Can't Let Her Go

by Sandy James

  “Sounds like a plan.” Besides, he always faced problems instead of avoiding them, which meant he wanted this trial by fire over and done.

  “Why are you scowling at me?”

  “I’m not.” Hand on the small of her back, he guided her to the door. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

  * * *

  The whole drive to her mother’s, Chelsea worried that she’d made a mistake in inviting Ethan to meet her mother. His mood was sour and she wished she knew if that was because he was being forced to meet her mother or if there was something else bugging him.

  Every attempt she made at conversation was deflected by Ethan with the expertise of a NHL goalie. By the time he pulled his truck into the driveway, she was ready to have him turn it around and take her right back to her home.

  When he popped his seatbelt and reached for the door handle, she grabbed his arm. “Wait. Please.”

  “What?”

  “Can I ask you something?”

  He nodded.

  “What’s got you so pissy today?”

  She’d expected him to get angrier because of the question, especially her rather abrupt wording. Instead, his features softened and he let out a small sigh. “I was being kinda pissy, wasn’t I?”

  “Yep. Care to explain why?”

  Another sigh. “This is new to me.”

  His pensive tone made her smile. “What’s new?”

  “Meeting the folks. I’ve never actually done something like this before.”

  “Never? You didn’t have a girlfriend who made you meet Mommy and Daddy?”

  “Not a one. Hell, I never got past a couple of dates before.”

  Chelsea couldn’t help but tease him. “Virgin territory, then? You know for a guy with your reputation, you seem to be rather…um…inexperienced.”

  At least Ethan chuckled. “Yeah, I suppose I do. This relationship stuff is new to me.”

  She took his hand and gave it a squeeze. “It’s only my mom, Ethan. This isn’t a big commitment or anything. You’re just meeting my mom.”

  “You’re right.” After returning her squeeze, he reached for the door again. “Ready?”

  “Absolutely.” Unlatching her own seatbelt, she opened the door before Ethan could come around to do it for her. She took his hand again and led him to the front door.

  Her parents’ house hadn’t changed in years. When they’d moved away from Nashville, they’d kept the house, renting it out until they finally returned. She’d sat on the same swing, run laps on the wraparound porch, and sung her heart out to the birds in the weeping willows. It was so easy to picture her father raking leaves or her mother hanging out the sheets on the clothesline.

  Thankfully, Chelsea’s publicist, Will, had foreseen the intrusive nature of the press and convinced her parents to put the house into a trust so their real names weren’t on the deed. No one seemed aware that this was the house where Chelsea Harris had grown up. Back then, she’d been known as Chelsea Maddox, a name she’d chosen to leave behind. Harris had come to her by accident. She’d been tossing around possible stage names with her agent, who happened to say she hoped Chelsea’s career soared. That image made her think of spaceships, which made her think of Star Wars, and then an image of Harrison Ford popped into her head. When she said she liked the name Harrison, her agent suggested shortening it to Harris, and Chelsea Harris had been born that day, leaving Chelsea Maddox and her Welsh roots behind.

  Never in her wildest imagination had she expected that she’d have the career she now enjoyed. Sure, there was the constant hassle of the press interfering in her life, and yet the love from the fans nourished her like blood fed a vampire. Until she’d met Ethan, she hadn’t considered reporters to be anything but a nuisance. Now, judging by his deep hatred for publicity, she fretted about whether they’d ruin any chance she had for something long-lasting with him.

  When he reached up to knock, Chelsea brushed his hand aside. “Family doesn’t knock.” She pushed the door open. “Hi, Mom. I’m home!”

  * * *

  There was so much joy in Chelsea’s voice that Ethan couldn’t help but smile.

  A plump middle-aged brunette, complete with apron and fuzzy slippers, came out into the hallway where he was helping Chelsea take off her jacket. “Chelsea!” She quickly wrapped her daughter in a warm hug.

