Primal Instinct

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Thank you to my family for all of your continued support—my parents, Gerry and Catherine; my husband, Graham; my brother; my extended family; and my puppy, Schroeder. I wouldn't be doing this without your encouragement, and your tireless enthusiasm means everything to me. I love you guys so much.

A big thank you to my friends Amanda, Robin, and Sarah, for cheering me on, even when it felt impossible. I'm so lucky to call you wonderful ladies my friends.

Thank you to my agent, Jessica Watterson; my editor, Alex Logan; and everyone at Forever. As well, a big thank you to my coworkers at HPL, especially Stacy, Liz, Gina, Joe, Janette, and Antonella. Your support means so much to me, and I'm so grateful to work with such a fantastic group of people.

A very special thank-you to my critique partners Erin Moore and Harper St. George. I couldn't do this without you, guys. I love you both.

Thank you so much, Sarah Emery, for answering my tireless Army Ranger questions and for allowing me to pick your brain. You were so helpful, and I'm so appreciative of the time you took to answer my questions.

I'm incredibly lucky to be part of such an amazing community of writers, without whose support and encouragement I would be completely lost. Thank you to Brenna Mills, Amanda Heger, Jenn Burke, Kelly Jensen, Kelly Siskind, Victoria Austin, Samantha Joyce, Shannon Richard, Heather Powell, Colleen Halverson, Emily Albright, and many, many others (I'm so sorry if there's someone I've forgotten!). I'm so glad to know each and every one of you, and I mean that from the top of my head to the tips of my toes.

Finally, my Toronto Romance Writers tribe. You ladies are smart, kind, hardworking, supportive, and some of the best people on the planet. Thank you to Juliana Stone, Eve Silver, Morgan Rhodes, Maureen McGowan, Molly O'Keefe, Elly Blake, and (my bae) Nicki Pau Preto. You guys are the best. The absolute freaking best.

Additional shout-outs: wine, chocolate, and classic rock.

T
aylor Ross needed it to happen tonight.

If she closed her eyes, she could even pretend to feel it, almost taste it, the way she used to. And then the dry spell would end, and things would go back to normal. Tonight. What she needed shimmered around her, in front of her, and if she reached out her fingers, if she touched the gauzy inspiration floating in the air, she might finally be able to write music again.

She drummed her fingers against the table, the red tablecloth absorbing the restless rhythm she tapped out. She blew out a breath and reached for her Jack and Coke, staring at the blinking light on her phone that lay on the table in front of her. She took a sip of her drink and then ran her finger across the screen, frowning at the numerous text messages, e-mails, and Google Alerts all begging for her attention. She took another sip and pushed her phone away, then flipped several pages of the notebook that lay open on the table in front of her, scowling at the scribbled and hastily scratched out chord progressions and lyrics.

She didn't want to think about any of it—breaking up with Zack, getting booted off a plane and the subsequent viral video of her in-air meltdown, or her inability to write. If her life was a sentence, the past few months had been a semicolon. An interruption, a pause. The past and the future linked by a tiny, little wink in time. She was tired of standing still, so for tonight, all she wanted was to catch a buzz so that she could numb the pain, the doubt, and the loneliness that were always simmering just below the surface.

She rested her chin in her hand as she scanned the dim interior of the Rainbow, a favorite LA hangout for rockers, groupies, some locals, and the occasional tourist. Red vinyl booths lined the walls, which were covered with rock paraphernalia. Autographed pictures, gold records, and vinyl albums, all encased in glass and staring down at her. She knew, if she wandered over the garishly carpeted floor to a corner near a window, she'd find a picture of herself and two assholes, all glaring moodily at the camera. She remembered autographing that picture. Hell, she remembered posing for that picture, full of the kind of cocky swagger only a twenty-two-year-old with a hit record can pull off.

How had ten years gone by so damn fast?

She glared up at the plants lining the ceiling, a row of lights shining from underneath them. Frustration rolled through her as her eyes landed once again on her phone. She was gripped by a sudden urge to hurl it across the room, but she forced herself to pick up her drink and drain it instead. She certainly wouldn't be the first musician to throw a tantrum at the Rainbow, but it wouldn't accomplish anything.

She shook her head and forced herself to focus on the blank page. Her brain scrambled for an idea, a melody, a lyric, a hook,
anything
, but the harder she tried to pull a song out of her brain, the more she felt like she was spinning her wheels in mud. Sweating and working and stressing and getting nowhere fast. The album was already six months overdue, and she needed something to show the label within the next week, otherwise they'd dump her, and she'd be out on her ass. And then what? If she wasn't a musician, a performer, then who was she? It was how she'd defined herself for over ten years now, and if she lost that part of herself, she didn't know how she'd stay whole.

