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“The first song I want to sing tonight is called ‘One Night Stand.’”
How fitting.
Flash Lawrence and Brooke Bonner’s fling burned hotter and faster than Flash’s temper. But when Brooke learned she was pregnant, staying away was her only option. The unpredictable rodeo star isn’t daddy material. But when Flash finds out the truth—forget it. There’s no denying their explosive chemistry. Nor will he let her deny him his child.
SARAH M. ANDERSON is happiest when writing. Her book A Man of Privilege won the 2012 RT Reviewers’ Choice Best Book Award. The Nanny Plan won the 2016 RITA® Award for Contemporary Romance: Short. Find out more about Sarah’s conversations with imaginary cowboys and billionaires at sarahmanderson.com, and sign up for the new-release newsletter at eepurl.com/nv39b.
Also by Sarah M. Anderson
Seduction on His TermsNot the Boss’s BabyTempted by a CowboyA Beaumont ChristmasHis Son, Her SecretFalling for Her Fake Fiancé HisIllegitimate HeirRich Rancher for ChristmasHis Best Friend’s SisterHis Enemy’s Daughter
Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk
His for One Night
Sarah M. Anderson
ISBN: 978-1-474-09224-1
HIS FOR ONE NIGHT
© 2019 Sarah M. Anderson
Published in Great Britain 2019
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
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Version: 2020-03-02
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To my mom.
Here’s to new beginnings and fresh starts!
Love you!
Contents
Cover
Back Cover Text
About the Author
Booklist
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
About the Publisher
One
“It’s a good crowd tonight,” Kyle Morgan said as he slipped down the narrow hallway that qualified as the backstage of the Bluebird Cafe in Nashville, Tennessee. He winked at Brooke Bonner. “But I don’t think any of them came for me.”
Brooke gave the older man a shaky smile but didn’t stop humming to herself. The Bluebird was usually full—it was a small space where songwriters and singers came to test out new material. She’d been coming here for a decade now—first as a patron, then as a performer. She hadn’t been back in almost a year and a half, though.
She hadn’t been anywhere since she’d had Bean.
This night marked the beginning of her official comeback. After almost seven months of what felt like house arrest, she was walking back into the spotlight.
She was done hiding.
Mostly done, anyway. No one but a few select people knew about James Frasier Bonner—who she still called Bean, even though he definitely had grown. At three months, Bean was already smiling and cooing at her.
He had his father’s smile.
Kyle wasn’t in the know about Bean. Which made Brooke feel bad because Kyle was almost a father figure to her. He’d been at the Bluebird for her very first show and had taught her more about songwriting than anyone else. At every step of Brooke’s journey from “girl with a guitar” to “country music phenomenon,” Kyle had been a cheerleader, giving her advice and gentle pushes forward.
“Missed seeing you around,” Kyle said. “Been quiet without you.”
If she could’ve picked a father, Kyle might’ve done the trick. Sadly, Crissy Bonner would never tell Brooke who’d sired her. And the fact that she was walking in her mother’s footsteps by keeping Bean’s father a secret was a huge problem for Brooke.
But what choice did she have?
She didn’t want to repeat the mistakes her mother had made. She wanted to do better.
But first, she had to get back out into the music scene.
Kyle’s smile crinkled the lines around his mouth. It was a damn shame he refused to even talk to Mom. They could’ve made a good couple, and Kyle was rocking a silver-fox thing. Plus, if Mom had had a boyfriend or a husband, it might’ve taken some of Crissy Bonner’s focus off Brooke. But the few times Brooke had managed to get them in the same room, the barely concealed hatred had been enough to crush any dreams of an instant family.
Of course, if Kyle and Crissy had hooked up, that might’ve meant Brooke wouldn’t have a Grammy and a couple of chart toppers to her name. And it also might’ve meant she’d never have performed at that All-Stars Rodeo where Flash Lawrence had been riding, which would’ve meant no Bean. And she loved her son with her whole heart.
“Does this show mean you’re off hiatus?” Kyle asked as he packed up his guitar.
“Yup. I’d been touring for almost four years straight before I hit big last year. It just wiped me out.”
That was the official position her record label and family had cooked up. Brooke had needed a break to work on her new material. There might have been something in there about resting her vocal cords, she couldn’t remember.
It’d all been a load of crap.
No one rested during the last three months of pregnancy. New mothers with fussy babies didn’t rest.
Not for the first time, Brooke wished they’d just announced she was pregnant and dealt with the issue head-on. Yeah, the press might’ve been brutal—but there was no such thing as bad PR, and she’d argued that her surprise pregnancy might’ve taken her second album, White Trash Wonder, from double to triple platinum. After all, an unexpected pregnancy was on brand.