  The aroma of home cooking filled his nostrils, and he breathed in deeply. When he’d been growing up, those wonderful smells had meant his mom and dad were back from whatever trip they’d been on. Once in her own kitchen, which wasn’t often, Dottie had gone crazy roasting and baking, probably trying to make up for being an absentee mother. Ethan would always stuff his belly and then try to hang on to his mom as much as possible before she and Crawfish went on the road again.

  “You must be Ethan,” the woman said after she’d turned her daughter loose.

  “Yes, ma’am.” He held out his hand.

  “Ethan Walker,” Chelsea said, “this is Betsy Maddox.”

  Instead of shaking his hand, Betsy grinned and hugged him.

  Dottie had been a thin, tall woman. Not this lady. She was full-figured and her hug gave him a weird sort of comfort. He even hugged her back.

  “Why don’t ya’ll come into the kitchen? I’ve got fresh coffee. God knows my Chelsea runs on the stuff.” She patted her daughter’s arm and then shuffled off in her purple slippers. “Fresh cinnamon rolls just came outta the oven.”

  “So that’s what smells so wonderful,” he said, following her. When Chelsea pulled out one of the bar stools at the big kitchen island, he did the same. A few moments later, they both had a mug of coffee in front of them.

  “Would you two like some rolls?” Betsy asked.

  “No, thank you, ma’am,” Ethan replied. “I’ll save mine for after lunch. Everything smells great.” He turned to Chelsea. “So Harris isn’t your real last name. You never told me that.”

  As she poured sweetener in her coffee, she shrugged.

  “Is it even Chelsea?”

  “Yeah, that’s my real first name. Chelsea. Chelsea Lorraine Maddox.”

  “Lorraine was my granny,” Betsy added. She poured herself a cup of coffee then turned to face the couple. “You’ll forgive me if I seem a bit…nervous, but Chelsea has never brought a beau home to meet me.”

  He stared at Chelsea. “Never? Now, who’s in virgin territory?”

  Her cheeks flushed pink as her mother chuckled.

  “Since her daddy’s passed…” All the humor seemed to flee from her features as Betsy leveled a hard stare at Ethan. “It falls to me to ask the question—what exactly are your intentions toward my daughter, Ethan Walker?”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Mom!” Chelsea felt as though she were blushing to the roots of her hair. “Stop being so silly!”

  “I’m silly? To worry about my only daughter?” Betsy feigned innocence, pressing a hand to her bosom. “I’m wounded to the core, Chelsea Lorraine.”

  The smile on Ethan’s face helped Chelsea relax. He’d taken the question for teasing. Oh, it might be disguised by exaggeration, but she knew better. Betsy Maddox looked and acted like Susie Homemaker for Ethan’s benefit, but she was as sharp as a tack and guarded her daughter like a tigress.

  “Not silly at all,” he said. “As for my intentions—”

  Chelsea put her hand over the one Ethan had rested on the counter. “Stop.” She glanced to her mother. She narrowed her eyes at her mother.

  With an airy chuckle, Betsy let her hand drop away from her chest. “I should stop teasing the poor man. He’s not used to the Maddox warped sense of humor.”

  The comment made Chelsea smile. Her father had always been irreverent and sarcastic, a trait shared by his wife and offspring. But that still didn’t excuse her mother’s thinly veiled fishing expedition.

  “On the contrary,” Ethan said. “I speak the same language since sarcasm is Uncle Joe’s native tongue.”

  “Uncle Joe?�
�� Betsy asked.

  While Ethan enlightened her about Joe’s role in his life, Chelsea settled back to sip her coffee. The ice was broken and he appeared no worse for the wear.

  Having drifted off in thought about what to wear to the wedding, she was startled when Ethan nudged her. “So am I really the first guy you ever brought home?”

  Betsy chimed in. “Absolutely. Why, even in high school, she was too busy singin’ to date. Skipped her senior prom.”

  Ethan chuckled. “A late bloomer, huh?”

  Before Chelsea could think of what to say, her phone rang.

  Saved by the ringtone.

  “It’s Addie. I better take it.” She slipped out of the kitchen to answer her assistant’s call. “What’s up?”

