by Frankie Love
Seeing me gaping like a fish, she flashes me a dazzling grin. “What do you think?” she asks, performing a twirl that gives me a peek at her perfect ass in those short shorts.
“I think,” I growl, setting the drinks on the dresser, “that we’re not leaving this bedroom tonight, after all.”
I seize Jenna and kiss her, red lipstick be damned. She kisses me back, melting in my arms, but then pulls away, giggling. “I didn’t go to all this work to stay in,” she informs me, picking up her drink. “Now get dressed and let’s get out of here!”
Ten minutes and several kisses later, I’m dressed in dark jeans and a black button-down, which is the closest to casual that I get. Jenna begs me to wear a cowboy hat that she pulls from behind her back, but I kiss her enough that she drops the subject.
It’s a gorgeous late-summer evening; the first stars are winking in the dusk. I open the passenger side door for Jenna, and she oohs and aahs at this special treatment. Then, we’re off to downtown Snow Valley, chatting about our favorite country singers as we do. (Dolly Parton is a champion to us both.)
When we enter the bar, Jenna immediately goes to get us drinks while I find us a table. The lights are dim and hazy, and the floor is sticky with spilled beer. Still, I knew that it was the kind of place that Jenna would love.
“This is great!” she yells over the music, confirming my suspicions as we sit down. She slides a whiskey over to me after taking a sip herself. Her drink of choice, as always, is a gin and tonic. Her scarlet lips curve into a sultry grin over the rim of her glass. I reach out and brush my hand over her arm, always eager to be touching her.
“Have you ever line danced before?” I ask. She shakes her head. Grabbing my drink in one hand, I offer my other hand to her. “Then let’s get going, little lady.”
“Is that your attempt at a southern drawl?” she laughs.
I shrug and grin. “I think it could be worse.”
A small gaggle of people are on the dance floor, singing along to an Alan Jackson song as they line dance. I am absolutely certain I’ll make a fool out of myself, and have resigned myself to my fate. Jenna, on the other hand, picks it up almost immediately. “Come on, Matt!” she encourages, squeezing my hand tightly and tugging me onto the dance floor.
I stumble through several steps as Jenna dances expertly. I get lost watching her luscious hips sway, her breasts in their tiny bra jiggling as she hops. She catches me staring and winks, then nudges me in the side. “A little less looking, a little more dancing,” she admonishes me. I do my best, which isn’t great.
Eventually, after Jenna has made friends with everyone around us, the music shifts to a popular modern club song. Jenna turns so that her back is to my front, and, grinning at me over her shoulder, grinds against me seductively. I feel a twitch in my pants as I place my hands on her hips, slowly moving down to caress the soft skin of her thighs below her short shorts. God, she turns me on so effortlessly. I’ve never been with a woman who oozes sensuality and confidence the way she does.
“Having fun?” I murmur in her ear before kissing down her neck.
“Mmm,” she purrs. “Lots of fun.”
“There’s something I forgot to tell you about this place,” I whisper.
She turns around, draping her arms around my neck, her head tilted. “What?”
Just then, a tall man in a cowboy hat strides onto the small stage in the front of the room. “Our weekly karaoke contest is about to begin!” he announces to scattered applause and whoops. Jenna’s blue eyes widen and she looks at me suspiciously. I shrug innocently.
“Still trying to get me to sing for you, huh?” she asks with a raised brow.
“Maybe,” I confess. “C’mon. You’re a star. Karaoke should be no big deal for you.”
Jenna looks toward the stage, her expression wistful. “I do love karaoke…” she says. When she looks back at me, she’s grinning widely. “I’m going to sing a song. Just for you.”
“I’m a lucky guy.”
She pecks me on the cheek and runs to the stage to sign up. I head to the bar, ordering us another round of drinks. Something, however, tells me she won’t need any liquid courage for this.
Jenna sits down with me and we watch the first few contestants sing. One person wails their way through I Wanna Dance With Somebody, while another belts out Aerosmith’s Dream On, a song I would prefer be left to Steven Tyler. When I visibly wince, though, Jenna pokes me in the ribs. “They’re doing their best,” she giggles quietly. “Singing is hard, and I appreciate anyone who gets up there and tries.” Sure enough, she claps loudly and enthusiastically after each performance. I try to match her gusto.