It wasn't lost on her that her fame had dwindled to the point where she was able to sit in a bar, alone, without anyone even noticing her presence. But it wasn't the loss of fame that bothered her. It was the loss of the music. The fame was simply a perk that came with making something that people connected with, of performing on a stage, guitar in hand, feeding on the crowd's energy.

She sifted through the scraps of ideas littered throughout the notebook. She'd hoped maybe coming to the Rainbow where so many greats had hung out would inspire her. As if sitting in a sticky vinyl booth would somehow miraculously move her to finally write a new song. Lips pursed together, she shook her head again. She had nothing. Her brain spun emptily, filled with nothing but frustration and disappointment and fear.

Shoving the notebook aside, she scrolled through a series of texts from Jeremy Nichols, her manager, and then opened her phone's web browser and navigated to a video of her disgrace at thirty thousand feet.

Like pressing on a bruise, she pressed Play. She'd already watched it several times; she couldn't seem to stop watching it, and she couldn't stop herself from cringing every time she did. She'd been trying to make herself numb so that she wouldn't
hurt
so much. And God, she hurt. Several months ago, she'd started casually dating bodyguard Zack De Luca, and much to her surprise, she'd fallen fast and hard for him. For the first time in years, she'd wanted something more than casual. But Zack hadn't, and even though he hadn't meant to, he'd broken her heart.

So, to numb the pain of walking away from Zack, she'd joined the mile-high club with a cute guy she'd met earlier in the airport lounge. They'd flirted, had coffee, and gone their separate ways. When she'd boarded the plane and found her first-class seat, she'd been pleasantly surprised to discover that cute coffee guy was right across the aisle from her. The flirting had resumed, and she'd moved over to the empty seat beside him. One thing had led to another, and after about forty-five minutes, they'd wound up in the bathroom together. As soon as they'd emerged, they'd been confronted by the flight attendant, who knew exactly what they'd done, and threatened to have them arrested when the plane landed. When Taylor had started to apologize, the woman had turned on her, calling her a dirty slut. Livid and with no patience for bullshit double standards, Taylor had had a few choice words for the woman. The air marshal had come over to see what the commotion was about, and the flight attendant had called Taylor a white trash whore. So she'd slapped the flight attendant across the face, and the confrontation had devolved into flailing limbs and hair pulling. The air marshal had had to separate them, and she'd accidentally caught him in the throat with her elbow.

Not her finest moment.

She'd been escorted off the plane, and the video of the whole thing had gone viral almost immediately.

She shook her head and closed the video. Her pulse throbbed ominously in her temples, warning her of an oncoming headache. Everything was falling apart, and hell if she knew how to fix it.

A gawky guy with a slim build approached her table, and as his eyes met Taylor's through his thick horn-rimmed glasses, a chill crept over her skin. His dark brown hair was long on top and shaved close on the sides, his plain white T-shirt and jeans boring but clean. A surge of something weird, something cold, pushed up through her chest, and she forced herself to take a breath. He was probably just a fan looking for a picture. She should be grateful she still had fans. And yet something about this guy set her on edge.

“Hi, um, Taylor? Taylor Ross?” His voice was higher than she'd expected.

“Yeah, hi,” she said, wanting to get this interaction over with.

“Can I, um, get a picture?” His eyes darted around the bar, oddly bright, and the hairs on the back of her neck prickled. He pushed his glasses back up his nose and made an awkward, fluttering gesture with his hand before shoving it in his pocket. She glanced around, trying to figure out what he was looking at.

She plastered a smile on her face that she hoped didn't look as fake as it felt. “Sure.” Pressing her palms against the table, she stood from her booth.

He slipped his arm around her, and another chill shivered down her spine, making her shrink away from him a little. Raising his phone in front of them, he took the picture. Relieved, she started to move away from him, but his arm tightened around her. He smiled shyly.

“One more.” She held still for the picture and didn't smile this time. As soon as he'd clicked the button, she pulled away. He let her this time, his fingers trailing over her waist and leaving her feeling as though she'd been slimed. “You shouldn't be here by yourself. I can keep you company.”

“No thanks.” She turned away and moved to slip back into the booth when he tapped her on her shoulder. She spun, ready to tell him to fuck off, but froze at the look on his face, his eyes blazing, his lips curled into a thin sneer.

When he spoke, his voice was quiet and determined. “But I want to. You have to let me.”

Anger melted her fear, and she scoffed out an impatient laugh. “I don't have to let you do sh—” But the rest of her words died as he grabbed her, curling a surprisingly strong hand around her arm, and her heart leaped into her throat. There was a time when she hadn't gone anywhere without security, but that level of fame was long behind her.