  “Did you know the Hitman was going to release a fucking video of you and Ethan singing?” Addie’s tone was agitated, which was a rare thing. One of the reasons Chelsea loved working with her was that she was virtually unflappable, even if she cursed a bit too much. The woman was solid as a rock.

  “Yeah, I knew,” Chelsea replied. “I forgot to tell you and Will. Brad said it would help preorders on the album. It was only supposed to be a minute or so, not the whole song. You know, good publicity and all.”

  “Oh, it was definitely publicity.” Addie snorted. “Good might be another story.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’ve been flooded with a shitstorm of calls, text, emails. Every fucking entertainment reporter in the country wants confirmation.”

  “Confirmation of what? That I’m doing a charity album? That’s old news.”

  “They want confirmation that you and Ethan are engaged,” Addie replied.

  “That’s crazy,” Chelsea insisted. “Why would a duet video make people think we’re engaged?”

  Addie didn’t have to answer, because Chelsea’s own naiveté stung her like a slap across the face. She’d been so thrilled with how great she and Ethan had sounded together, and so focused on making money for cancer research, that she hadn’t thought about other repercussions, especially how the press would react.

  “Chuck the Asshole Austin,” Addie said with venom in her voice. “He’s why.”

  “Chuck?” Chelsea asked. “What does he have to do with this?”

  “He blew up his social media this morning with comments about the recording session.”

  “Like what? The whole thing was a mess. I can’t imagine he’d want to post that Ethan had to sing every stupid note before he could carry a tune.” The session had been a nightmare. Why would Chuck embarrass himself like that?

  “Not a fucking word about himself. All he talks about is how you and Ethan were hot and heavy,” Addie said.

  “What?”

  “He said he could barely get his song down because you and Ethan were too busy pawing at each other.”

  That son of a bitch.

  Ethan came stomping into the hallway, a fierce scowl distorting his handsome face. “That son of a bitch.”

  “I take it Ethan found out,” Addie drawled.

  Chelsea sighed. “That would be my guess, too.”

  “Want me to release a statement of denial?” Addie asked.

  “No. Not yet, at least,” Chelsea replied. “We need to think this one through carefully. For now, our best tactic is probably silence.”

  “For the short term, I agree. Let me talk to Will and see what he recommends.”

  Since Will Laurence was a fantastic publicist and had done some great work for her and her career, he would definitely have some ideas on how to put out this fire. He was sure to be pissed that she hadn’t told him about the video. “Good idea,” Chelsea said. “I’ll get back to you after I talk to Ethan.”

  “Damn right, you’re talking to me,” he said with a scorching scowl.

  “Stay off all your social media accounts,” Addie advised.

  “Absolutely.” Chelsea ended the call, her head spinning.

  Despite her promise, the first thing she did was open one of her apps. Addie had meant to refrain from posting but there was no reason Chelsea couldn’t take a look to see if her assistant had been exaggerating the news. This whole engagement tale couldn’t be a big thing. All he was trying to do was start a stupid rumor. No one would care.

  Chelsea was trending.

  So was Ethan.

  So was their “engagement.”

  “Fuck a duck,” he said as he stared over her shoulder at his screen. “When I see Chuck, I’m gonna strangle him with my bare hands.”

  Since she was inclined to do the same, she didn’t scold him for the threat. It took all her willpower to not start posting that Chuck Austin was entirely full of shit.

  The nerve of the guy…

  “What’s going on?” her mother asked as she joined them. “Thought we were getting ready to eat.”

  “Remember the song I recorded with Vivian Austin’s son last night?” Chelsea asked.

  Betsy nodded.

  “Ethan and I sang the same song after Chuck Austin left.”

  “Why on earth would you do that?” her mother asked.

  “Chuck sounded like a braying donkey,” Ethan said. “So after he left, Chelsea and I sang it together.”

  “Ah. Sort of cleansed the palate, huh?”

  “Something like that,” he replied.

  Chelsea wanted to scream in frustration. Seemed like every step of the way, this album had been nothing but a headache.

