Chapter 2
Two
Girl versus preacher
Dixie
Southern Comforts has committed woodland critter genocide in the name of decor—enough mounted taxidermy crowds the walls of the bar to stock a natural history museum, assuming natural history museums specialize in the animals that died with their mouths open in eternal surprise.
The aesthetic is “Southern stereotype had a baby with a flea market,” featuring neon beer signs, license plates from every state below the Mason-Dixon line, and an alarming number of barrels.
Seriously, it’s like someone told the decorator that barrels were the only acceptable furniture and they took it as a personal challenge—they’ve been chopped into seats, hammered into tables, and have defied gravity to colonize the ceiling like wooden parasites.
“Wow.” It’s a lot to take in. “Way to commit to a theme.”
Jack grins as he steps through the door he’s insisted on holding open for me. “Deacon’s not known for his subtlety.”
The place is packed even for a Friday night, which in a town of 403 people probably means literally everyone who can legally drink. Someone is murdering what might be a Kenny Chesney song on a makeshift stage hammered together from wooden pallets.
“Welcome to karaoke night,” Jack says proudly.
A dark-haired mountain of a man—even taller than my good friend Jack and in possession of the kind of broad shoulders that make cheap airline seats a no-go—waves enthusiastically from behind the bar.
Tattoo sleeves disappear beneath his rolled-up flannel, and his full beard in no way hides the grin that transforms his otherwise intimidating presence from grizzly bear to teddy bear. “Jack! You brought a friend!”
“That’s Deacon,” Jack tells me. “Fair warning—he has no filter, a grumpy brother, and the social skills of a golden retriever.”
We make our way to the bar, where Deacon is simultaneously pulling beers and grinning at me like I’m the most fascinating thing to happen since indoor plumbing.
Or maybe since the last time a stranger wandered into this taxidermy graveyard—which, judging by the dust on the deer heads, was back when people still rented movies from Blockbuster.
Jack does the honors. “Deacon, meet Dixie. Dixie, this is Deacon.”
Deacon gives me a head tip. “Drink?”
“Water. Two, please.” I look around, but I don’t see the evil doppelg?nger brother I was promised.
When he slides the glasses over to me, I shove one in front of Jack. “A thank-you drink. I’m buying.”
My stomach growls loudly enough to drown out Jack’s appreciation. Reaching over the bar, he snags a laminated menu and holds it out. “The food’s good if you’re hungry. Dinner’s on me.”
“I’m fine.” I’m saving my seventeen dollars for tomorrow and, no, he’s not buying me dinner.
“Never drink nothing on an empty stomach, darlin’,” Deacon announces, setting down a bowl of boiled peanuts. Tiny stars march across the back of his hand. “Learned that the hard way more times than I care to count.”
I want to be offended, but the peanuts are salty and perfect, and my dignity makes one, last valiant stand before surrendering to basic human needs. “So you didn’t actually learn, did you?”
Deacon shrugs, studying me with curious eyes. “What brings you to Wickham Hollow?”
“Just passing through,” I say. “I was heading back to Nashville after a gig and my van died.”
“What kind of gig?”
I gesture vaguely with a peanut. “I sing. Bars, mostly. Wherever they’ll have me.”
“No kidding.” Deacon’s eyebrows shoot up. “Well, you picked the right night to break down here. It’s karaoke night, and we’ve got a little competition going. Winner gets dinner on the house. All-you-can-eat fries or our famous chicken and dumplings.”
My empty stomach perks up with interest. “How do you pick the winner?”
“Biggest crowd reaction wins. Preacher here’s been champion for three weeks running.”
Preacher. That name is perfect for my new lumberjack acquaintance. He leans against the bar all casual-like, but the glint in his eye suggests he’s not as modest as he appears.
“Three weeks? That’s quite a streak.”
Jack shrugs, but I catch that hint of smugness. “What can I say? I know my audience.”
“Uh-huh.” I finish my water and stand up, already feeling the familiar thrill of competition singing through my veins. “Well, I’ve got news for you.”
“Yeah?” Jack’s eyebrows rise. “What’s that?”
I grin, feeling more alive than I had in weeks. “I don’t lose.”
The crowd whoops as the Kenny Chesney–murdering singer finishes (thank you, sweet baby Jesus), and Deacon cups his hands around his mouth.
