Dalton

by Vivi Holt

  He pinched the bridge of his nose. “So you were just covering for your friend.”

  “Yes.” She sighed. “I was just supposed to babysit Charity up and back, nothing more.”

  “So what do you do for a living?”

  “Third-chair violinist for the Atlanta Symphony.”

  He laughed, softly at first, then louder until his whole body shook.

  She hadn’t expected that reaction. “What?!”

  “I thought maybe you were a con artist or something. I was terrified you’d murder me in my sleep!” He guffawed again, his eyes tightly closed.

  She laughed, offended but also amused. A con artist? A murderer? Wow, he had a much lower opinion of her than she’d realized.

  When they both caught their breath, she crossed her arms, feeling more hurt by the moment. “So you thought the best thing to do was to kiss me.”

  “I was … well …” He took her by the arms and looked deep into her eyes. “I didn’t really think you’d kill me, though I am relieved to know you weren’t trying to pull a scam on me. But …” He shook his head. “Hazel, I kissed you because I couldn’t stop myself. You are just so beautiful, and strong, and stubborn …” He couldn’t go on, just shook his head again.

  This was more than she was prepared to handle. “I think I’ll just going to bed early,” she said, pulling free of his grasp.

  “Don’t go. I think we should talk some more.”

  Her cheeks flamed. “Later – I’m tired.” She moved past him and pulled the door open. “Good night, Dalton. I’ll see you in the morning.” She stepped inside the house and shut the door behind her. Then she leaned back against it and closed her eyes.

  The cell phone in her pocket vibrated, and she pulled it out with a sigh. One glance showed it was her boss, the director of the orchestra. “Hello, Harold,” she said, her voice strained.

  “Hazel! How are you?”

  He was always so chipper, it made her wince. “I’m fine, thanks. And you?”

  “Wonderful, wonderful. Say, I hate to do this to you, but I have to ask you a favor. Frieda injured her hand – cutting an avocado, I believe.”

  “Oh no!” Hazel frowned and her hand flew to hover over her mouth. “Is she okay?”

  “Well, she will be, but I don’t know how long it will take her to recover. You know she was playing for the Ballet. The first rehearsal’s next week, but of course she’s had months to learn the pieces. I was hoping you might come in tomorrow and we can work together on it to get you ready for the rehearsal. You’d be first chair – I called Damien already, of course, since he’s second chair, but he turned it down. You’d be the youngest first chair in the history of the Atlanta Symphony. What do you say?”

  She took a deep breath and held it. First chair for the ballet – it was a dream come true, though temporary and not under ideal circumstances. She really hoped Frieda would recover soon – she knew how much the violin meant to her. “All right. I may not make it tomorrow, since I’m out of town. But the day after should be fine.”

  After they finished the conversation, she hung up and slumped against the door again … just as it opened, landing her on her rear. She rolled onto her back, the phone still her hand.

  Dalton stood over her, his eyebrows arched high in surprise. “Hazel, what are you doing? Are you okay?”

  She shrugged in embarrassment. “Meditating …?” she offered with the hint of a smile.

  He laughed, offering her a hand. She took it, he pulled her to her feet and they stood there, inches apart, gazes fixed on one another. “Hazel … I …”

  “Yes?” she whispered, her eyes drifting to his inviting lips.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You don’t have anything to be sorry for. I’m the one who lied. I pretended to be someone I’m not. I forced my way into your life. And I apologize. Could you ever forgive me, do you think?” She stopped, a sob caught in her throat.

  He nodded, then pressed his lips to hers, taking her breath away with the intensity of his kiss. There was nothing more than that – that moment, those lips, filled her with joy and tore her apart all at once.

  She pulled away and rested her forehead against his. Biting her bottom lip, she pressed her hands against his firm chest. “I still have to leave tomorrow.”

