Without really thinking about it, I clasped her hand while we walked. It was small and soft against my calloused palm.
It felt good.
Moonshine Diner had been a staple in Bootleg Springs for as long as I could remember. Hadn’t changed much, either, which I appreciated. Still filled the block around it with the scent of good cooking.
Most of the tables were full tonight, but there was an open one near the back. The din of conversation hushed for a few seconds when we walked in. Heads turned. People watched. Some whispered to each other.
I held Callie’s hand and ignored them. It only took a few seconds for people to go back to their dinners, the noise level rising again.
It was working. We were hiding her in plain sight.
Clarabell appeared next to our table half a second after we sat down. “Hey, y’all. This must be Maya. I’m Clarabell. So nice to meet you, sweetie.”
“Thanks,” Callie said. “Nice to meet you too.”
“Gibson Bodine, I’m plum tickled you brought her in,” Clarabell said. She turned back to Callie. “I’ve been dying to meet the girl who finally tamed this one. What with everyone else in his family pairing off, gettin’ themselves engaged and whatnot, it’s high time he settled down too.”
Callie gave me an amused smile. “You think he’s ready for that?”
“Oh sure. They all are, sweetie; it just takes some of them longer to figure out what’s best for them.”
“All right, Clarabell,” I said. “Can we just have our menus?”
“Of course.” She handed us each a menu.
I put mine down without looking.
“Can I get you anything to drink to start?” she asked.
“Water.”
“I’d love a sweet tea,” Callie said.
“Coming right up,” Clarabell said, then walked away.
Callie leaned across the table and lowered her voice to a whisper. “She looks exactly the same. Do they still have those huge waffles with the whipped cream topping?”
“For breakfast, yeah.”
Her eyes lit up. “Can we come back in the morning?”
God, that smile. “Sure.”
She scrunched her shoulders and went back to her menu.
Clarabell came back to take our orders and thankfully left out any more relationship commentary. Our food didn’t take long to come out—an open-faced turkey sandwich for me, roast beef with mashed potatoes for Callie.
Sallie Mae Brickman walked by our table no less than eight times during the course of our meal, pretending like she’d forgotten how to get to the restroom. And I heard people whispering things about us, as if they didn’t realize we could hear them.
’Bout time that Gibson got himself a woman in his life.
With all his siblings fixin’ to get hitched, it’s a good thing he found her.
They make a cute couple, don’t they?
I still say she’s a mail-order bride.
Callie stifled a giggle with her hand. “Mail-order bride?”
I rolled my eyes. “I don’t know where they got that one.”
“About that. I’ve been meaning to ask, did you find me in the online catalog, or the print version?”
“Print,” I said, not missing a beat. “Your hair really stood out on that glossy paper.”
She fluffed her hair out. “Ah, so it was my mermaid hair that sucked you in.”
God, Callie, everything about you is sucking me in. “Must have been.”
“Well, I’m glad you picked me. Although if I’m a mail-order bride, where’s my ring?” She held out her left hand, fingers splayed.
Clarabell stopped at our table right as Callie said where’s my ring. “That’s a good question, sweetie.” She lowered her voice, as if somehow that was going to keep Callie from hearing. “Gibs, if you’re fixin’ to pop the question to your lady, let me know. We can hide the ring in her dessert.”
“Simmer down, Clarabell, that won’t be necessary.”
Callie stifled another giggle.
Clarabell shrugged. “Suit yourself. But if you ask me, not enough of y’all are getting engaged in my diner. It’s a perfectly romantic spot.”
“Has anyone gotten engaged here?” Callie asked.
“Sure have. Ricky Grant proposed to Susannah Varney right there where you’re sitting.”
“That must have been twenty-five years ago,” I said.
“Most likely,” she said with a smile. “It was an exciting day.”
“That’s sweet,” Callie said.
Clarabell took our empty plates. “Sweet as my strawberry rhubarb pie. Speaking of, can I get you two lovebirds some dessert?”