The bellow that comes out could wake the dead three counties over—it’s that deep and booming.
“Alright, folks! We’ve got ourselves a challenge!
Defending champion Jack Carter versus our lovely newcomer! ”
His voice bounces off every mounted deer head and barrel in the place. The entire bar erupts in cheers and good-natured trash talk as a dozen pairs of curious eyes turn our way.
“You sure about this?” Jack is—he’s already moving toward the stage. “I should warn you—I’ve got home-field advantage.”
“And I should warn you,” I yell after him, no more quiet than Deacon, “I’ve been singing in dive bars since I was sixteen. Remember the name Dixie Pearl!”
Jack takes the stage with surprising confidence for someone who looks like he’d be more comfortable splitting logs than entertaining drunks. He plants his booted feet, turns to the audience, and shakes his head. Smooths a hand down his beard like a thespian getting ready to say his lines.
“Y’all are out awful late. You’d better not sleep in on Sunday.”
This earns him whoops and good-natured teasing. Multiple voices exhort him to PREACH. He shrugs, as if to say what can you do?
It’s so hot.
And that’s before the fast-paced, staccato fiddle line of “The Devil Went Down to Georgia” fills the bar.
Jack drops his polite reserve like a wet towel and sings his heart out.
Gone is the polite, firmly helpful gentleman who rescued me from vehicular disaster.
In his place is a performer who owns every inch of that ridiculous pallet stage.
He throws himself into the song with theatrical flair, complete with air violin solos and dramatic gestures that have the crowd singing along.
He hams it up on his invisible fiddle, dancing around that stupid stage, and, man, is he good.
When he reaches the part about the devil’s bet, he points right at me and winks.
The bastard winks.
The entire bar goes nuts, howling the DEVIL will get your SOUUUUULLLLLL. By the time Jack finishes with a dramatic bow, the applause is deafening.
“Beat that!” someone shouts from the back.
Don’t mind if I do.
Jack hops down from the stage and saunters back over to me, not even breathing hard. “Your turn, Nashville.”
I study his face—the confident smile, the challenge in his dark eyes, the way he settles back against the bar like he’s already won. The poor man has no idea who he’s dealing with.
“You’re pretty good, Preacher—but let me show you how it’s done.”
I might wink, too. He started it.
After a quick pit stop to queue up my music, I jump onto the stage. The familiar feeling of being in front of an audience sweeps through me, the sense of expectation, of being alive. Take that, rheumatoid arthritis. I’ve still got it. My boots tap out a rhythm. Too bad I left my guitar in the van.
Resting a hand on my hip, I salute the crowd. “Preacher’s a tough act to follow.” This sends them into whoops. “But, ladies and gentlemen, pride goeth before a fall.”
The room erupts. Deacon bounces on his toes behind the bar—every towering inch of him vibrating with excitement—waving a towel over his head like an overgrown kid at his first baseball game. “Give it to him, Dixie!” He’s loud enough to rattle the mounted deer heads on the walls.
The opening chords of “Any Man of Mine” play, but I ignore the karaoke screen because, for the first time in ages, my own lyrics dance in my head and pour out of me to the borrowed tune.
“Let me tell you what a woman needs…”
The crowd roars with laughter and encouragement.
“A partner who lifts me and plants the seeds,
Of laughter, love, and loyalty, too,
With every little thing he’s gotta prove it’s true.”
I let my voice drop low and sultry, then slowly extend one finger until I’m pointing directly at Jack. Every soul in the bar swivels to stare at him and the adorable pink flush creeping up his neck.
“Any man of mine better stand the test,
Better be my partner, giving me his best.
I need a man who knows how to roll with life,
He’s gotta be a strong-huggin’, joke-lovin’,
Steady-as-we’re-runnin’ kind.
Any man of mine!”
I jump off the stage, weaving through the tables as the crowd parts to give me room.
Someone wolf-whistles. Someone else starts a slow clap.
This is what I live for—the electricity of live performance, the connection with an audience, the moment when a room full of strangers becomes co-conspirators in whatever magic I’m spinning.
“If you want to be a man of mine, you better step it up. Better walk that line.”
