Page 16 of Christmas Music
How the hell had he gone from practically kissing me in the barn to running out of there like he’d just realized my skin was covered in poison? And why had it felt like he’d ripped my heart out and taken it with him?
This was Connor Wheating we were talking about. The guy I hadn’t talked to since eighth grade because he’d been ignoring me through all of high school. Sure, I might have had a little crush on him at one point, but I’d gotten over that when he went out of his way to avoid me for four years. And since then, I’d gone to Nashville and gotten within a hair’s width of making it big. I played sold-out shows. I had a band of my own.
I almost had a contract, for Pete’s sake.
What did I care if Connor Wheating had brushed his fingertips over my face in that stupid hay barn, and then turned and run like some sort of chicken? And why did it bother me so much that two days had gone by—days where he most certainly knew exactly where I was—with him making no attempt to contact me?
It didn’t matter, I told myself bluntly. It didn’t matter one little bit. The contest mattered, and that was why I was so upset. I wanted to write a song for the contest, and to do that I needed a studio. Which Connor had, and wasn’t sharing.
That was the reason I was so upset.
That was exactly the reason.
I didn’t repeat any of that to Parker, though, because it would have meant sharing way too much inside information with her, and I knew Parker well enough to know that the moment I even breathed the thought that Connor had almost kissed me, and that I thought that might be why he’d suddenly withdrawn the offer to use his studio...
She’d see right through it. She always did.
And I just wasn’t in the mood to admit that I might have misjudged yet another guy within the space of two weeks. Misjudging Dean was bad enough. I wasn’t going to admit to having given Connor Wheating the benefit of the doubt, too.
I turned my eyes to the parade in front of me, resolutely putting Connor and his studio out of my mind, and focused on the holiday spirit. It wasn’t a big parade or anything. Arberry was barely a two-light town. But the kids from the elementary school had put together a marching band, their instruments screeching in what I thought was supposed to be Jingle Bells, and the drama club had managed to put together two floats, each of them supported by an old farm truck. There were people on horses and someone leading a couple of alpacas, for reasons that I definitely didn’t understand, and though it might have been a motley crew—something the good folks of Nashville would have laughed at—it was all so Arberry that I had to laugh.
I’d walked in this parade, at one point, with my guitar, playing Christmas troubadour to the crowd. And I’d loved every minute of it. It had been my first taste of having an audience, and I’d eaten it right up.
I looked to the other side of the street, remembering that my parents had been standing right there, and saw...
Connor Wheating. Staring right at me.
And in that instant, realization flooded through me. I was angry at him. No, more than that. I wasfurious. He’d promised one thing and done another, and if there was one thing I hated, it was people who didn’t keep their word on something. He’d told me I could use his studio and then cut and run, just because of one little almost kiss.
Neither of us could afford to screw up on this contest, and he very definitely needed the help. He was putting his own chances at risk, just as much as mine, and it made me so angry I felt like my head might burst.
Stupid red-headed temper. It had always gotten me in trouble. But it had also never lied to me, and right now, it was telling me one thing. I was angry at him about the studio, for certain, and angry that he was evidently willing to throw his talent away in favor of running the ranch. Or something.
But there was something more there. Something deeper underneath the anger than just that. Something more important.
I touched on it, hissed, and turned away, the blush even fiercer on my face.
Yes, there was something deeper there. And I didn’t want to know what it was. I didn’t care what it was. I just wanted to write my music. And if Connor wasn’t going to lend me his studio...
Well, I’d just find another way to do it, and leave him to take care of himself.
Period.
CHAPTER9
Connor
Iturned away from her the moment I saw her, hating that I’d seen her at all.
Hating that she’d seen me seeing her.
What was she even doing in town, anyhow? She couldn’t just be here for the holidays. She and Parker had been so hot to get out of town that they’d barely waited for their diplomas before running for Nashville, and neither of them had been back until this year. They couldn’t just be here for the contest. That happened every year, and if they’d wanted to enter, they could have done that at any time.
“It doesn’t matter,” I hissed, turned and heading for the bank. I didn’t care why she was here. It didn’t matter to me or my life.
She had a home in Nashville. A career. A boyfriend. And with any luck, she’d head back there right after the holiday, before anything else could happen—or almost happen—between us. I had work to do and a ranch to save. I didn’t need the distraction of Olivia Johns and her perfect eyes and deep red hair and pouting lips.
I didn’t need to explain to my mother again why I was giving her a chance or letting her distract me from the running of the ranch.
