Sing for Me (The Langston Brothers Duet, #2)

by Brittany Ann

“Gotta say, darlin’, a man should be at your side if he’s fuckin’ you. If you are in his bed, he shouldn’t let you get attacked by a fucking security guard.”

She lifted her chin, the light from above showcasing her freckles, presenting themselves to me like a priceless work of art. They were scattered all over her face like angel dust. I wanted to kiss every single one. Every. Single. One. My eyes trailed down the length of ...

“You can’t talk to me like that,” she spat. I tilted my h...

“What do you want...

“What?” “You heard me, baby. Don’t like rep...

“Stop calling me ...

“I’m gonna touch you again,” I murmured as I moved my knuckle down the side of her face.

“You’re going to tell me about that bottle, but not today. Today, we are going to dinner.” “D-dinner?”

“I can’t see your eyes,” she whispered. “Give me your name and I’ll give you my eyes,”

Plagued me. Ruined me. My girl smelled like melons. Fuck, it was ...

“My name is Harmony,” she said softly. Of course, it was. She was the song running through my head for months, over and over, like a ...

“Mr. Langston—” “Mason, baby. Call me Mason,” I reminded her softly, meeting her eyes again. “You need to step away from me now, please.” Her raspy voice was trembling a bit. “I can’t see your eyes.”

I stepped away and pulled off my hat. Her breath hitched again as she drank me in. Feeling is mutual, Harmony. Harmony.

“I don’t want to go to dinner.” I opened my mouth to speak, but she cut me off. “It’s Friday night.” “Yeah, it is,” I drawled, my lips twit...

“I like pasta,” I murmured.

“You going to follow me home if I tell you no?” she asked, attitude lacing her voice now. I almost smiled at that. It was cute as fuck. “Yep.”

“I’m drawn to you, Harmony. That doesn’t happen to a man like me.”

“Little Song, I will spank that ass if you call me Mr. Langston again,” I growled.

My eyes were stuck on Mr. Langston—Mason—memorizing every single inch of him, like I had every chance I got for the last few weeks. The chords of his voice reminded me of Bohemian Rhapsody, ringing in my ears, the haunting melody seeping into my soul. His words settled over me, his rough voice louder than his music, and my skin felt hot.

Little Song. Baby. Darlin’.

“You hear me?” he asked, drawing me away from the chaos inside my chest and head. “Sir—”

You only get one life, Harmony Green. You can sit here and remain broken, or you can get up and heal. I was ready.

That was the thing about healing and fighting your demons: it hurt like a motherfucker.

Something that made me blush. Something that excited me. Something that made me feel beautiful again. Desired. Wanted. “Mason,” I whispered.

“You said you liked pasta?” I asked.

“Stop looking at my lips like that,”

“You got everything we need at your place, or do we need to stop at the store?”

“Need me to carry anything?” he asked, his gray eyes on my full arms, mainly on my water bottle. I shook my head. “I’m good,”

“Okay, baby,” he muttered. Baby. My stomach flipped again, excitement buzzing throughout my body.

“Harmony.” I shook my head and looked up to him as he towered over me. “Yes?”

His lips twitched, and amusement filled his eyes under his cowboy hat. “I open doors for you, got me?”

“That means you gotta let go of the handle for me.”

Rough fingers gripped my chin, and suddenly, I wasn’t looking up at the door anymore. No, I was looking at him. In that moment, I discovered I wanted to look at him and only him for a long time, perhaps the rest of my life.

“This is the first of many dinners for us. There are things we need to discuss, baby. A lot of those things center around the way you reacted that night at PBR and the bottle in your arms,”

“I’m not going to push you, Little Song, but you need to know y...

How could a man make a basic pair of jeans, a faded Chevy T-shirt, and boots look good? Because his ass looks good. Because his tanned, muscular, veiny arms, looked better.

“So much for me giving you a tour.” I tried to pass him, but his arm shot out, stopping me. “You wanna give me a tour? Give me a tour, darlin’,”

Mason blinked and his jaw flexed. His arm wasn’t touching me, and I really wanted it to. I wanted his touch. Holy shit, I wanted his touch!

“You writin’ and singin’? Or just writin’?”

“I’m learning to play. I know how to play the guitar, but I just got this piano out of storage when I moved in,”

“Need to know if you sing, baby.”. He wanted to know if I sang.

“See that question made you uncomfortable,” he muttered.

“It’s an honest, good question, Mason,” I replied.

“If I ask you a question that makes you uncomfortable—” “Yes, I sing,”

“Though, I don’t think I’m very good at it.”

“When you sing for me, I’ll let you know if you sound ...

“What?”

“Maybe I’ll poison you.” He looked at the ceiling and then back to me. “Darlin’ you’ve done something to me because I can’t seem to get you out of my head.”

Omfg

“Why did you come to the clinic?” I found myself asking. “You.” “Why did you invest half a million dollars in the clinic?”

“Had to find some excuse to be near you, Little Song.”