She’d been overruled because of one fact and one fact alone: she wouldn’t tell anyone who Bean’s father was. Not that it was any of their business, because it wasn’t.
Her mother hadn’t forgiven her yet for sitting on that particular secret, as if Crissy hadn’t done the exact same thing by refusing to acknowledge Brooke’s father.
Which meant Brooke was stuck lying, which she hated.
Kyle stood and wrapped an arm awkwardly around her shoulder. “Welcome back,” he said, giving her a friendly squeeze before he headed out to the front to watch. “You need anything, you just give me a call. I mean it, Brooke—anything at all.”
Brooke’s eyes stung with unexpected emotion at Kyle’s thoughtfulness. She forced her shoulders down and started humming again, keeping her vocal cords warm.
Alex Andrews, her bodyguard and friend, squeezed her big frame into the hallway and handed Brooke a mug of hot tea. “They found some honey,” she practically growled.
Brooke accepted the tea gratefully and took a sip. Ah, the perfect temperature. “Thanks, hon.”
Alex was big and gruff, but underneath her tanklike exterior she was a softie with a heart of solid gold. They’d been friends since junior high, back when Brooke was a band geek just starting to perform and Alex had been the first girl to play offensive lineman on the football team. Long before White Trash Wonder had hit big, Alex had been right beside Brooke in every dive bar and county fair, doing her best to keep away grabby, drunk assholes.
Thirteen months ago, Alex had stayed home because her girlfriend had the flu, instead of joining Brooke in Fort Worth for the All-Around All-Stars Rodeo. If Alex had come, would Brooke and Flash have spent that white-hot night together? Or would Alex have been the voice of reason, keeping Brooke far away from cocky cowboys who were good in bed? And against the wall? And on the floor?
Brooke must have been frowning, because Alex asked, “Worried?”
Damn it—it was hard to get anything past that woman. Especially since Alex was one of the few people who knew about Bean. “It’s fine. He’s home with Mom,” she said, stretching her facial muscles to loosen them up.
“They’ll do great. Crissy only wants what’s best for him,” Alex replied, which was probably supposed to be reassuring. Except it wasn’t and Alex knew it. Her eyes widened as she realized what she’d said. “Oh, crap—I didn’t mean...”
“It’s fine,” Brooke repeated, taking this opportunity to test out her fake smile. Crissy Bonner’s favorite saying was ‘It’s for the best.’ Brooke starting singing lessons at the age of five was for the best. Guitar lessons at the age of six was for the best. Hours of practice every day were for the best. Slumber parties, birthday parties, pets or boys—they weren’t for the best.
Knowing who her father was? That definitely wasn’t for the best.
Brooke kept humming. She was the last act of the night and she was surprised to realize she was nervous. It had been almost seven months since her last public appearance. Seven months since cleverly cut dresses and long, swingy cardigans hadn’t been enough to conceal her baby bump. Seven months since she’d sung in public.
After years of constantly touring—starting with bars on Nashville’s Music Row and then to county fairs to state fairs, to being the opening act for some of the biggest names in country music—Brooke had paid her dues early and often. And it’d all paid off last year when White Trash Wonder had hit. Suddenly, sold-out rodeos like the All-Stars had led to sold-out arenas. Years of lessons and performances and navigating the business world as a teenager had suddenly paid off, and Brooke had officially been labeled an overnight success, country music’s Next Big Thing.
And she’d ruined it by getting knocked up by Flash Lawrence.
She’d had to miss the Grammys, for crying out loud. She’d been in labor when she’d won Best New Artist.
She wanted to be home with her son right now, she realized. She wasn’t ready to do this again—the long and lonely nights, the negotiations, the travel and, most especially, the constant media scrutiny. But she didn’t have a choice. Her uncle and former manager, Brantley Gibbons, had embezzled not just most of her money but a great deal of his other clients’ funds and invested them in the Preston Pyramid Scheme—which had, of course, collapsed around his ears just about the time Brooke was breaking out.
Brooke and her mother weren’t penniless—she still had royalties coming in on her two albums and had managed to keep the bulk of her profits from the last few months of touring after Uncle Brantley had “relocated” to Mexico to avoid criminal charges. But she couldn’t afford to stay out of the spotlight any longer. She had to strike while the iron was hot.
Getting back out there was for the best, her mother had said. Because of course she had.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the MC began. “Our final act tonight is none other than the Grammy and Country Music Association winner, Brooke Bonner!”
