she’s part of something but still just out of the spotlight.

She sets the guitar down carefully, stretching her fingers before signaling to Rusty that she’s taking fifteen.

I’m already standing before she’s fully turned, my glass abandoned. She spots me cutting through the crowd, and that smile shifts, softens.

“You’re staring too hard, you know,” she says when I reach her, voice low under the chatter of the bar.

“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 world shrinks 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.