He put his arm around her to bring her closer to him. She was the best thing that had ever happened to him—better than all the success and money, better than the music and the fame. None of it would mean anything to him if he didn’t have her to keep him grounded. The luckiest day of Buddy’s life occurred when his opening act came down with mononucleosis right before they were scheduled to hit the road. His tour manager tapped the then-unknown Taylor Jones to take her place. Buddy took one look at her and he was done—flattened, struck down, gone. She’d given him a run for his money that summer, but fortunately he’d won her over.

The pairing had been a personal and professional home run. They’d scored five number-one hits with their duets, in addition to a dozen solo records between them that had gone platinum, and in a few cases, double platinum. And despite what the tabloids incessantly reported, they were more devoted to each other and their four children than ever.

“Here we are, Mr. Longstreet,” the meat said.

Buddy pulled his signature black Stetson down over his eyes and helped Taylor from the car. Mabel had her own side of beef working the door, and his meatball eyes almost popped out of his head when Buddy and Taylor emerged hand in hand from the black Escalade.

Buddy slipped the bouncer a fifty. “Keep it cool, man. My wife and I just want to have a good time. Can you get us a corner by ourselves where we can watch the Rafters?”

“Sure thing, Mr. Longstreet. My pleasure.”

Buddy’s own security guy followed behind them, and the two refrigerator-size men paved a path through the star-struck crowd. A minute later, Buddy and Taylor were settled at a secluded table in the back corner of the second floor. Buddy’s guy stood off to the side in case anyone got too close to his boss.

“Shit, I remember playing here when I was in high school, and no one gave a flying fuck about me,” Buddy said. “Now it’s a goddamned production to walk in the door.”

“Well, we’re in, so relax and enjoy it,” Taylor said. “When was the last time we were out on a date? You can start things off right by buying your best girl a drink.”

He tipped his hat back so he could see her. “How do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Chase away my foul mood without breaking a sweat.”

“I know how to handle you, that’s all.”

He guffawed. “Shit! Handle me. I’ll give you something to handle.”

“Not ’til we get home, baby,” she said in the little-girl voice that drove him wild.

Buddy laughed until his sides ached, and all at once he was thrilled to be out on a date with his best girl.