Accidentally Married on Purpose (3 page)

“Mostly pop and dance music.” She bit her lip and studied him, lashes lowered as she scanned his body, before subtly nodding. Her smile took on a hint of seduction as she added, “And hot roadies.”

Breath left his lungs at the look in her eyes. Their message was clear. Tyler stared back, knowing he could easily lose himself for a night in the mesmerizing kaleidoscope of amber and green. In that sweet, southern voice that reminded him of home. And in the refreshing reality that this woman had no clue who in the hell he was.

With Sherry, he wouldn’t have to be
on
all night. Wouldn’t have to fulfill a celebrity expectation or survive another conversation with talk of the industry and his musical inspirations
.
With this tempting waitress, he could just be Tyler, a Louisiana native, lover of Cajun food, and a man extremely attracted to the woman beside him.

Funny. Until that second, he wasn’t aware he missed that sense of normalcy.

Reaching out, Tyler brushed away a strand of dampened hair from her neck. The muscles under the silky skin of her throat moved against his fingertips. Chill bumps pricked her skin as she tilted her head back, eyes locked on his in a silent question.

That article in
Country Music Weekly
was right—he wasn’t a serial monogamous. But he sure as hell wasn’t a monk, either. The fiery glow in her eyes said that if he was interested, she would be his tonight. And he was definitely interested.

“Tyler!”

Sherry jolted at the intrusion, and the moment was gone. Reluctantly, Tyler turned toward the doorway, gritting his teeth. “Yeah?”

His bass player glanced back and forth between them. “It’s show time.”

Of course it is.
Any other night, Tyler was like an ADD kid hyped up on sugar before a performance. The wall of adoration that hit him smack in the face when he took the stage, the hot lights pouring from above—that was where he thrived. But tonight was proving to be far from ordinary. “I’ll be right there.”

As if they could start without him anyway.

Charlie smirked as he nodded and retreated a few steps, waiting until he was out of Sherry’s sight to flash an opened palm. Whether that was code for five minutes or some sort of distant high-five was up for interpretation. Ignoring his idiot best friend, Tyler returned his focus to the woman in front of him.

The heat in Sherry’s eyes had dimmed, but it was there, and the air between them still snapped. “Boss man calls?” Her voice was slightly breathless, and there was no stopping the smile crossing his face.

“Something like that.”

He rocked back on the heels of his boots, delaying the inevitable. The feeling was apparently mutual because she asked, “Do roadies have to work the whole concert?”

A thrill of satisfaction warmed his blood as disappointment washed over her features. She didn’t want him to leave. Glancing at the table, Tyler could tell only half the crew had eaten. There was plenty of food left over, which meant she’d still be here when the concert ended.

“Yeah, generally roadies are pretty busy during a show.”

A slight prick of guilt hit him for continuing the ruse. But from what she’d revealed, the playful, simple way they were flirting would end the minute she learned his identity. It was selfish not to correct her. She’d probably be pissed as hell when she found out. But he wasn’t ready to relinquish that easy feeling just yet.

Knowing Charlie and the guys were waiting, Tyler slowly backed away. “But don’t you go skipping out on me. I’ll be looking for you after the show.” His gaze fell to her glossy mouth, and he almost groaned when Sherry bit the corner of one painted lip.

As excitement flared in her eyes, he turned on his heel. This was going to be the longest concert of his career.

Chapter Two

The moment Tyler’s heavy footsteps faded down the hall, Sherry did a little booty shake. She couldn’t believe her luck! This was
exactly
the kind of action she’d envisioned when she concocted her plan and begged to come here, and Tyler had just all but fallen into her lap.

Giftwrapped from above in one sinfully hot package.

Sherry threw her head back and smiled at the ceiling. Goodness, the things that man had done to her with one sizzling look of those bedroom eyes. Her knees were still weak, and her heart was doing the Cajun two-step in her chest. She’d always been the type of girl who jumped in feet first and fell in love at first sight—but this had squat to do with that emotion. This right here was chemistry, and precisely what the doctor had ordered. If a life with Mr. Boring and Dependable was to be her destiny, then a lust-filled weekend with Tyler-the-hunkalicious-roadie would surely fuel her fantasies for the next fifty years. Or longer.