When the man in the cowboy hat calls her name, Jenna turns to me and seizes my hand. “Here goes nothing!” She kisses me on the cheek and practically skips up to the stage, looking happier than I’ve seen her so far. I lean back in my chair, crossing my arms over my chest. I have a feeling we’re all in for a treat.
When the opening notes for Pat Benatar’s Hit Me With Your Best Shot start to play on the karaoke track, the crowd erupts in hoots and hollers, mine among them. Jenna takes the microphone out of its stand, strutting around the stage and working the crowd before she even starts to sing. I can’t help but grin. She’s definitely in her happy place up there.
When the first notes leave her mouth, my jaw drops open. I knew she was a good singer; I could tell just from her humming and whistling, and knew she toured with a band of moderate renown. Still--and I’m not prone to hyperbole--her singing is beyond what I knew a human was capable of. Each note is strong, gorgeous, crystal-clear with a sexy growling edge: the voice of a true rocker. Her charisma, too, is off the charts, from every dip of her hips to the winks and grins she gifts to the spellbound crowd. I’m just as enchanted as the rest of the audience, and feel something like pride swelling in my chest. She’s with me, I want to shout, as if this were a teen drama from the 1950’s. Instead, I say nothing, but can’t stop smiling.
That’s my girl.
When the song is over, she strikes a pose, and the crowd loses their collective mind. People stagger to their feet, clapping and cheering as if she just scored the winning touchdown at a football game. Jenna bows, and waves, and bows again, mouthing thank you’s to the front row. It’s a truly magical moment. I wonder if she’s reliving her time touring with her band, and a bittersweet taste enters my mouth. If she were to truly marry me and move to Snow Valley, her time with her band would probably be over…
I don’t have time to dwell on this, because Jenna hurries back to the table, beaming hugely. “That was so much fun!” she exclaims, her eyes sparkling like the stars outside.
I stand up and wrap her in my arms, planting a kiss on her forehead. “You were incredible,” I whisper in her ear. “The best singer I’ve ever heard.”
“Oh, stop it,” she murmurs, but I squeeze her even more tightly.
“I mean it,” I say with conviction. Then, to prove my point, I dip her in my arms and kiss her with as much passion I can muster.
When we leave the bar, her plastic first place trophy clutched proudly to her chest, I kiss her again, beneath the smattering of stars.
“You’re something else, Jenna Cook,” I whisper.
She looks up at me, her eyes dancing. “You mean it?”
I smirk. “I didn’t say what the ‘something else’ was.”
She swats at me playfully, and we hold hands all the way home.
Chapter Eight
Jenna
“Oh, my God! Jenna!”
My best friend Sarah squeals and drops her baggage as I run to her and hug her tightly. I can’t believe that I’ve been in Snow Valley for three months now and haven’t seen Sarah in just as long. Usually, we spend every weekend together, doing a bunch of different things: participating in band practice, going to brunch, going shopping, or best of all, listening to music while dancing like crazy people. I’ve been so happy in Snow Valley, but it hasn’t been the
same without my bestie.
“It’s so good to see you,” I say into her thick masses of wavy brown hair, still squeezing her tightly.
“You, too!” Sarah pulls away and holds me at arm’s length. “You look incredible. I was worried this tiny town would dull your sparkle, but you’re still shining all over the place!”
I laugh and pick up her bags. “Thanks, babe,” I say. “I’m doing my damndest.”
We leave the airport and head to Matt’s house. Sarah was originally going to stay in a hotel, but Matt insisted on having her stay in his guestroom. When we arrive at his place, Sarah gives a low whistle, eyeing the structure appreciatively. “This place is gorgeous, Jen,” she says.
“Isn’t it?” I agree. “Let me show you the rest of the house.”
We take a quick tour, ending in the guestroom. Sarah flops backward onto the bed and moans in delight. “So comfy,” she says. “This is better than my bed at home. I’m going to have to take it with me.”
