by Lori Wilde
“Hey,” he said, holding her gaze.
“Hey,” she whispered in return.
“Why aren’t you at the theater?” he asked.
“Emma said they needed help here.”
Good old Emma. She loved to play matchmaker. He should be irritated with her over it. He wasn’t.
“I’m glad Emma sent you instead of someone else,” he said.
Paige was holding her breath, her eyes going big and round, and she said it so softly that he barely heard her. “Me too.”
He thought about saying something about seeing her dancing inside the houseboat, but decided against it. She’d been embarrassed. Let it slide.
“Are you nervous?” she asked. “Do you get stage fright?”
“Every time,” he confessed. “But tonight more so than usual.”
“How come?”
“This is important to Emma. The charity is a good one. The audience deserves the best performance I can deliver.”
“I’m sure you’ll come through.”
“I’m rusty. I haven’t performed since—”
“Simone left.”
He winced. “I was going to say the band broke up and my favorite guitar was stolen.”
“Her leaving is what broke up the band, right? At least, that’s what I’ve read.”
“Been Googling me, have you?” He leaned in closer, heartened that she’d bothered to research him.
She didn’t admit anything, but neither did she back away.
He took that as an encouraging sign.
“It’s all Christmas songs, right?” she said in a honeyed voice that sent shivery goose bumps singing over his skin. “That should make it easier. Old favorites. Nothing new. Nothing challenging.”
She was correct.
“I imagine you know those songs inside out,” she went on. “You’ve got this.”
He liked her pep talk. Hell, he liked her, and not just because she’d cracked his creative block. He was into her.
Unfortunately, he couldn’t figure out if she was into him or not. She didn’t seem to care one whit about his celebrity—which he found refreshing—but he didn’t often come across people who were unimpressed by his success. It made him ache to find ways to impress her.
“You boosted my confidence. Thanks,” he said.
“That’s what friends are for.” Her smile was innocent, a baby lamb of a smile.
Oh yeah. He was still in the friend zone. He cocked his head, sent her a measured look, trying to decide what it would take to get into the lover zone. At least for the month.
“I think it’s sweet,” she said.
“What?”
“That you care enough about a small-town charity event to be nervous. A lot of people would just go through the motions.”
“I always bring my A game.”
“I know. I read that about you.”
“On Wikipedia?”
She gave a half smile that said, You got me.
Ha. She wasn’t as impervious to his charm as she wanted him to believe.
She tilted up her chin in that perky way she had, as if she was an inquisitive bird, curious but ready to fly away the instant danger reared its head. The look in her eyes, the position of her body, the color of those gorgeous lips, shot a bolt of desire straight down the center of his body.
He wanted her. Right now. Right here. It was crazy how much he wanted her. Scary too.
“Well,” she said. “We both have jobs to do. Break a leg . . .” She paused, put a finger to her lips. “No, wait. Do they say break a leg in music or is that only in acting?”
“It works for any performance artist.”
“Oh good. Then do that. Break both legs.”
“I admire your enthusiasm.” He wished he could stay and talk to her all night but the door opened and the sound engineer appeared, reminding him where he was and why he was here.
“Listen,” he said. “You wanna grab a pizza or something after this shindig?” He saw the word “no” forming on her lips and quickly added, “Strictly as friends, of course.”
“Emma’s throwing a party for you at her house after,” she said. “Remember?”
That’s right. He’d forgotten. “You’ll be at the party?”
“No. I’ve got to go to work early in the morning. No late night for me.”
“You ready?” asked the engineer.
Cash scrambled for something else to say but she was already headed out the door. He shook his head and followed the engineer to do the final sound check. He might have struck out again with Paige, but he wasn’t going to strike out with the audience. He vowed to keep his focus where it belonged.
Squarely on the music.
Chapter 8
Operetta: A short, light musical drama.
The houselights went down at seven o’clock to a cram-packed auditorium. The band stood ready for his cue. Sweat beaded the back of Cash’s neck the way it always did before a performance and his stomach was tight as a drum skin.
The curtains parted.
Cash stared out into the sea of faces, and somehow, in that dark and crowded place, his gaze landed on Paige. She had her back to the wall near the exit door, eyes trained on him.
His heart softened and his stomach settled and the sweat evaporated.
He nodded to the band, hit the first lick of “It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas” on his guitar, and stepped up to the mike.
And boom . . . they were off.
Cash played with all his heart and soul, putting everything he had into the familiar Christmas song. Played as if he were at Carnegie Hall.
They transitioned into “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” which had the kids cheering and singing along. Then it was on to Alan Jackson’s “Let It Be Christmas.”
Women sighed. Men doffed their hats. Old and young alike applauded.
Wings of joy that he hadn’t felt since . . . well, since he’d gotten his first paltry recording deal eleven years ago at Christmastime and found himself living out his mother’s deepest dream for herself. The feeling rose up high and true. It came up through his throat and mouth, vibrating out with his breath, his song spilling into the auditorium.
What was this miraculous sensation?
The spirit of Christmas.
He named it, felt lightened and enlightened as it surged and throbbed his muscles, cells, and nerve endings.