Squealing into her palms, she turned around, eager to finish setting everything out so she could freshen up before Tyler returned…then jumped about a foot when she discovered she wasn’t alone like she’d thought. “Son of a biscuit!”

A woman in a power suit appraised her from a good distance away. The same one who had been talking with Tyler before he strode his sexy self over to speak with
her.
One hand held a heaping plate of food—seriously, how on earth did she eat like
that
and still fit into that form-fitting suit of hers?—and the other hand gripped her hip. Her lips were pursed in an unreadable expression, and Sherry swallowed a sudden lump, hoping she wasn’t Tyler’s woman.

But he came on to me first.

Clutching her chest, she muttered, “Sorry about that.” She smoothed back her hair and forced a confident smile. Warmth still spread across her cheeks, but she couldn’t do much about that. “Apparently, I’m a sucker for a man with belt buckles the size of Texas.”

Sherry waited, watching for a response, an indication the woman was angry, jealous, or simply staring because she’d shaken her butt and squealed like a moron. But the woman gave nothing. Motioning toward the full plate in her hands, she asked, “Can I get you anything?”

“No.” The woman lifted her pointed chin, her look turning inquisitive. “As you can see, I have enough to feed an army.”

Her lip curled slightly as she said it—not that surprising, since the chick probably never ate more than a crouton—and her whole vibe screamed polish and sophistication. Not at
all
whom she’d pair with the rugged roadie. That left the woman being a New York bigwig with a staring problem.

“I was curious about your catering company, though. The food seems authentic.”

Sherry beamed—though she couldn’t quite tell if the woman meant that as a compliment or not. “That’s because it is. My sister, Colby Robicheaux—well, Colby Robicheaux
Landry
—has an Italian restaurant here in Vegas”—the woman’s eyes flared with recognition—“which is how we got this gig, but our home base is in New Orleans. Our contact at the casino knew that and specifically asked for Cajun cuisine.”

A horrible thought struck her, and she glanced at the heaping trays of food with a frown. While she’d been setting up, her contact said that the band wouldn’t eat until after the performance. And to her knowledge, Blue hadn’t even entered the green room before they went on. She’d been semi-stalking the door, curious to see what the hype was about. But maybe she’d missed him. Maybe her contact had gotten it all wrong. Maybe Blue
hated
Cajun food.

“Why?” she asked, trying to keep the panic out of her voice. Colby was a control freak and usually handled all the events, but Sherry had promised she had things under control. “Is Mr. Blue not happy with the selection?” She bit her lip again and took a quick survey of her ingredients. “My sister is the chef, but I can throw something else together if needed.”

Cooking for Sherry normally involved cereal bowls and microwaves, but she was 68 percent sure she could whip up a meal in a pinch. Whether or not that meal turned out edible would be the question.

The kitchen had always been Colby-the-wonder-chef’s domain. Even her brother had inherited their father’s cooking gene to a lesser extent. Sherry, on the other hand, could burn water. When it came to food, her heart just wasn’t in it to stay focused.
Her
specialty was customer interaction. Mingling, making people feel welcome. Working the front of the house at their restaurant was the closest she ever got to what she
really
wanted to do with her life.

“No, the food is fine,” Ms. New York said, thawing slightly. Her gaze darted to the door Tyler had disappeared through and her brows lifted. “Interesting.”

Okay.
Obviously this woman was odd with a capital
O
. Something was churning in that über-polished brain of hers, but as long as it didn’t involve the food or the job, Sherry didn’t really care. She was just counting down the minutes until the woman left so
she
could get back to happy dancing over her future conquest.

“Well, if you’re sure you don’t need anything…” she said. The woman glanced back, blinking as if coming out of a daze, and Sherry jutted her thumb over her shoulder. “I have to make a run out to our van.”