“Get off me,” she growled through clenched teeth, jerking away from him. His fingers dug in harder, and she raised her knee, ready to hit him in his tiny balls.

“What's going on here?” At the sound of the deep voice, the creep released her.

“Nothing.” The creep stuffed his phone back into his pocket and stalked away toward the exit, disappearing quickly into the crowd. Taylor let out the breath she'd been holding, her shoulders slumping slightly. Her skin itched, a physical remnant of the anxiety.

“Are you okay?” The man's voice was deliciously warm and rumbly, washing over her and chasing away the chill the creep had left behind.

“Yeah, I…thanks.” Taking another deep breath, she ran her hands through her hair and turned to face her rescuer. For the second time in as many minutes, her heart was in her throat, but for an entirely different reason now.

Taken individually, the man's features were all so pretty. The intensely green eyes with the long lashes. The perfectly formed nose. The high, sculpted cheekbones. The lush, tempting mouth. The thick, short, light brown hair. And yet together, all prettiness disappeared, coalescing into the most handsome male face she'd ever seen. Her eyes scraped down his body, and she took in the way his black Led Zeppelin T-shirt was stretched tight over strong, broad shoulders and hugged his thick, muscular biceps. His right arm was covered in a sleeve tattoo, consisting entirely of intricate, detailed feathers overlapping each other, muscles rippling beneath the ink. The T-shirt fell straight down over his flat stomach and narrow waist, leading to well-built legs clad in denim.

He looked…sturdy. Like he'd been made to lean on.

She couldn't remember ever having that initial impression of a guy before. Hot, yes. Sexy, sure. But sturdy? That was a new one.

“I…need another drink.” Taking a deep breath and trying to get her heart to slow down, she grabbed her purse and jacket out of the booth and made her way toward the bar at the back of the room. Her rescuer followed a few feet behind.

“Jack and Coke, please.” She tipped her head at the bartender and could feel the gorgeous guy's eyes on her, leaving her skin tingling with excitement.

“You sure you're all right?” He turned sideways to face her, leaning one arm on the bar. Never had a man looked so good in an old T-shirt and jeans. Never. And never had a man been so immediately appealing. It was the model-worthy face paired with that deep, rumbly voice; the strong, muscular body with the relaxed, confident posture; the alertness in his gaze with his slow, easy smile.

“I'm fine. Really, he should be thanking you. It's because of you that his balls are still intact.”

He chuckled, the sound low and warm. “Trust me, there isn't a doubt in my mind that you can take care of yourself.”

She arched an eyebrow, twirling a finger around the rim of her fresh Jack and Coke. “So why'd you come over?”

“I was worried about the guy's balls.” He winked, and she found herself smiling as her heart flickered in her chest.

The man scrubbed a hand over his hair and smiled, flashing a row of straight, white teeth, and the skin around his light emerald eyes crinkled in a way that had her stomach doing a slow turn. The bartender pointed at him, and he nodded.

She sat down on the barstool, crossed her legs, and ran her hands through her hair again. “I'm Taylor.”

He nodded and picked up the bottle of beer the bartender had set down in front of him. “I know.” He took a swig of the beer, and she watched his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed. A faint layer of stubble covered his jaw, and she found herself wondering what that stubble would feel like beneath her fingertips or against her neck, rasping over her skin. “I'm Colt.”

Her heart gave a little kick against her ribs. “Thanks again for stepping in.” She signaled to the bartender and pointed at Colt's beer. “You can go ahead and put that on my tab.”

He smiled at her again, a cocky half grin that sent heat chasing over her skin. “You don't have to do that. That asshole crossed a line with you, and I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

She shook her head, returning the smile. “I'm trying to say thank you.”

“Well, in that case, you're welcome.” He leaned in closer. Jesus, he smelled good. Like warm leather and something else both mouthwatering and masculine. She bit her lip and looked down into her drink.

“Anyway. Thank you for the drink. I should let you get back to whatever you were working on,” he said, tipping his head at her notebook.

It was her turn to lean in, and she smiled sweetly, looking up at him through her lashes. “Nah. You vanquished a creepy nerd for me. Have a seat.”

He touched his thumb to his lips as his eyes traveled up and down her body and a slow smile turned up the corners of his mouth, his eyes crinkling once again. “Yeah. Okay.”

He sat down on the bar stool next to her, pulling in close, his broad body angled toward her, but instead of feeling crowded, she felt sheltered. Her eyes slammed into his, and heat flared through her.

Oh, holy hell, but this man is trouble.

“So you didn't know that guy?” The way his low voice rumbled over the words sent a warm shiver down her spine and curled her toes.