  “No, you don’t. You can stay. I don’t mind –”

  “It’s not that. I wish I could stay. That was my boss on the phone just now – he needs me back in Atlanta. I have an opportunity to play first chair, which has been a dream of mine … well, forever. It’ll be the first time I’ve ever done it and it’s not likely to happen again for a long time. I have to go.”

  He took her hands in his and kissed the palms. “I understand. I don’t like it, but it sounds like an amazing opportunity – you have to take it. But … will you come back?” He looked at her expectantly.

  She took a slow breath, unable to speak.

  His smile faded. “I see.”

  “I don’t know if it’s a good idea …” She trailed off.

  “Why not?”

  “Because my life, my career, my friends – they’re all in Atlanta. And you live at the other end of the state on a horse ranch. Would you give up all of this to move to Atlanta for me?”

  A muscle in his jaw flexed. “You know I can’t. I’ve sunk everything into this place.”

  “Well, I can’t either. There’s no orchestra in Tifton, is there? There’s not even a good sushi place. How could we have a relationship if we live hours away from each other? We barely even know each other – I’ve only been here a week, and under false pretenses. We’d need more time before we could make life-changing decisions for each other. It just doesn’t make sense.” She sighed and stepped away from him. His eyes were full of pain and she just wanted to escape them.

  “If that’s how you want it,” he whispered, combing his fingers through his hair.

  “I just don’t see any other way. I’m sorry, Dalton. I’ll go back to Atlanta tomorrow and you can get on with your life and forget all about me.”

  His laugh was ragged and hollow. “Forget you? Hardly.”

  Chapter 9

  Dalton flipped through the channels, unable to find a program that interested him. His mind raced, going over and over his conversation with Hazel earlier in the evening. He’d jumped to so many conclusions about her, even after telling himself he should wait to hear her story. And now she was leaving.

  Finally he turned the TV off, ran a hand over his stubble-covered chin, stood and stretched his arms above his head. They’d worked hard that day. It had felt good to have his brothers by his side.

  His brothers were hidden away in their rooms. No doubt Parker was reading, and he could hear Eamon’s voice echoing down the long hallway. He was likely on the phone with someone from back home in Chattanooga. He wondered if his brother had a girlfriend – the subject hadn’t come up yet. He’d have to find a way to ask soon.

  The sound of the front door opening caught his attention and he hurried to peer out through the curtains. Hazel was climbing into the cab of his truck. He frowned – where was she going? It wasn’t that late, but Tifton rolled up the sidewalks pretty early. And she hadn’t said anything about going out – she’d borrowed his truck to drive to town a couple of days earlier, but that time she’d asked.

  He went into the kitchen and scooped himself a large bowl of Moose Tracks ice cream. He didn’t care what she did with her time – let her do what she liked. She’d even said Moose Tracks wasn’t a “grown-up” ice-cream flavor (whatever that meant), rolling her eyes as if to infer some kind of meaning to his selection. He shook his head and piled the bowl even higher in spite. There was nothing wrong with enjoying delicious ice cream – she was just too uptight. That was her problem. He embraced life.

  He carried the bowl back into the living room and sat on the couch, resting his bare feet on the coffee table. By the time he’d finished it, he’d gone back to channel surfing, but the s
election hadn’t improved. Agitated, he stood and carried his bowl to the kitchen, rinsed it and added it to the dishwasher.

  With a deep breath, he peeked through the curtains again. No sign of Hazel. Well, if she could go out after dinner on a Monday night, so could he. It didn’t make sense for a single man to be sitting at home alone in his house, when he could be out enjoying what little nightlife Tifton possessed.

  He padded down the hallway to his bedroom, threw on a pair of faded jeans, a checked shirt and square-nosed cowboy boots. His motorcycle helmet sat on his bedside table, and he lifted it with one hand, grabbing his wallet with the other and shoving it into his back pocket.

  He poked his head into Parker’s room and found him nose-deep in a James Patterson mystery. He glanced up and grinned. “Going out?”

  “Yeah, thought I’d take a ride. Maybe stop somewhere for a drink. I won’t be long.”

  “Okay. Want company?”