Brooke took a final sip of her not-quite-hot tea and locked her smile in place. She’d been fourteen when she had first performed at the Bluebird, just a scared little girl and her acoustic guitar. It seemed fitting to start over where it had all started.
Brooke stepped out of the hallway to an impressive roar of applause. She smiled and nodded and tried to turn her body so no one would make a grab at her ass as she worked her way to the center of the Bluebird, where chairs and mikes had been set up.
As she settled into her chair, the hairs on the back of her neck stood up and she had the strangest feeling that he was here—Flash Lawrence. Which was ridiculous. In the thirteen months since their one-night stand, she hadn’t heard from him. And she hadn’t contacted him, either. She’d come so close when she’d realized she was pregnant. But she’d Googled him and seen all these horrible headlines about barroom brawls and trials and...
And she’d passed.
Her life was crazy enough with her career. A baby would make it crazier still. But a violent, immature cowboy? That was a hard no. She wanted her son to know his father but not at the risk of his well-being. Or hers.
A shiver raced down her back. She was imagining things, that’s all there was to it. There was no way that her one-night stand was in the audience. It just wasn’t possible. Just to be sure, she turned in her seat to wave at the people behind her who were still clapping.
Damn. There, at the bar—a long, lean cowboy was perched on the last seat, the brim of his black cowboy hat throwing his face into deep shadow. He wore jeans with an absolutely huge belt buckle, with a leather biker jacket over a black Western-style button-up shirt. She couldn’t see his eyes, but she could feel him looking at her.
Oh, no. Oh, hell.
Maybe she was wrong. It wasn’t like cowboys of a certain height and weight wearing black hats and big belt buckles didn’t exist around Nashville because they absolutely did. But her blood pounded in her veins and her hands shook, and there was no mistaking the flight or fight reaction.
Because she wasn’t wrong.
The cowboy shifted in his seat, tilting his head back. His gaze collided with Brooke’s, and even though she hadn’t seen him for thirteen months, even though she’d only ever spent one amazing night with him, heat pooled low in her belly and she trembled with want.
Her big mistake was sitting less than thirty feet away. The one time she’d gone off schedule and done something just for herself—not for her career or her mother or anyone—and she’d been paying the price ever since. She loved her son, but...
She wasn’t ready. Not for Flash Lawrence.
Not for any of this.
The lights dimmed and an expectant hush fell over the crowd.
Well. The show had to go on, so Brooke did the only thing she could.
“It’s so good to be back, y’all. I’ve been working on new material for my next album—should be out in a few months—and we’re thinking of calling it Your Roots Are Showing.” The crowd laughed appreciatively as she flipped her hair back with an exaggerated toss of her head. “Aw, you guys are great.”
She desperately wanted to turn in her seat for this next part. If that was Flash, what would he think when he heard the song title? But she didn’t. She was giving him nothing to work with, and, besides, there was a literal audience here tonight. All it would take for the wildfire of gossip to catch and burn would be one too-long look, one touch, one wrong move, and her comeback would be forever tainted.
So she didn’t turn, didn’t even acknowledge that there was anyone behind her. She played to the people she could see when she said, “So the first song that’ll be on the new album that I want to sing tonight is called ‘One-Night Stand.’”
Two
God, she looked amazing.
Brooke Bonner wasn’t wearing the skintight crop top and leather miniskirt she’d had on the last time Flash had seen her. For this small crowd, she was wearing a black hippy-style skirt that came just below her knees and showed off her turquoise cowboy boots. A long sweater vest thing without sleeves was held in place over a deep-cut white shirt with the kind of studded belt that Flash’s sister Chloe sold for her Princess of the Rodeo clothing line.
Turquoise dripped off her ears and around her neck but—he had to lean to the side to see—her fingers were bare. He couldn’t tell for sure, but he didn’t think there was even a tan line for an engagement ring on her finger.
Thank God.
When she’d disappeared from the public eye a few months ago, Flash had been terrified to think she might have met someone, might have gotten married. If she had, he’d have had to walk out the Bluebird’s door without a look back. He wasn’t going to screw up a marriage. But no ring meant he settled in and ordered another ginger ale. He was here for the duration.
Had he ever seen a more beautiful woman? He’d met a lot of hot women and slept with his fair share of them, but there was something about the way Brooke was put together that drew his eye. He couldn’t look away, hadn’t been able to since the very first moment he’d seen her in Fort Worth. He’d kissed her hand and that had been that.
Brooke wasn’t wearing a hat tonight, so he could see the glory of her dark red hair as it flowed down her back in long waves. His fingers itched to bury themselves in that hair, wrap it around his fist like he’d done the last time, holding her head so he could kiss her again and again.
