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Even if I did think, I’d still agree. I don’t see any scenario where I’d refuse her anything.

Even backstage—if she’d pushed, told me she wanted more from me, I would have given it to her.

Thank God she didn’t, because the last thing I need is Christian finding me with my hand down his sister-in-law’s pants while she chants my name.

And just like that, my mind is right back in the spot I’ve tried to dig it out of all fucking night.

Only this time, it’s taken my dick with it.

Myra gives me a relieved smile. “Thanks.” She turns and yells over one shoulder. “ Simon’s going to take me home. You guys have fun .”

I don’t look at Christian. I don’t want him to think I’m gauging his reaction… Even though I’d like to. “I’ve just got to close the back up and then we can go.” I tip my head toward the cab. “Go ahead and get in. I’ll be there in a sec.”

Or a few.

It looks like I won’t be getting the evening alone I desperately need, so every fucking second counts.

I take my time making sure everything’s secured. Then I slowly lower the door and lock it into place. Even my steps drag out as I walk up the side of the truck to the driver’s door.

I can do this. I have to do this. For her.

Backing off—giving Myra room—goes against everything that I am. But I gotta do it. Not forever. Just for a month.

Then I can go to my job in Florida and wait her out there. Where I know I won’t try to push. Won’t try to sway her or rush her timeline.

But fuck if it’s going to be hard to leave her now that I know what she tastes like. How sweetly her mouth fits against mine.

Having a plan—even if it’s one I fucking hate—makes me feel a little better. More in control. Capable of handling whatever Myra throws at me.

Probably.

Opening the door, I climb in beside her with a renewed sense of determination. “Ready?”

Myra gives me a little nod. “Ready.”

I pull out of the lot behind The Cellar, turning onto the road that will take us to the highway.

The bar where Lydia and Piper used to work—and where we frequently play—is downtown.

The neighborhood my family owns is on the outskirts of the industrial section of Memphis.

The two are far enough apart, it’s more than a couple minutes’ drive.

And that’s a long fucking time to keep myself in line.

Gripping the steering wheel, I start a conversation I hope might pass the time safely. “You did really well tonight, My. You’ve got one of the best voices I’ve ever heard.”

I might be trying to keep my emotional and physical distance from her, but that doesn’t mean I won’t still give her other things. Support. Understanding. Appreciation.

Myra’s smile lifts a second before she flattens it out. “Thanks.”

It’s frustrating Myra doesn’t know how to take a compliment. Probably because she hasn’t been given many of them. Her ex-husband was a giant piece of shit who probably didn’t dish them out often.

“I was a little worried I wasn’t as good as I thought.” Myra reaches up to slide a bit of her wavy blonde hair behind one ear. “Singing in a church and singing in a bar are two completely different things, and I wasn’t sure my voice would translate.”

“It did.” It’s difficult for me to imagine Myra singing in a church. The way the words poured out of her—full of pain and anger and emotion—isn’t easy to envision in a place populated by righteous men and oppressed women.

This time, Myra doesn’t smother out her smile. “Do you sing?”

“A little.” I lift a shoulder and let it drop. “But I’m not as good as Christian—and sure as shit not as good as you—so I leave it to the professionals.”

Myra rubs her lips together, blue eyes watching me across the cab. “Maybe someday you could sing for me. I bet you’re better than you think you are.”

“I’ll sing for you.” I’m agreeing before I can think better of it. “But not until you don’t have Christian’s voice fresh in your mind.”

Myra laughs, the sound light and easy. It slowly dies down as her eyes move over me. “Was the stage hot tonight?”

Because I’m still stuck on the sound of her laughter, and the fact she wants to hear me sing, I shake my head, oblivious to where she’s headed. “Same as usual.”

“Oh.” Her head tilts, eyes fixed on my face. “I thought maybe that was why you took your shirt off.”

Shit.

Me and my dumbass ideas. Thinking I could tempt her but still keep this thing between us reined in was fucking stupid. Especially since Myra might not be as hesitant as I expected. If I’d known she’d have the balls to kiss me, I would have?—

Only tried to make it happen sooner.

Scrubbing one hand over my face, I scratch at the stubble on my jaw as I try to come up with a believable excuse for my state of dress—or undress, as the case may be—during the performance. “I spilled whiskey on it and didn’t want to sit there in a wet shirt.”

I give myself a mental pat on the back. My excuse sounds completely plausible, and explains why I now have my not wet shirt on. There was plenty of time for it to dry while we were performing, and I’m sure I do smell like whiskey, even though I haven’t had any since our little intermission.

Myra smiles again, but this time it’s almost coy. Teasing. Tempting.

Terrifying.

Her eyes dip down my covered chest, then she peeks up at me through her lashes and says, “You should spill whiskey more often.”