Page 27 of Rock the Chardonnay

Daughtry takes a step backward until she’s in line with me. “Looks like they'll be busy for a while,” she says softly, like she wants only me to hear. That may also have been wishful thinking, but I’ll take it. “I’m starving. Buy me lunch?”

My brain short-circuits, sending all sorts of mixed messages to my body, meaning I gyrate a little on the spot. There’s a reason people do not consider me the dancer in the family.

“Lunch?”

“Yeah.” She points to the food tents. “I haven’t eaten all morning. Trust me, these are very good people and Alex is in excellent hands. You can leave him for a little bit.”

Hmm. On one hand, I’m supposed to be working the winery tent. Plus, what about Alex? I can’t leave him alone with people I’ve never met—music people, too. Not that music people are like carnies, though that might be an insult to carnies. Is it carnies now or carnival folk? I don’t want to offend any one of them. Though come to think of it—

I’m getting off topic. Proximity to Daughtry scrambles my brain like an electromagnetic pulse.

“Alex,” I call. He turns toward me, masking his annoyance. Good. It reminds me of my place in the world. I’m a parent. I’m an adult. I can control my life. “Daughtry and I are going to get something to eat. Is that okay?”

“Yeah, yeah.” He waves a goodbye somewhere in my general vicinity then turns back to whatever Dante’s saying.

“Don’t worry, we’ll take good care of him,” Ellery says. “He’ll be here in one piece when you get back from lunch.”

Since Alex seems completely absorbed in meeting his idols, I absolve myself of my parental guilt and take Daughtry’s arm. Her touch is electric against my skin.

“Let’s get some lunch.”

She doesn’t have any preference, so we wander the food tents until her nose informs her stomach what we will be eating.

“How did your interview go?” I ask, perusing the smoothie stand menu.

“Eh. It went okay. She kept asking me about my mom.” Daughtry frowns and moves toward the pizza stand. If we walk much further, we will eventually hit the fire department grill, and I have zero interest in even the remotest possibility of running into Ciaran. I steer us past Laura Marshall’s Sweet and Salty table, and pick up a cellophane bag of snickerdoodles for Alex.

“Why don’t you want to talk about your mom?” I have several assumptions, but any little glimmer of her life that she’s willing to offer, I want to hear.

She bites her lip and waits in line for shaken lemonade. “It’s complicated. My mom was always on the move, always bad at relationships, always seeking the next best thing. I worry sometimes that I’m just like her.”

She places her order for a strawberry lemonade, but I intercept her reach for her credit card, and pay. “I don’t think you’re like her. I didn’t know her well, but you’re caring and compassionate and fun. Look how great you are with Alex. Nothing you’ve said about your mom implies she has any of those qualities.”

Picking up her strawberry lemonade, she glances at me thoughtfully. “You don’t know me that well, either.”

I stick my hands in my pockets. “This is true. It’s been twelve years. A person can change a lot.”

She points her drink at my chest. “Or not. You seem exactly the same, only secretly buff. I’ll bet you still drop all those fancy science terms of yours, and the ladies fall all over themselves.”

“I have no idea how to respond to that.” I watch as her lips close around her straw, my mouth going arid. “Thank you for thinking I’m secretly buff.”

She elbows me playfully. “You’re the one walking around your house shirtless.”

“I spilled—never mind.” There is no winning in this game.

“Don’t be embarrassed. You looked hot.”

“I looked hot? Meaning I do not currently look hot?” I ask. Bantering with Daughtry is almost as fun as having sex with her.

“Now you’re fishing for compliments, which is never sexy.”

I snort. “Very few people have ever called me sexy.”

“That’s because you don’t pay attention.” At my incredulous expression, Daughtry shrugs. We’re moving further away from the food tents, but I don’t particularly care. I want only to spend more time with her. “All those tutoring sessions? I kept trying to get your attention but you never looked up from your books.”

My brain frizzes again like an old rabbit-eared television set. “Wait, what?”

“I liked you back then. But I thought you hated me.”

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