Free Made in Nashville: HarperImpulse Contemporary Romance by Mandy Baggot Page A

thoughts and she looked at him, not knowing what he was talking about.
    He took the large mirror down off the shelf and tucked it under his arm.
    ‘What are you doing?’ she exclaimed.
    ‘Buyin’ a mirror. Can we go now? I’m kinda hungry.’
    He’d removed his over shirt in the truck and the feminine chintz of the mirror looked ridiculous underneath his tattooed arm. She followed him to the cash desk and watched him hand over eighty four dollars ninety nine for something he didn’t even want.
    Without asking her what she wanted he’d got takeout from Farley’s Diner and now they were headed south. The windows of the truck were down, the music turned up and she was juggling two polystyrene cups on her lap. She assumed he was taking her to his home, to use his studio, but she hadn’t checked. Since when had she lost her tongue?
    He hung a right down West Washington and pulled into the drive of a modest-looking one storey. Turning off the ignition he looked across at her. Those gray pools observed her and she swallowed. He looked so serious.
    ‘Now, before we go on in, I just should let you know that nothin’ in my place works by hand-clappin’.’
    His expression was so deadpan, his tone so tight, she couldn’t help herself from letting out a trickle of laughter.
    He broke a smile. ‘What? Are you makin’ fun of the poor guy?’
    ‘You’re not poor!’
    ‘Far-from-rich-as-you-guy then?’
    ‘Take-out-getting-cold-guy.’
    ‘Shoot! Man, I forgot about that. Let’s go.’ He flung open the door, grabbing up the takeout bags from the floor of the truck.
    He wished he’d cleaned up. His momma would be kicking his ass if she could see the place. He hurried through the lounge, snatching up misplaced items as he went. Two empty bottles of Coors, a vest-top, a pair of jeans, a two-liter bottle of Pure Nectar, an empty bag of chips and a pile of back copies of
Kerrang!
. It was too much to collate at once and the Pure Nectar fell from his arms and hit the floor, splitting on impact.
    ‘Fuck, no!’
    ‘I’ll get a cloth. Is this the way?’ Honor asked, pointing to a door off the end of the room.
    ‘Yeah.’ He paused, remembering he hadn’t washed up the dishes for at least a couple days. ‘No. Hell, I’ll get it. You have a seat and …  read a magazine or somethin’.’
    He thrust a copy of
Kerrang!
her way, barely hanging on to everything in his hands. The Pure Nectar carried on spurting out over the hardwood floor.
    ‘Shit.’ He dropped what he was holding to the chair and rescued the bottle. ‘The place is gonna stink of watermelon and fruits I ain’t never heard of for a month.’
    Honor looked confused. He wiped a sticky hand down his jeans.
    ‘It’s a sponsorship thing,’ he said by way of explanation.
    She nodded before her eyes moved to the takeout bags lying discarded on the floor where he’d thrown them down.
    ‘If you get some plates I could … ’ she began.
    ‘Yeah, sure.’ He hesitated for a moment. Did he have clean plates? ‘I’ll be right back.’
    Having given her the first impression of a typical bachelor pad, underneath the untidiness, the room had a certain charm. There was a comfortable, easy feel to it. The wood floor that was partially covered by a Navaho-Indian style rug, was complemented by cream walls everywhere, except from a heavy stone fireplace on one wall. There were framed posters on the wall. George Jones, a Harley Davidson, a Southern flag. The wooden mantle held a selection of photographs. This was a real home.
    As that thought filtered over her mind she felt a pang of envy inside of her. Her house was big and showy and filled with every gadget money could buy but it lacked the important stuff. It lacked what turned a dwelling into a place you could call your own.
    Without knowing it she had folded up the jeans and the vest-top and placed them neatly on the arm of a well-worn leather chair. What was she doing?
    She moved across the room, drawn to the