She turns to walk away, but the good-for-nothing idiot reaches over the bar, grabbing her bicep.

“Don’t be such a bitch, Reed,” he snaps.

I wait for the fear to build in her eyes. He’s a big guy, and he’s absolutely had a few too many. But it never comes.

“You have three seconds to remove your hands from my body, Frank, or I’ll have Mack haul your ass out of here. You hear me?” She leans into his face.

I can’t fight the smirk on my face when he uncurls his hand and shrinks back into his seat.

“Don’t you think you owe the lady an apology?” I ask, not looking up from my glass.

I feel his eyes sizing up the competition. He must determine it’s not worth it, because his stool scrapes across the floor.

“Sorry,” he says begrudgingly before vacating his seat.

“Thank you,” the bartender says.

I look up at hazel eyes. Shaking my head, I chuckle. “Seems to me like you had everything handled just fine on your own. Deserved an apology is all.”

“Reed Hennessy,” she says, reaching her hand over the bar. “I own the Sundance, and that there”—she nods towards the brute of a man coming towards us—“is my brother.”

After swallowing the contents of my glass, I put my much larger hand in hers. “Branson Tucker.”

It’s hard to see the resemblance between the two as her brother leans his hip against the counter beside me. “You good, Reed?” His face hardens in question.

“I’m good.” She nods. “Meet the out-of-towner, Branson Tucker.”

“Mackenzie Hennessy,” he clips out, shaking my hand with a firm grip. “You can call me Mack so long as you’re here.”

I fall into easy conversation with the sibling duo, and a few glasses of bourbon later, I’m about ready to call it quits for the evening. Then a god-awful sound crawls through the speakers.

Tap. Tap. Tap. “Is this thing on?” a pretty voice says, talking too closely into the microphone.

After turning around, I cross my arms over my chest and lean back against the bar to watch.

“You see, I . . .” Her voice drops off as she argues with someone offstage and out of my line of vision. “I promised my big sister it was karaoke night tonight.” She stumbles a little. “So,” she says, pointing her finger out towards the crowd, “whaddaya say, Hennessy? How ’bout a little Shania Twain?”

Something about her appearance nags me, but I’m distracted when Reed mumbles, “Oh, lord.” She sighs before nodding towards Mack. “Go on and set it up for ’em. Poor girl’s had a rough one. She wants to embarrass herself on stage, let her do it.”

It only takes Mack a few minutes to get the old school karaoke machine set up, and as he puts in the song they were looking for, the blonde onstage motions for someone to join her. When she furrows her brow, I think she’s given up, but then she points towards Mack.

“Help a girl out?” She smiles.

The bastard caves almost immediately.

The whole thing is too darn funny—drinks and a show.

I can see the top of his cowboy hat move through the crowd. He must find who he’s looking for, because I hear a squeal as he hoists another blonde girl onto the stage.

The girl’s back is to me, her thin frame staggering a little. From the way neither can seem to stand without swaying, I’d guess they won’t be remembering much of anything come morning.

“Ladies and gents.” The girl with my microphone winks. “Let’s give a big ol’ round of applause for . . . Drum roll, please?” she asks, and a few men oblige. “My big sister, Looooondooooooon Daniels.”

My heart unexpectedly slams into my ribcage as music floods the bar. I’m grateful as fuck for the barrier, or I’d be picking the organ in my chest off the floor right about now.

She slowly spins, a white summer dress moving against her skin, and I feel like I’m trying to breathe under water. She grabs the microphone from her sister and scowls as she finally faces the crowd, a flush of embarrassment staining her cheeks.

The blood in my entire body goes straight to my head, and I have to grip the bar behind me to keep my knees from buckling at the sight of her.

She’s perfect, gold like honey, and far more captivating in person than she has been in the media.

“Hi,” she giggles softly, batting her eyelids a little.

Her voice moves the blood to another part of my body, and I shift the weight between my boots in response. The room feels hotter than a goddamn two-dollar pistol. I can feel my heart beating inside my head.

She scrunches her nose up at the screen in front of her, desperately trying to focus. After missing the first few bars, she catches up and starts to sing. “I’m goin’ out tonight. I’m feelin’ all right. Gonna let it all hang out.”

Everyone, country music lovers or not, knows this goddamn song, but in this second, I can’t remember a single lyric to Shania Twain’s “Man! I Feel Like A Woman.”

“Wanna make some noise, really raise my voice. Yeah, I wanna scream and shouuuuuuut.” She hollers along with the music, and Lord have mercy if she isn’t absolutely bloody awful. I don’t think the girl could carry a tune in a bucket, but she’s cute as hell.

She shuffles a little from side to side. Her long legs are encased in nearly knee-high, beat-up, red Durango cowboy boots.

Hell if I don’t want to marry her right on the damn spot.

Call me a stalker, or crown me the King of Creeps, but I had to meet her the moment I saw her on my television screen. And when I read that article, I could feel her personality through that ass clown’s unjust representation. Regardless, that’s the second I knew she would be mine.

My mother called those kinds of feelings fate, and right now, in this crowded, old bar on a Sunday night, listening to the prettiest girl I’ve ever laid eyes on butcher a classic country song, I am inclined to believe her.

“Did they drive here?” I raise my voice so Reed can hear me behind the bar. “Those girls?” I nod towards the stage.

“Hell no. Their daddy would tan their hide if they drove to the bar.” She laughs to herself like it’s something I should have known already.

“How’d they get here, then?” I know I sound nosy, but I’m two drinks and one right mind shy of caring.

Leaning onto the counter, she scans the crowd for a minute before pointing to a table off to the left of the stage. “See that cowboy?”

I nod, my gaze landing on a guy in a brown Stetson and plaid.

“That’s their ride.”

The temperature under my skin spikes and my hands curl into fists. I go to push off from the bar, but Reed’s tiny hands wrap around my forearm and pull me back.

“There ain’t no brawlin’ in my bar, no matter who you are.” She narrows her eyes at me.

“I wasn’t . . .”

Laughing, she cocks an eyebrow in my direction and subsequently drops my arm. “I spend seven nights a week servin’ drunks, and I’ve seen that look a million times before. Don’t go gettin’ bloody knuckles just yet. That’s their brother.”

“Oh.”

“Mm-hm, oh.” She shakes her head.

Every emotion coiling through my system spins completely out of control, and despite not wanting to take this moment back, I don’t want to meet her this way. Not when she won’t remember me.

No, I’ve waited nearly three weeks already. I can wait one more night.

After grabbing a business card from my wallet, I slide it across the bar. “If she looks like she’s gettin’ in anything but her brother’s truck at the end of the night, you best call me.”

Pushing off the bar, I take one last look at her on the stage.

London Daniels.

Not for long, little lady.

I am going to make her my wife someday.

I know it. ’Bout time she does too.