For the past year, he thought this feeling was lost to him. The joy. The sheer pleasure he took in music. The buzz of performing live onstage. The sublime exhilaration he got from the audience’s reaction. He came alive again.
Was reborn.
He remembered that he’d been put on earth to make music. It was his life’s purpose. Even if his mother hadn’t preached it to him night and day, he knew in his heart he was a born musician.
Bliss guided his fingers over the guitar strings, plucking swift and familiar.
His eyes found Paige in the darkness again, latched on to her. Held tight. His vision narrowed to Paige and her alone and he sang to her from the basement of his soul, belting out the song’s message of hope, peace, and love.
Sappy. Sentimental. Yes. Yes. Yes. He reveled in it. The gush of that idealized moment.
He wanted to change her mind about him. How could he get her to give him half a chance? He needed a romantic gesture. Something big. Something showy.
Paige’s body swayed in time to the music. She wanted to dance. He could see it on her. In her. She twitched with rhythm.
An idea hooked him.
The band started into their next tune, “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree,” but instead of singing as planned Cash took the microphone and hollered enthusiastically, “Hello, Twilight!”
“Hello, Cash!” the crowd yelled back.
“Y’all like this song?” he asked.
The crowd cheered. Arms waved in the air. Cell phones lit up the darkness. Thunderous applause shook the building.
“It’s a g
reat beat to dance to,” he murmured into the mike, swiveled his hips Elvis Presley–style for effect.
“Yeah!”
“You said it.”
“Sing your heart out, Cash!”
He seduced the audience with the come-hither look he’d perfected for the stage. The extroverted mask his introverted side pulled out when it was time to perform. “In a minute I’m gonna ask you guys to dance your hearts out . . .”
“Woot! Woot!”
The band elongated the intro of the song, confused by what he was up to, but adapting quickly. They might be mostly amateurs, but they wanted to put on a standout performance as much as he did.
“There’s a young lady out there who loves to dance . . .” He pinned Paige with his eyes. “She’s got some serious moves and I’ve been admiring her from afar.”
Even across the auditorium in the glare of the stage lighting, he could see her face pale. People turned their heads, curious, gawking.
“Let’s convince her to get up here onstage and show us exactly what she’s got. Give it up for Paige MacGregor!” Cash put the mike back on the stand and started a slow clap.
The audience followed his lead, a steady, measured tempo. Clap. Clap. Clap.
Igor broke into a drumbeat that matched the clapping.
Paige dropped his gaze. Shook her head.
Vigorously.
Cash increased the speed, so did the audience and Igor on drums. “C’mon on up, Paige.”
“Paige, Paige, Paige!” chanted the crowd.
She raised her hands, kept shaking her head, and looked utterly humiliated.
Ah damn. What had he done? Regret strangled him. What was he thinking? Clearly she did not want to do this, and the last thing he’d wanted was to embarrass her.
“Paige. Paige. Paige.”
Clap, clap, clappity-clap.
He wanted to call it off, but didn’t know how. He’d made such a big deal of having her onstage, worked the crowd up into a frenzy, how could he back down now?
Egged on by the idea of a romance playing out before them, the audience went nuts. “Paige! Paige! Paige!”
He held out his hand, crooked a finger at her.
She flattened her back against the wall. Swiveled her head from left to right, right to left.
Igor was Mick Fleetwood-ing the hell out of that drum with a gut-punching tom-tom beat right off the Tusk album. Rock on, Igor. Boom. Boom. Boom. The cadence matched the pounding of Cash’s heart.
No backing down. Only one direction. Full steam ahead.
He hopped off the stage, started down the aisle, going after her. He was putting her on the spot. He knew it. Did it anyway.
The sea of people parted as he swaggered toward her in time to the beat. Seducing her with his voice and his moves the best way he knew how. The idea was to waltz her up onto the stage the way Bruce Springsteen did with Courtney Cox to “Dancing in the Dark.”
But when he got to her, Paige balked.
Shook her head like a wet dog. Tucked her hands into her armpits. No.
Um, knock-knock, jackass. Courtney had been planted in the audience. Bruce didn’t spring it on her unaware.
Paige’s mouth was pressed into a firm line. Her eyes seemed haunted, her face flaming red.
Damn, he’d messed up royally. He extended his head. Sent her a deep apology with his eyes. Sorry. Sorry. So sorry.
“Paige! Paige! Paige!”
The band played the first stanza of “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree” over and over and over. Everyone was waiting for her to get up onstage.
“Please,” he whispered. “It’s for charity. Don’t do it for me. Do it for the children.”
She glowered. Hard. If looks could kill, he’d be headless.
“Paige! Paige! Paige!” The applause grew louder and louder, faster and faster.
“You are so dead,” Paige muttered, but offered up an I’m-a-good-sport smile. “So very dead.”
Hmm. Intrigued, he upped the heat on his smile. How did she plan on getting even?
He kept his hand extended. “I figured.”
Finally, reluctantly, with a resigned sigh, she sank her hand in his. Her palm was cool and soft. Refreshing. He interlaced their fingers, pulled her to his side, and escorted her back up the aisle to enthusiastic cheering.