Apparently, absence really did make the heart grow fonder, because Flash was so glad to see Brooke right now that he wanted to sweep her into his arms and carry her far, far away from this crowded little place and show her how damned glad he was to see her.
He’d spent a year trying not to miss this woman. A year of trying to put the most intense sexual experience of his life out of his mind. He’d tried to pick up buckle bunnies since that night, but he hadn’t succeeded. Not once in thirteen months.
He was afraid Brooke Bonner had ruined him for any other woman.
And that would be a damn shame.
No way in hell he wanted to be tied down. Especially not this year, when the All-Around All-Stars Cowboy of the Year was in his sights. After a wreck of a year—mostly brought on by Flash’s own hot temper and alcohol-fueled brawls—he was back and ready to prove he wasn’t just a chip on his shoulder with a good right hook.
For too long, people had assumed that Flash only won the All-Stars because the Lawrence family owned the circuit, and he understood now that most of his fights had been about proving he wasn’t just a Lawrence, but that when it came to the rodeo, he was one of the best.
Getting suspended from the rodeo after that last fight—along with forfeiting his winnings up to that point—had been a blessing, although it sure hadn’t felt like it at the time, especially not with the busted jaw Flash had gotten brawling. But it’d forced him to come to grips with his temper and grow the hell up. Plus, it’d shown everyone the All-Stars wasn’t just a family business coddling the baby of the family. The rodeo family understood now that Flash had earned his place in the rankings.
This was his year and, for once, he wasn’t going to shoot himself in his own foot. That included this thing between him and Brooke.
He just wanted...well, he wanted another night with her, to see if there was still that same electric current between them.
Best case, they’d make an effort to meet up on the road a few times a year, whenever his rodeo was in town during her concerts. He wouldn’t say no to something like that. Not with her. He could focus on winning it all and she could focus on her career, and they’d get the chance to enjoy themselves during their downtime, like they had in Texas.
Then she announced the name of her first new song. “One-Night Stand.”
The tips of Flash’s ears went hot. That wasn’t about him, right?
Couldn’t be. It was the height of egotism to think that one night with him had left Brooke with anything other than a fond memory.
“Everyone should have one good night stand, don’t you think?” Brooke went on, and the crowd chuckled approvingly. Someone to his left wolf whistled. Flash didn’t see who, but he’d like to bust whoever it was in the jaw.
But the moment that thought crossed his mind, Flash clamped down on it. He was not going to lose his temper here. People were allowed to be jerks. He wasn’t responsible for teaching them the errors of their ways when they crossed the line. Throwing a punch to defend Brooke’s honor was something the old Flash would’ve done. The new-and-hopefully-improved Flash settled for glaring in the direction of the whistler.
Besides, causing a scene didn’t serve his goals. He wanted to get reacquainted with Brooke Bonner. He needed to find out if there was something worth chasing between them or if he just needed to man up and move on.
If he got lucky, then he’d get lucky. If not, well, he still had to win it all.
The All-Around All-Stars Rodeo was in Nashville this weekend and he’d been hoping to find a way to run into her. When she’d posted on social media she’d be at the Bluebird tonight, he’d driven like a bat out of hell to get to Tennessee five days early just to see her.
At the bare minimum, he needed to make things right between them. Starting a brawl less than two minutes into her set would pretty much guarantee he’d never get another shot. So he kept a lid on his temper and took another drink of his soda.
When the crowd settled down, Brooke leaned in close to the microphone and said, “I’m so glad to see so many people agree—it’s my favorite piece of furniture, too!”
Flash let out a slow breath, grinning in spite of his nerves. He’d loved her snarky sense of humor last year, too. She hadn’t fawned over him and he had done his best not to fawn over her. There’d been an...understanding between them, almost. And a woman with a sense of humor was surprisingly erotic.
Thank goodness that a year of superstardom hadn’t changed that about her.
Then Brooke began to sing as she played her guitar, and something in Flash’s chest let go as the sound of her voice washed over him. By God, he’d missed the hell out of her. She might not remember him—although, given how her eyes had widened slightly when they’d made eye contact, he thought maybe she did. And she might not want to see him again. But for a little while, he could lose himself in her world.
Until he realized what she was singing.
“It’s just a one-night stand,
No tomorrow, no plans.”
Well, damn. Yeah, she remembered him. But it wasn’t a good thing. Especially not when she got to the chorus.
“You weren’t worth the fun.
My one-night stand.”
And the hell of it was, it was a great song. She had the audience eating out of the palm of her hand.
“Don’t want to hear your excuses,
I don’t care about your plans.
Not waiting any longer.