Lovebirds? Jesus. “No. Just the check so we can get out of here.”
“All right, don’t get your britches in a bunch.” She glanced at Callie. “You sure, sweetie? I have some lemon meringue pie that’s a little slice of heaven.”
“Thanks, but dinner was so good, I couldn’t eat another bite.”
Clarabell smiled and went to get our check. I took some money out of my wallet and dropped it on the table. It was more than enough for dinner and a nice tip. Too big of a tip, what with Clarabell’s questions about rings and engagements. But I just wanted to get out of Moonshine.
Callie put a hand to her stomach while we walked to my truck. “I’m so full, but it was so worth it.”
“Glad you enjoyed it.”
“What’s next? Bonfire at Scarlett’s?”
“That’s the plan.” I opened the truck door for her again. Kinda wished it was my Charger. She’d look damn good in the front seat of my baby.
We drove down to Scarlett’s place, a little postage-stamp-sized cottage on the lake. Because she was Scarlett, it was cute. And although she and Devlin were pretty cramped living there together, her little scrap of beach was great for a bonfire.
I parked among the cars and trucks already here. We got out and wandered down to the beach. Music played from someone’s stereo, there were two coolers full of beer, and a whole mess of people stood, sat, laughed, danced, and drank around the fire.
Jameson was dragging what was basically a tree trunk toward the already large bonfire. Bowie and Buck helped him hoist it onto the pile, sending a flurry of sparks into the sky.
I said the requisite hellos to my sister and Devlin. Scarlett squealed with excitement and made sure to address Maya by name—loudly. Leah Mae and Cassidy were more subtle, greeting her with friendly hugs.
June and George arrived with June’s pet pig, Katherine. George joined Bowie and Jameson while June found a spot off to the side and opened a book, using her headlamp to light the pages.
Callie and I sat on one of the old logs that served as a bench. I hesitated for a second, glancing around, then gently put my arm around her. It was what a boyfriend would do. I expected her to stiffen or shy away. But she didn’t. She nestled in closer, letting her arm drape over my leg, and rested her head against my chest.
The lavender smell of her hair was strangely relaxing, and her warm body felt good tucked up against mine. There was nothing awkward. Nothing forced. This didn’t feel like pretending. It felt like she really was my girl. And the craziest part was how much I liked that idea.
I was about as anti-relationship as a guy could get. Somehow my siblings had sailed into adulthood still willing to take a chance on love. Not me. Maybe it was because I was the oldest. I remembered too much of what my parents had been like. Sure, they’d had their moments. Dancing in the kitchen. Smiling together. Acting like they didn’t feel trapped by marriage and family.
But those moments weren’t what had stuck in my memory. When I looked back, I saw the fighting. The resentment. The regrets. I’d decided a long time ago that I wasn’t going to do that to myself. And I wasn’t going to drag someone else down with me, either.
But ever since Callie had shown up at my door and jumped into my arms, I’d been thinking things. Dangerous things. And with her leaning against me like
this, soft and familiar, it felt like all those reasons I’d held onto didn’t matter nearly as much as I’d thought.
“Hey Gibs, how about a song?” Buck asked. He held an old acoustic guitar out toward me.
Callie sat up and I reluctantly dropped my arm to take the guitar. I settled it in my lap and strummed a chord. Out of tune. Took me a minute to tune it, but when I was done, it didn’t sound half bad.
I plucked the strings, letting a song come to me. “Mamas Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys” felt right. Long title, but a damn good song. Someone turned off the music as I strummed the opening chords and sang the first line.
A few bars in, a voice joined mine. Callie’s. We’d sung this song together a hundred times. Of course, no one else knew that. No one else in Bootleg had really known she could sing.
