Southern speak is music.” Alessandra flipped a hand through the air, splashing water onto those lickable abs. “It’s country music and you know how I feel about that.” “Be careful, my emo-tastic girl. You’re filling my head with all kinds of torturous country music thoughts.” She mimicked his accent. “Just saying ya have lousy taste in music, s’all.” Amped up chords screeched through the tiled room and Sabin’s hands shot over his ears. “This from a woman who enjoys some idiot screaming like rooster in the hen house.” “What? Jack is a genius,” she teased as if her cowboy was insane to be irritated by the staccato strains of Icky Thump. “Just keep on inspiring me, Alessandra, and see where it lands you.” The devil that flashed in Sabin’s eyes told her she’d just made a huge mistake. Torturous country music thoughts. What the hell is that? Whatever it was, she wasn’t going to like it.