Ms. New York smiled, the intent stare softening to almost friendly. The transformation pricked her suspicion, but she had no clue why. “I’m good, thank you.” She strolled forward, and now it was Sherry’s turn to stare as she dumped the barely touched plate into the trash.
There goes twenty bucks.
“It was a true pleasure meeting you, Miss…” Her gaze flickered to Sherry’s left hand.

“Robicheaux,” she confirmed distractedly. It always bothered her to see people wasting food. When the show was over, she was donating the leftovers to a nearby shelter. That plate alone could’ve fed two kids.

“Enjoy your stay, Ms. Robicheaux. I expect it’ll be filled with amusements.” Then the weird woman walked away, laughing softly under her breath.

One thing was for sure. Las Vegas was proving to be anything but boring.

When Sherry returned from the catering van with the last of the supplies, Blue’s concert was well under way. Muffled cheers and a dull rhythmic thump shook the walls of the hallway. A pass swung around her neck, and she knew most people in her place would at least take a peek at the stage. But honestly, she had zero interest. Country wasn’t her thing. And she was a woman on a mission.

Her eyes locked on the wall clock as she rolled the catering cart into the green room. Time was not her friend. Blue’s concert tonight was a short set with an intimate crowd of a few thousand benefitting a local charity, an act she could definitely admire, but it meant she better haul butt. After her run-in with Ms. New York, she needed everything to be perfect when the band arrived.

Carefully checking the room for unexpected company and thankfully finding none, she yanked out her iPhone, selected a playlist, and set it on the table. The familiar beat of her favorite song filled the air, and Sherry set to work. With a smile on her face and a wiggle in her step.

Music was in her blood. Unlike Cane, she couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket and instruments hated her with a fierceness, but Sherry could move her body with the best of them. Her mama was a dancer once upon a time, and she’d enrolled Sherry in every dance class in which she expressed an interest. That is to say, all of them. One song bled into another as Sherry twirled, pranced, and swiveled her to-do list into submission.

With a snazzy shuffle-ball-change, she restocked the silverware. A shimmy of her shoulders added flair as she topped off the jambalaya. And an elaborate mix of hip lifts, drops, and figure eights accompanied her adiosing a pile of crumbs and straightening out the tablecloth. She was so into the moves and the music playing on her phone that she actually failed to notice that the music elsewhere had stopped.

That is, until the hair on the back of her neck tingled to life.

Suddenly, the room surged with energy. Her pulse pounded in her ears. She didn’t need to turn around to know he was standing behind her. Most likely with a smirk at catching her impromptu belly dance.

Smooth, girl. Real smooth.

Sherry closed her eyes tight, too mortified to face him just yet. “Good show?” she asked.

“The highlight of my night, that’s for sure.”

Chills skimmed down her spine at the sound of his voice. Deep, rich, and full of the very mischief Tootsie had hinted at back home. The salon owner had said it in reference to Blue…but Sherry doubted even the famous singer had a voice as tempting as Tyler’s.

Slowly, Sherry turned around. The devil in denim was leaning against the doorjamb, gaze glued to her ass. Or where her ass had been. His lips were curved in a crooked, boyish grin, and when his green eyes moved to hers, the true meaning of his answer became clear.

Yep, he’d caught her performance all right. And he had enjoyed every gyrating second.

Confidence rising, Sherry swirled her curvy hips in a slow, sultry circle, then ran her hands down her jean-clad thighs. “Shakira ain’t got nothing on these hips.”

Tyler’s grin grew, and his eyes lit with amusement. Holy ovaries exploding. If Sherry had thought this man’s smirk was sexy, the power of his full-wattage smile about knocked her on her swiveling butt. The electric air between them intensified. Seconds stretched in silence. When he finally opened his mouth to speak, she expected a flirty comeback or a naughty sexual innuendo.

Instead, he shocked the wit right out of her as he said, “Spend the weekend with me.”