She found the harmony easily, and I shifted so I could see her while I played. The firelight reflected off her glasses and made her skin glow. Her sultry voice mingled with my deeper tone. She sounded different now. I’d noticed it the other night. Teenage Callie’s voice had been soft and pure, like a bell. Maya’s voice was richer, sexier. It was mesmerizing.
I lost track of everything but the music. The heat of the fire, the people dancing, talking, laughing—it all went away. It was just me and Callie, alone in the woods again. Singing an old favorite.
The song ended and the party erupted in whoops and hollers. My eyes stayed locked with hers. She smiled at me and my heart nearly beat right out of my chest.
I was in big fucking trouble.
14
MAYA
Life in Bootleg Springs moved at a different pace. It was slower. More relaxed. People lingered on the street corners to catch up on the latest gossip. Stopped to help their neighbors bring in groceries. Brought people homemade muffins and jam in a basket, just because.
It was a far cry from life in the music business. Touring, moving from city to city. Waking up in a new place every few days, sometimes without really knowing where you were. Long hours spent in the studio with the constant pressure to deliver.
I’d been here less than a week, and I could already feel myself acclimating. It helped that I wasn’t working. I checked in with Oliver again and let him know I was staying in the area to take care of some personal business. He said he was glad I was taking a break.
Gibson had an order to fill, so I’d spent the last couple of days happily relaxing at his house while he worked. As promised, he’d taken me to Moonshine for breakfast—twice—and their waffles were just as delicious as I remembered. In addition to eating too much, I’d watched a baking competition show—and subsequently ruined three batches of macarons thinking I could duplicate what I’d seen—practiced yoga in the field outside his house, and painted my nails to match my hair.
It was the most downtime I’d had in ages, and it was surprisingly nice. I didn’t usually slow down like this. I went from project to project. City to city. Always moving, never sitting still.
The sun was shining this afternoon, so I grabbed my handbag and went outside. Gibson had a single chair out on the back porch, facing a view of the woods beyond. I settled in, sitting sideways so I could drape my legs over one arm. The air was fresh and clean, a light breeze easing the heat of the late summer day. The sound of Gibson’s power tools carried from his workshop.
Gibson Bodine. He was such an enigma. Usually I was adept at getting to the heart of a person—at figuring out what made them tick. It was what made me good at my job. But Gibson was hard to crack. One thing I knew for sure. He was hiding a lot of pain behind that angry façade.
What happened to you, Gibson? Who hurt you so badly?
When I worked with a struggling artist or band, I liked to leave them with something that would keep them on the right track after I’d gone. I couldn’t be there forever to make sure they didn’t drift back into conflict or malaise or self-doubt.
Sometimes I taught them meditation techniques to stay calm. I’d done conflict resolution role-playing, left a box of notes with things to spark creativity, and helped brainstorm ideas for hobbies that would give them some downtime. No one would ever believe how many badass rock stars I’d taught to crochet.
I felt like Gibson needed something else in his life. Something to soften him up a little. Bring him some happiness. But what would make Gibson happy? He wasn’t exactly a people person, that was obvious. His work seemed to be fulfilling, and he had his music.
I thought back on Oliver’s offer, but it was impossible to imagine Gibson as a rock star. He had the talent for it, no question. And the looks. Fans would eat up Gibson Bodine with a spoon. Even his prickly personality wouldn’t be a problem, not from a popularity standpoint. His gruff demeanor combined with that husky voice of his—not to mention his rugged sex appeal—would be absolute catnip to millions. With the right backing, he’d be huge.
And he’d hate it.
Oliver would sign him in a heartbeat. And just to be sure I wasn’t making the wrong assumption, I’d ask Gibson about it again. But I was almost positive I knew the answer. He didn’t want that life.
Some people did. They wanted fame and fortune and the rush of playing for a packed house. Thousands of people screaming their name, singing along to their songs. They lived for it. And you could tell those people from the ones who didn’t. The ones who loved music, but didn’t want the trappings of a life in the spotlight.
Gibson was one of those. I was almost certain of it.