He helped her onto the stage, realized belatedly she was in those ankle-breaking, six-inch stilettoes. God, he was a jerk.
But the band and the audience were completely into it. Everyone was hopping and jumping and singing. Lively. Heartfelt. Fun. Any musician’s dream.
Except he’d shamed the one person he most wanted to impress.
Stagefright ransacked her lungs. Lurched her stomach. Sent tremors shaking her entire body.
Flashback.
The last time someone had ambushed her publicly, made a grand gesture, well . . . she’d ended up losing her house, her car, and her identity. She stood frozen, throat constricted, feet welded to the floor.
In front of her, Cash danced. Shifting his feet to the beat, snapping his fingers, singing his heart out. Gazing into her as if they were alone in an empty room, his eyes whispering, Come dance with me.
He was just trying to put on a good show. Not his fault that she had hang-ups.
Move!
She didn’t want to make either of them look like a fool. Goal: get through this with as much grace and good humor as possible.
The swell of bubbly music washed over Paige, and the part of her that missed dancing, the part of her that loved to have fun—the part of herself she’d put in a box and locked down tight—cracked that damn lock and broke free.
Here we go. She gave in, gave up, surrendered. Smiled brilliantly . . .
And danced her ass off.
Danced the way she had not danced since before Dad died, danced with more verve and soul than she’d danced in her panties on the houseboat, danced like no one was watching. Danced as if she were with Bruce Springsteen.
Take that, Courtney Cox.
Joy lit up Cash’s face like hot sunshine on an icy morning.
The crowd went insane—cheering, clapping wildly, calling her name again as they had before. “Paige, Paige, Paige.”
She felt powerful, wrestling control back from Cash by going with the flow. Embracing the situation instead of fighting against it.
Oh, she was still plenty mad at him for ambushing her, but she was going to take those sour lemons and make a pitcher of the yummiest lemonade ever tasted.
The faster she danced, the freer she felt. All the grief, regret, and anger she’d been holding on to slipped away, falling like shooting stars across a midnight sky.
She jumped and jiggled, writhed and wriggled, skipped and spun.
It might have started out with Cash her puppet master, but now, she was the one pulling the strings.
She felt great.
She felt exhilarated.
She felt like a goddess.
Something she hadn’t felt in very long time. Cash pushed her. He’d coerced her. He’d led her where she had not wanted to go.
And she loved him for that.
Which, of course, scared the stuffing out of her.
The notes of the song slowed. Cash slowed. Paige reluctantly slowed too. Pulse hammering, sweat soaking her clothes, tattered scraps of thoughts fluttering through her mind. Ribbons in the wind.
What does this mean? Where did things go from here? When had he slipped under her skin? How did she stop it? Who was she now?
He took her hand and hauled her to him as the band played the song to the end, and the audience applauded as if their hands would fall off. Cash pressed his mouth to her ear. “Thank you. You were awesome. I am so sorry I got you into this. It was an impulse and I certainly didn’t mean to make you do something against your will. I just wanted to dance with you. Too late I realized I’d blundered, a huge mistake. I feel awful about this. How can I make it up to you?”
To his credit, he looked
deeply contrite. “Please,” he groveled. “Give me a chance to make this right.”
“You want to make it up to me?”
“Name it,” he said. “It’s yours.”
“Please, just leave me alone.” With that, she turned and fled the stage.
“You sure you don’t want to go to Emma’s party?” asked Flynn from the front passenger seat. Her husband, Jesse, was driving the family minivan.
They’d been the ones to give Paige a ride to the Brazos River Music Review, and after they dropped her off at her houseboat, they would head to the party Emma was throwing for Cash.
“No,” Paige said, drawing her coat more tightly around her. “I just want to get into bed and forget this night ever happened.”
“Why?” Jesse asked, sounding truly confused. “I thought it went well.”
“I know you were embarrassed,” Flynn said, poking her head over the seat, “but honestly, you did an amazing job. I had no idea you were such a good dancer. I mean, I know Grammie taught all us kids to dance, but some of us were born with two left feet.”
“You’re a great dancer,” Jesse said to Flynn.
“I’m not, but thank you for lying.” Flynn reached over to pat her husband’s arm.
“I told Cash specifically that I had quit dancing,” Paige said, not to be swayed by Flynn’s compliments. “Why was he so determined to make me look like a fool?”
“You didn’t look like a fool,” Jesse said. “You looked like a professional dancer.”
“Got a question for you, Jesse.” Paige nibbled her bottom lip, stared out the window at the Brazos River rolling under the bridge below them.
“What’s that?”
“Why are men such jackasses?”
“Um . . . um . . .” Jesse stuttered, laughed. “Because we’re men?”
“Okay,” Flynn interrupted. “I’m on your side, Paige. Cash should have never put you on the spot like that, but don’t you think you’re overreacting a wee bit? Almost any other woman in the auditorium tonight would have killed to be invited up on that stage.”
“I would gladly have let them go up there instead,” Paige said, wondering why she was so upset when the experience onstage had been so invigorating.