  Dalton shook his head. “Not tonight. But Friday, we’ll paint the town, okay?”

  “Sounds good. See you soon.”

  Dalton headed down the hall and heard a scratching at the laundry room door. He opened it, knelt down and Harley clambered up into his lap, licking his hands furiously. “Wanna go out, little fella?” he asked with a smile. He took the puppy outside, then returned him to his box in the laundry room and refilled his water and kibble.

  Finally he got to the barn, where his Ducati motorbike was stored beneath a blue tarp. He didn’t ride it all that often anymore and had been considering selling it. But tonight, Hazel had left him no other option. His leg felt stiff, and he stretched it a little before pulling his helmet on. The growl of the engine filled him with warm satisfaction, and he revved it a few times before maneuvering carefully down the gravel drive.

  Once he reached the main road, he let it fly. The bike had always handled like a dream and he felt a thrill of excitement as he gathered speed, rounding gradual bends and sailing down the straights. He pulled up at a four-way stop, lifted his visor and peered for a moment in each direction. There was no traffic at all, not unusual for a Monday night. Which way should he go?

  He could see Clancy’s up head – a dive bar with mediocre live music and all-you-can-eat crab legs advertised in bold red lettering on a large sign on its roof. He could do with some crab legs. He flipped the visor down and set off toward the bar.

  The parking lot was a bare patch of dirt with a few trucks and SUVs parked in haphazard fashion. One of the trucks was his. He backed the bike up into the space next to it and pulled his helmet off. This is where Hazel had come? Clancy’s really didn’t seem like her kind of place … but come to think of it, her kind of place didn’t really exist in the entire county. She was probably just out of options.

  He kicked out the side stand and leaned the bike onto it, making sure it held, then dismounted, wincing as pain sliced through his leg. Usually there was just a dull ache in his thigh and knee, but that movement had made it worse. He closed his eyes, took a long slow breath, then headed into the bar.

  * * *

  Hazel nursed the glass of Bud Light in front of her. She really didn’t enjoy beer, but Clancy’s wasn’t the kind of place that stocked a high-quality Shiraz. Even her request for a Manhattan had left the bartender scratching his bald head. So instead, she’d settled for a beer. She took another sip, grimaced and set it back on the coaster.

  The front door swung open and Dalton marched in, looking around – for her, no doubt. She shrunk down in her seat, hoping the tall back of the booth would hide her. She really didn’t want to see him right then. She’d walked away from him when he’d asked her to stay, then taken his truck without asking. Their next conversation wasn’t likely to be a fun one.

  A glance around the side of the booth revealed she’d been caught – Dalton was headed right for her. She rolled her eyes and took another sip, immediately regretting it – her mouth puckered.

  He stopped next to her, his hands on his hips. “Fancy seeing you here.”

  “It’s unexpected, I know.”

  He slid into the booth across from her and folded his hands in front of him on the table. “I wouldn’t have thought a concert violinist would be caught dead in a place like this.” He grinned.

  She tipped her head to one side. “Are you making fun of me?”

  “Maybe a little.”

  “Well, I like it here. They’ve got my favorite beer …” She took another swig and scowled at the glass. “… ugh. And there are bowls of peanuts on the tables, peanut shells on the floor, a jukebox in the corner. I mean, what more could a fiddle-playin’ girl ask for?”

  He caught the bartender’s eye and pointed a finger at Hazel’s beer, then returned his attention to her. “So what would you be doing right now …?”

  She sighed and smirked. “You mean, if I wasn’t pretending to be someone else?”

  “Well, yes.” He chuckled as the barkeep deposited a bottle of Bud Light on the table in front of him. He took a sip.

  “I’m supposed to be with my folks at their summer place on Jekyll Island. Now that they’re retired they spend a good portion of their time there.”

  His brow furrowed. “I’m sorry you’re missing out.”