I wondered if he’d ever considered getting a pet. Maybe a dog. I could see him with a sweet dog at his side. A loyal companion, jumping in the passenger seat of his truck, tongue hanging out. Curling up at his feet at the end of a long day. And the thought of Gibson with a puppy was ovary-melting.
Maybe a dog would help. I’d have to see what he thought about the idea.
Although thinking about leaving him with something made me think about leaving. Which made my heart hurt.
This little unrequited crush I was nursing kept growing. The fact that we were pretending to be together in public only made it worse. I found myself living for those moments when he’d hold my hand or wrap an arm around my shoulders. Snuggling with him at Scarlett’s bonfire the other night had been like a daydream come true. I’d nestled into him, and for a little while, allowed myself to pretend it was real.
I knew I was setting myself up for disappointment. We were just friends. That was how it had always been between us. He played the part well, when other people were watching. His touches felt awfully real; I was sure they looked convincing from the outside. But when we were alone, he kept his distance. It reminded me that this wasn’t my home, and Gibson Bodine wasn’t my boyfriend.
The noise of power tools quieted. This little fantasy I harbored wasn’t realistic anyway. Even if Gibson did see me that way, what would I do about it? My life wasn’t here. As nice as it had been to visit Bootleg Springs again, that was all it was. A visit. It wasn’t like I could stay.
I pulled my song journal out of my bag and flipped through the pages. Snippets. Unfinished lyrics. Hastily scrawled melodies. I rarely jotted down more than a line or two. I wrote songs with other artists. I helped them get past their self-doubt to find the words and melodies that were waiting to come out. But writing my own songs had fallen by the wayside in the busyness of life on the road.
But really, lack of time wasn’t why I’d stopped writing. The songs in my head were too close to the truth. My truth. Every time I’d sat down with this book and a pen in my hand, I’d stalled out. Just like the artists I was so good at helping.
There was that hazy spot in my memory again. The box in my mind shook. Maybe being here would allow me to face whatever was inside, rattling around with so much noise.
But whenever I tried, there was nothing. It was like a foggy night, nothing but darkness and mist.
I closed the journal and put it back in my bag. I’d put all those things in the box for a reason. Maybe I just needed to
let the rest stay there.
I heard the noise of a door shutting, interrupting the quiet stillness of the afternoon. It sounded like Gibson had emerged from his workshop. A minute later, he stuck his head out the back door.
“Hey. I need a shower. Then we can head to the Tuckers’ place.”
He had sawdust in his hair and a few flecks in his beard. I could smell the faint scent of wood from here.
“Okay. I think I’ll change into something a little nicer.”
His eyes flicked up and down. “If you want.”
Without another word, he went inside.
To the outside world, Gibson and his girlfriend Maya were having dinner with Harlan and Nadine Tucker. In reality, this was a chance for the sheriff to interview me without blowing my cover. I appreciated that they were willing to do this for me, but I was nervous. This was the next step in not only revealing who I really was, but hopefully bringing the truth about Judge Kendall into the light. Which scared me to no end.
I couldn’t keep my real identity hidden forever. I’d already noticed a few people giving me curious looks in town. For now, our story was working, but news of who I really was would get out eventually.
Plus, I didn’t want to keep it from Bootleg much longer. This town had held out hope for me for so long, and I wanted more than anything to tell them I was alive. To thank them for never giving up on me. I loved them for that, more than I knew how to express.
I went inside to change and paused outside the bathroom door, listening to the sound of the shower. The thought of Gibson in there, hot water streaming over his body, made me tingly between the legs. I had a momentary urge to strip off my clothes, jump in, and surprise him.
If I’d thought he wanted me, I’d have done it. Right there and then. There was nothing wrong with a little friendly sex between two people who weren’t exactly dating. I wasn’t an innocent girl anymore. I’d had a fling or three.
Highball Rush: Bootleg Springs Book 6 Page 11