“I thought the same thing when I stayed in here.”
Sarah raises a brow. “So there’s only one guestroom, huh?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, where do you sleep?”
I feel myself flush, and Sarah laughs, clapping her hands together in glee. “I knew it! I knew things were getting serious with you two!”
“I’ll tell you all about it,” I promise, “when I have at least two Bloody Marys in front of me. Deal?”
She grins. “Deal.”
Fifteen minutes later, my first cocktail is being served to me, and an order of pancakes and bacon is on its way. Our brunch spot of choice is in Snow Valley’s picturesque downtown, and today it’s packed full of folks trying to escape the early-season snow. Snow Valley is certainly living up to its name as flurries swirl outside the restaurant window, and the town could easily be the setting of a Hallmark movie. I can’t help but feel a little like the heroine of one myself. Who would’ve thunk? I muse contentedly to myself as I sip my drink, reveling in its spice.
“What’ve you been up to?” I ask my best friend as she nibbles on a piece of toast.
“A whole lot of nothing,” she sighs. “Playing guitar sometimes, smoking sometimes, missing you… That’s about it, really.”
“What about clubbing?” I ask.
She grins. “Okay, a fair amount of clubbing. There’s a new spot down the street from me--I think you’d really love it!”
Sarah chatters on excitedly about the atmosphere of the new club, and I feel a knot tighten in my chest. I’ve only been away for a few months and yet New York seems like a distant memory. I’m supposed to decide in the next month if I want to stay here or move back home--Matt and I, after all, have to be married by Christmas. When I first came to Snow Valley, the obvious choice was that I’d leave after a perfunctory attempt to satisfy my grandparents. Now, my perspective seems unfocused, like I’m trying to look at my future through a smudged camera lens.
“Sarah,” I say suddenly, just as my second drink arrives. “I need to talk to you.”
Her brown eyes, usually sparkling with fun, narrow as her expression turns serious. “I’m all ears all the time, baby,” she says, reaching across the table to grab my hand. “You know that.”
“I know.” I swallow hard, suddenly losing my appetite for breakfast. “This is wild to say, but… I’m not all that sure I’m coming back to New York.”
She nods, as if she had suspected what I was going to say. “So it is serious with this guy, huh?”
“He’s just…” I fumble for words, fiddling with a napkin. “He’s incredible, Sarah. You know I wouldn’t say that lightly. I had Matt all wrong. I thought he was going to be so uptight because he’s a lawyer, but he’s fun and goofy and surprising. And he’s so thoughtful. He remembers everything I say, even the dumb stuff, and leaves me a note every single morning before he goes to work. They’re little things, but they make a difference, you know?”
Sarah sighs wistfully, squeezing my hand. “I know.”
“I just…” Our food arrives and I get to be silent for a moment, trying to figure out what I want to say next. I drizzle my pile of pancakes with syrup as Sarah digs into her omelet. I poke idly at a pancake with my fork, feeling like a kid who’s playing with their food to avoid eating it.
I heave a sigh and put my fork down. “I just want to know the right thing to do,” I say, gesturing wildly with my hands, as I tend to do when I get frustrated. “I want to know if it’s right to stay here and get married to a man I’ve only known for a few months, or if it’s right to go home and pretend he never existed. And, oh, God, Sarah, the band…” I bury my face in my hands, feeling bitter tears prickle at my eyelashes. “What will we do about the band? What if I don’t come back? Will you all hate me?”
“Oh, my God, Jen,” Sarah says as she gets out of her chair and crosses to mine. She stoops to wrap her arms around my shoulders as I slump in my chair, trying not to cry. “We could never hate you. The band has had a good run, you know? And Josie and Lil already have side projects, and have been wanting to devote more time to those, anyway. And who knows? Maybe you’ll get married and spend a few years here, and then go on tour for a little bit again. Nothing has to be set in stone just because you’re married.”
“But it’s crazy, right?” I look up at her with teary eyes as she sits back down, watching me worriedly. “It’s absolutely bananas to even consider marrying a guy I’ve known for three months, right?”