  She laughed. “Don’t be. It’s a good excuse. Don’t get me wrong, I love my parents. It’s just that … they’re a little intense.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Well, if I was there right now, Mom would be asking me how long until I got first chair in the orchestra. Dad would be pressing me on why I’d missed the turn around the dock in the sailboat earlier that day. And I’d be wishing I was anywhere else.”

  “They can’t be that bad.”

  “Oh yes, they can – twenty-four hours a day. Judging everything I do, nitpicking over every little … oh, maybe I am exaggerating. Isn’t that what children do, exaggerate the flaws of their parents?”

  He nodded and pulled a corner of the sticker free from the bottle. “I suppose that’s true. Although I can’t fault my Mom. She’s amazing.”

  “Spoken like a true mama’s boy,” quipped Hazel, slapping him gently on the arm.

  He grinned and grabbed her hand, winding his fingers through hers. “I suppose. Though after Dad died, she had to raise three boys on her own – it can’t have been easy. I mean, you’ve met us.” He traced a circle on her palm with his finger.

  Her cheeks flushed and her pulse raced. “The poor woman – that must have been really hard. And on the three of you as well, losing your dad like that.”

  He nodded and exhaled slowly. “Yeah. I still miss him.”

  A silence fell between them. The jukebox started playing “Friends in Low Places.” She relaxed, enjoying the low buzz of conversation at the bar, the hum of the music. And the company. She’d never have believed she’d enjoy sitting in a place like that with Dalton as much as she was. He was really easy to talk to, which seemed hard to believe. With his dimpled cheeks and muscular physique, he would draw attention wherever he went. She’d seen that in the short time he’d been there that night. But he didn’t seem to notice the effect he had on women.

  His eyes were fixed on her and one corner of his lips curved up. “Care to dance?”

  She blanched. Dance? She knew how to waltz and tango from her time on the debutante circuit as a teenager – her mother had made sure of that. But slow dancing was another matter entirely. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d done it – she was usually in the band, playing music for others to dance to, not on the floor in the arms of a man who made her heart race and her legs quiver.

  He stood, his fingers still entwined in hers, and pulled her along behind him before she could protest. He spun her into his arms, and rested his left hand on the small of her back. His right caressed her hand, and guided her around the small space dotted with couples in bound together in an intimate embrace.

  She could feel the pressure of his chest against hers. When their eyes met, her heart skipped a beat and her
cheeks warmed. She smiled shyly. “I’m sorry – I’m not very good at this.”

  He laughed. “I could swear that you’re nervous, Slick.”

  She frowned. “Not at all. I’m just …”

  He pulled her closer still and softly kissed her forehead, sending a tingle over her skin.

  They danced until the song ended. She noticed a small scar above his left eyebrow and soft crinkles around the edges of his eyes, likely from long days squinting into the sun. He grinned, and a sense of well being flooded her. She yawned and laid her head against his chest.

  He tipped her chin up with his finger and gazed into her eyes. “You’re tired. We should go.”

  She nodded and let him walk her out the front door and down the rickety steps. Another yawn, and she covered her mouth with her hand.

  “I’d drive you home, but I rode my bike …”

  She nodded. “Of course. I’ll be fine – it isn’t far.” Another yawn. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Ever since I got here I’ve been going to bed so early and doing all this physical work. I’m sleeping a lot more than I normally would.”

  He chuckled. “Country living.”

  By the time she reached the ranch, she was grateful it was a short drive – she could barely keep her eyes open. She parked the truck in front of the house and climbed out just as Dalton rode by on his bike. The roar of the engine echoed over the fields, and she could see Rocket and Charity as dark shadows in the darkened field, trotting away with their tails held high.

  She climbed the stairs slowly, and turned with a start when she heard Dalton run up behind her. He caught her in his arms and spun her around to face him, his lips pressing hungrily to hers. Pulling back, she pushed against his chest and turned away. “Dalton …”

  “What? I know you feel the same way. Don’t try to tell me you don’t.”

  She covered her face with her hands. “It’s not that,” she groaned.

  “Then what?”