When I reach Jack, I set my hand on his knee, my voice dipping low for the next verse. Jack looks equal parts amused and flustered. He raises his water in a mock toast, his lips quirking into a lopsided grin, but I’m not done with him.
“We’ll shimmy, shake, and spin on through. Life’s a rodeo, just me and you. So, tell me—”
YEAH, the crowd bellows, led by Deacon.
Under cover of their enthusiastic noise, I ask, “May I sit down?”
He nods, the pink in his cheeks the flamboyant color of radishes and flamingos, and I settle myself on his lap like I’m claiming my throne. The crowd absolutely loses their minds.
“Shimmy, shake, take my hand. Yeah?”
I hand him the mic with a wicked grin. “Your line, big guy.”
Jack stares at the microphone like it might bite him, then looks at me, then at the expectant crowd. The pink in his cheeks has deepened to full-on red.
“Come on!” I sing. “Don’t leave me hanging!”
The crowd picks up the chant: “SING! SING! SING!”
Jack rolls his eyes but can’t resist. He raises his voice, deep and gravelly. “Yeah!”
The crowd explodes with laughter and applause, stomping harder than ever. I finish the song with a flourish, voice soaring through the final notes.
“Move to the beat of life we’ve planned.
Heel to toe, love will flow,
Till we’re old and the story’s told! Because…
THIS is what a woman needs!”
As you can’t jump halfway into a swimming pool or press the pause button on an ill-advised leap of faith, I cup Jack’s neck with one hand, grab my cowboy hat with the other hand, and shield us both from our audience.
From behind the relative safety of the hat’s brim, I ask: “May I kiss you?”
Jack responds with a dazed what and inhales, lashes drifting down.
It’s a sound-check kind of kiss, just making sure everything in the sexual chemistry department is good before I give in to the temporary need for some contact and comfort. That’s all. It’s not supposed to involve tongue.
But Jack feels so big and solid, so warm and inexplicably safe, his grip tightening with careful chivalry so that I don’t fall off his lap and onto the sticky bar floor. He drags a warm hand down my back, pressing gently but firmly against the base of my spine.
It’s the end-of-a-movie kiss, the best part of a book.
His lips part in either surprise or a manly grunt. He’s out of breath or I am because there’s just so much of him. I press my lips against his in a butterfly brush, a quick taste to check if we fit together. But he looks amazed.
And amazing.
And—
I lick delicately at his bottom lip. Open up. Let me in. And the miracle happens and he does, leaning into me, his weight pressing me down into his hands as the barstool valiantly holds us both up.
His lips brush mine back and it turns out that the man can kiss. He can really, really kiss.
With each taste of his mouth, I learn bits of secrets, pieces of his day, of him. Secret the first: He owns mint toothpaste. Something green and crisp, with darker notes of coffee, bitter and black, not at all sweet.
He holds me steady, a big palm pressed against the small of my back, not moving, just right there, keeping me safe.
The small piece of my brain that remains online suggests this would make an amazing song. I can hear a tease of melody and the whiff of a refrain. It’s good, so good, and he makes me want everything, right now—
Someone wolf-whistles. It’s the giant bartender—Deacon—coming around the bar to stand next to us. He crosses thick, tattooed arms over his bear-sized chest, stretching blue-jean-covered legs out in front of him as he radiates don’t-care.
“Hold that thought,” I tell Jack’s mouth. And then to Deacon, “Get lost. I’m trying to hook up here.”
“Way to go!” Deacon slaps a big hand on Jack’s back, laughing hard enough to bring on a heart attack. “Be gentle with him. Preacher’s a dating novice.”
“There’s no audience-participation portion to this date,” I say. “Plus, I’m a borrow-and-return gal. I don’t date. And what’s up with the nickname?”
Deacon winks at me. “It’s not so much a nickname as a statement of fact. He’s ordained.”
Nope.
I’ve misheard.
Southern Comforts is loud and the kiss fried my brain circuits. Diverted all the blood from my ears to southern regions. Ordained is for priests, and priests are chaste. And in my very limited churchgoing, childhood experiences, they absolutely never come in hot, lumberjack-sized packaging.
But Jack isn’t laughing or denying the accusation.
He just looks at me and waits.
“You’re a priest?”
He shakes his head.
Thank GOD, my ovaries squeal. HAVE AT HIM.
“I’m a minister.”