Sarah toys with the idea as she takes another bite of her omelet and another sip of her mimosa. “I don’t know, Jenna,” she admits. “It’s kind of crazy, but sometimes the best ideas are.” She flashes a sudden grin at me. “Like, remember when we were nineteen and decided we wanted to start a band?”
I laugh, wiping a tear away with my fingertips. “Very true,” I concede, finally starting on my pancakes. Sometimes, just airing your worries with your best friend helps your appetite come back with a vengeance.
We eat and chat for a while, and I feel considerably better. It’s comforting to know that whatever choice I make, I’ll have Sarah’s support. Near the end of the meal, though, it feels like a rock has settled in my stomach. I brush it off as lingering anxiety, but when we split the check and gather our coats, I realize that I’m going to be sick.
“I’ll be right back,” I say in a rush to Sarah, and practically sprint to the bathroom.
When I emerge about ten minutes later, looking even paler than usual, Sarah’s holding my coat and looking concerned. “Are you okay?” she asks.
“Yeah, sorry,” I mumble, not wanting to go into detail. I take my coat from her and offer a weak smile. “Probably ate something weird. Let’s go home and watch some dumb movies, okay?”
When we’re back at Matt’s, though, I’m curl into the fetal position on the leather couch while nursing an aching stomach. I lay with my head in Sarah’s lap and she strokes my hair. “You sure you’re okay, baby?” she asks.
“Ugh, I hope it’s not food poisoning,” I say. “Especially since you’re only here for a few days.”
“Don’t worry about me!” she exclaims. “I can entertain myself no matter what. You know that. You just focus on feeling better. What should we watch next?”
I pick up the remote and flip through our streaming service of choice. I settle on an old romcom that Sarah and I loved years ago. Halfway through it, we’re cackling like we’re teenagers again. Suddenly, I feel an awful twinge in my stomach.
“Oh, God,” I mutter, and run to the bathroom again. I barely make it in time.
When it’s over, I sit on the cold tile, drawing my knees up to my chest. I haven’t felt this terrible in a while. I usually only get sick when I’ve had too much to drink, which is an unfortunately common occurrence on tour. But I only had two Bloody Marys this morning, which isn’t much given my tolerance. Something else must be going on.
I hear a tentative knock on the door. “Jen?” Sarah asks. “Can I come
in?”
“I’ll be out in a sec,” I say.
“No, just let me come in there.”
I roll my eyes but am secretly comforted by her persistence. “Okay, fine.”
Sarah opens the door and tiptoes into the large bathroom. She unceremoniously plops down on the floor opposite me, mimicking the position in which I’m sitting. “How are you doing, buddy?” she asks.
I wince and place a hand on my stomach. “Not great. Come to think of it, I felt kind of nauseous yesterday too, but I didn’t get sick like this. I wonder if I have the flu.”
Sarah looks at me so intently that I can only ask, “What?”
“Jenna,” she says, her brows furrowed, “Have you and Matt been using protection?”
The implication of her words immediately hits me like a freight train.
“Yes,” I say firmly, batting away the sudden panic building in my gut. “I’m not on the pill because I don’t love chemicals in my body, but we always use condoms.”
“Always?” Sarah presses.
“I mean, most of the time,” I admit feebly. “Maybe once or twice we just got caught up in the moment, you know? And we slipped?”
My best friend throws me a serious look. “That’s something that you can do on the pill and not worry about later, but if you’re only using condoms, you know what can happen…”
“Oh, my God,” I sputter, grabbing a fistful of my hair in trepidation. “Do you think… OMG, do you think I’m pregnant?”
The silence between us speaks volumes.
“Oh my God,” I breathe, looking down at my stomach in a new light. It definitely doesn’t look any different. I wrack my brain, trying to think of the last time Matt and I didn’t use a condom. There was one time a few weeks ago, and one a few weeks before that. My heart begins to thud in double time. Either one of those instances could have resulted in me getting pregnant.
“Do you have any pregnancy tests?” Sarah asks.