  The road to good intentions…

  “And now…?” Betsy coaxed.

  “Chuck is all over Twitter, saying Ethan and I are engaged,” Chelsea replied.

  “Are you?” Betsy’s question was thankfully followed by a wink.

  “Why would he do this?” Chelsea asked, not caring if either person replied. All she wanted was to get Chuck to stop being a jerk. Unfortunately, the damage was done, and a bell couldn’t be unrung.

  “My guess,” Ethan said, “is that he’s pissed.”

  “Why would he be pissed? I was so patient with him last night. I sang until my throat hurt even when he kept screwing up!”

  “He’s pissed because we put our version online, and it was a helluva lot better than any of his million takes of the song.”

  That made perfect sense and also made her feel entirely stupid. “Everyone knows it’s his mom’s song. Why didn’t I think of that?”

  “We showed him up,” Ethan said. “He knows everyone will compare his version to ours, and his will come up short. Way short.”

  “I’m an idiot. I didn’t even think about that.”

  “Quit beating yourself up. Neither did Brad or I.”

  Chelsea gave her full attention to her phone, wanting to see the damage Chuck had done. Her time line was clogged with fans asking if the rumor was true. There was no way she could answer without making the feeding frenzy worse. If she and Ethan were seen together in public, everyone would just assume they were lying should they deny the engagement. Every eye would be on them if they did something as simple as get a bite to eat or go see a movie.

  “That’s a good one,” Ethan said, pointing at a post as he returned to reading over her shoulder. “What an asshole.”

  “What’s it say?” Betsy asked.

  “That Chelsea should demand I be tested for STDs before the wedding.”

  While she wanted to keep reading simply out of morbid curiosity, Chelsea closed the app and slid her phone in her pocket.

  “Hey!” he protested. “I was reading those.”

  The majority of what she’d read had been adamantly against the marriage, and she not only didn’t need to see that kind of negativity, she didn’t think Ethan did, either. The comments she’d read ranged from calling him the Hugh Hefner of Nashville to out-and-out insults on how people believed he was mishandling his parents’ legacy.

  She’d come to terms with his past. Whatever he’d done, he’d done it before he’d met her. How could she hold that against him?

 
At least the public seemed to love the duet Brad had released, although it was the only thing about her pairing off with Ethan that they seemed to support. Even worse, that duet was the reason they were in this mess.

  Ethan jerked his own phone out of his pocket and started scrolling.

  “I didn’t know you had an account,” Chelsea said, a bit shaken that he participated in any kind of social media.

  “I don’t. But I have an account to follow some people. It’s private, so no followers.”

  Great. So he could see all the vitriol directed at him.

  Having never stopped to consider the reaction people might have to her and Ethan being a couple, she was taken by surprise at the adamancy of her fans. Sure, the man had a bit of a reputation with women. But so had a couple of her other boyfriends.

  So why was everyone dead set against the two of them?

  Her phone rang again, so she fished it out of her pocket and answered Addie’s call. “What did Will say?”

  “He said he wants a raise,” Addie quipped.

  “Addie…” Chelsea scolded.

  “No fucking sense of humor. He said we have two choices. We can ignore it and hope it goes away, which he doesn’t think is likely. Or—”

  “Or what?”

  “Geesh. A little patience there, boss. Or…we can try to get ahead of the fucking storm. You know, spin it in our favor.”

  How like Addie to say “we” and “our” as though this nightmare was happening to her, too. “How does he want to do that?”

  Ethan tapped her on the shoulder.

  “Addie, I’m putting you on speaker.”

  “Will says we need to get our own information out there, but he wants to meet with you first.”

  “Who’s Will?” Ethan asked, obviously not remembering that she’d mentioned him before.

  “My publicist,” Chelsea replied. “Why does he need to meet with me?”

  “He didn’t say,” Addie replied, “other than to tell you to keep your trap shut until you do. Otherwise, he said you could easily step into a huge pile of shit.”

  “Will doesn’t curse,” Chelsea reminded her.