Screw your demands.
It’s time I made my one-night stand.”
Chills raced down his back as she held the last note, strong and powerful. He hadn’t even had the chance to say hello and she was already shutting him down.
When the song ended, she did not look at him. She didn’t sneak a peek out of the corner of her eye, didn’t pivot in her chair, nothing. If she’d recognized him, it was clear she was ignoring him. “Whoo, y’all like that? That’s just the beginning—I have a whole album of sass coming your way!”
Anger—an old, familiar feeling—began to push through his veins, but Flash refused to let it win. It was entirely possible that Brooke Bonner had forgotten all about him after her whirlwind breakout year. There was also a distinct possibility that, if she did remember him, she didn’t hold him in any particularly high esteem.
He should’ve anticipated the song, though. He should’ve anticipated her anger. Anger was his second language. It came as naturally to him as breathing. But he hadn’t seen this attack coming.
Okay, yeah, there’d been a superhot one-night stand. They’d hooked up in her dressing room before the show, which had made her late to go on because leather miniskirts weren’t easy to work around. And it’d been good.
God, he still went hard just thinking about taking her against the wall in that tiny room, staring into her eyes as they both fought not to make a single sound. So damn good. And she had to have agreed, right? Because he’d hung around after the show, and when she’d seen him waiting for her, her entire face had lit up and she’d crooked her finger at him. They’d spent the rest of the night wrapped around each other in her hotel suite, having hot sex and ordering room service and, in between the seductions, making each other laugh.
They’d parted friends the next morning. He’d made damn sure to leave her with a smile on her face. He knew he hadn’t stopped grinning for days. Weeks, even.
So how had they gotten from that to this?
“My next song—now just wait for it,” she all but purred into the mike, “is called ‘How Many Licks’ because that was always the question, right?” The crowd hooted. “How many licks to get to the center of the sucker?”
“Three!” some jackass yelled.
“As many licks as it takes,” a different ass yelled. Brooke wagged a scolding finger at him.
Flash had to close his eyes and focus on his breathing. Behind his eyelids, the world was red. They weren’t disrespecting her. She’d chosen that title to get that exact reaction. She knew what she was doing and it wasn’t his job to defend her from every slight. He’d already tried that once and had the criminal record—and nemesis—to prove it. He’d busted Tex McGraw up pretty damn good because the man had dared to put Brooke’s name in his mouth.
Obviously, Flash understood why Tex hated him with a white-hot fury—Flash had knocked the man out of the All-Stars with a solid right hook. But Tex hadn’t let up any with his online attacks since then, and he sure as hell hadn’t accepted either of Flash’s apologies—not the court-mandated one and not the more sincere one Flash had made after a few months of sobriety. But it was fine. Flash had gotten to a place in his life where he could handle online swipes from Tex without being driven to fits of rage. That was how far Flash had come in a year.
Brooke launched into the song, which cut off any other outbursts. The red haze behind his eyes faded, and he was able to breathe without feeling like punching someone.
Not surprisingly, this song felt personal, too. The double entendres flew fast and furious, but the core of the song was about a guy who couldn’t take his licks and bailed.
A lot of people didn’t like Flash. He’d never made it particularly easy for anyone to like him, but at least he knew it. However, he’d never inspired such strong feelings that someone could write an entire album based on how much they hated him, for God’s sake.
Right. Instead of being insulted and letting it get to him, he was going to focus on feeling...flattered. Yeah, flattered. Not just any rodeo rider had an entire album dedicated to him, officially or unofficially. And if she publicly acknowledged that he was the inspiration, well, Flash was sure that his sister, Chloe, would find a way to spin Brooke’s new album as a positive for Flash and the All-Around All-Stars Rodeo. Probably.
Besides, Brooke had said herself the album wouldn’t be out for a few more months. She was still fine-tuning some of the material, still recording. Forewarned was forearmed. It was a good thing he was here tonight. He could work with Chloe to plan for a couple of different contingencies. His sister had already basically figured out that Flash was crushing hard on Brooke.
Although...she’d want to know why Brooke was so furious with him. And he did not have an answer for that. Brooke had kissed him goodbye. Thanked him for the amazing night. Told him to take care.
And that was it.
At least she hadn’t forgotten him, right? If there was one word that described Flash Lawrence, it was memorable.
When Brooke started the next song—titled “Not Going Down (Without a Fight)”—Flash almost couldn’t take it. What the hell? If it’d been any other club or dive bar in Nashville, he would’ve bailed. But when a songwriter or a singer started their set at the Bluebird, no one moved and no one talked—house rules. So he had no choice but to sit there and listen.
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