Page 50 of The Last Love Song
“I’m glad. Because I care how you feel.” He didn’t touch her, but as they stood under one of the streetlights, she could see his face.
The way he looked at her made her toes curl inside her shoes.
Butterflies fluttered in her belly. She didn’t know what to say as she stared at him and hoped he did.
He shuffled closer, his eyes never leaving hers. Even so, it surprised her when he touched her cheek, tilting her jaw as he bent over her. Covered her lips with his in the softest kiss imaginable.
Vaguely, she registered the warmth of his body—close to hers, but not touching other than where he brushed her mouth with his.
He didn’t grope and devour her like Mr. Covington had tried with Bailey’s mom. Wade took his time, as though the only thing he wanted from her—or maybe for her—was one perfect kiss.
When he broke the kiss, he didn’t move away. Eyes closed, he rested his forehead to hers as if he needed a moment to catch his breath. Or maybe that was just how she felt.
“I wish you trusted me more.” He spoke softly, but she didn’t miss the frustration threaded through the words.
She forced her eyes open and backed up a step, unwilling to argue about the website with him. It was hard to trust anybody anymore.
He drove her home with the same quiet, thoughtful competence he did everything. She felt safe with him. Happy, even. That kiss played over and over in her mind, the light bubbly way it made her feel, an almost magical sensation after the crappy few days she’d had.
However, she couldn’t escape the fact that he was disappointed with her. And that disappointment hung between them in the silence, a dull pressure that wouldn’t go away and made her feel guilty for keeping secrets.
It was the only thing that prevented the kiss from being absolutely perfect.
Chapter Twelve
Heather loved a stage.
Didn’t matter if it was the old auditorium in the high school where she’d sang the heck out of her role inInto the Woodsor on the beer-sticky floor of Charlie Ray’s Rib Shack. She felt stronger, smarter, prettier and just plain better when she stepped into the spotlight. Even among musicians who did it for a living, that love of the stage ranked as a rare thing.
Rock ’n’ roll icons regularly drank themselves numb before standing in front of an audience because stage fright was as common for most people as a fear of public speaking. Yet Heather never suffered from that particular issue. Maybe because she so rarely got the chance to perform. Now, thumbing through her music options near the karaoke musician, she chose a country tune that she knew backward, forward and sideways. The piece was a good fit for her vocal range and had a hook that would, with any luck, pump up the crowd.
It might only be the Tuesday-night regulars at Charlie Ray’s, but they still deserved a good show. And for Zach? She wanted to knock his socks off in more ways than one tonight. She needed to show him why her dreams were worth pursuing. Why she needed to get out of Heartache.
“You all set, honey?” a thin blonde with frizzy hair called over to her, her voice as raspy as if she’d smoked a couple packs a day since birth. Or maybe she just had vocal cord problems.
“Yes.” Heather gave her a thumbs-up and handed her the slip of paper with her choice written on it. “I’m ready when you are.”
“Sugar, I was born ready,” the older woman retorted with a wink. “How about you find your spot up front and adjust the mic stand while I cue it up?”
“Do you have a mic back there?” Heather asked on a whim.
“Sure do, sweetie. Just in case the crowd gets too rowdy, I can set ’em all straight.”
“Would you mind giving me an intro? My name’s Heather.”
“Heather, huh?” The blonde chewed her gum for two snaps before she nodded. “You bet. Knock ’em dead.”
“Yes, ma’am.” She planned to. Not just because she took pride in a good performance, but because Zachary Chance sat at a table watching her every move with moody, broody eyes, which made her aware of every nerve ending in her body.
Setting aside the mic stand, Heather scuffed along the stage and found the stickiest spots. She’s seen performers take a header when they’d gotten a little too dance happy and landed a foot in beer—wet or dried.
Behind her, the piped-in music quieted.
“Folks, we have a treat for you tonight, courtesy of Charlie Ray and me—Dee Ray, your Queen of the Karaoke Machine.” She cackled so hard that Heather feared a coughing fit, but the crowd pitched in a few hoots and hollers for Dee until she returned to the mic. The lights lowered a little more. A pink spotlight swirled near Heather. “Ladies and gentleman, give it up for Heather.”
The small crowd cheered, practically drowning out the intro to her music. She knew the shouts and hollers were for Dee Ray and not her, but she’d made a wise decision bringing the womaninto the act, however briefly. Excitement buzzed in her veins, a warm pulse under her skin, better than a caffeine jolt.
Draping herself across a table in a pinup girl pose, she let the pink lights swirl around her while the early melody rose. When the drumbeat kicked in, she shifted her shoulders, shot to her feet and launched into a fiery Carrie Underwood song.
