Chapter 3 #2
“Yep.” She grins wickedly. “Come on.”
She slips her fingers into mine.
“Where are we going?” I twine my fingers with hers, savoring the contact.
We can go wherever she wants. Her van if she needs a parking lot escort. The karaoke stage if she’s decided to torture me further.
What I don’t expect is—
“Let’s go to your place,” she says.
I can’t tell if Dixie means the guest room I offered earlier or something else entirely. Either way, discussing the specifics in front of fifty pairs of ears seems like a terrible idea.
“Sure,” I say, because what else do you say when the most interesting thing to happen to Wickham Hollow in a decade just asked to come home with you?
My phone buzzes in my pocket. Then again. And again. I don’t need to check it to know what’s happening. Deacon holds up his own phone, grinning like an idiot. The screen shows a meme of a cartoon preacher with hearts for eyes and “JUST SAY YES” in font big enough to read from space.
Dixie tows me through the crowded bar, past the Jenkins sisters who run the bakery and know everyone’s business. Dee raises her phone, snaps a picture, and gives me a thumbs-up. We’ll be on the bakery’s Instagram account (@TwoTartsInWickham) by midnight.
Future Jack can handle the concerned phone calls and pointed questions. Present Jack is focused on not tripping over his boots as he follows Dixie outside.
“Watcha thinking, Preacher Man?” Dixie hums, her fingers dancing over my wrist as she picks out a tune against my skin.
“I—”
The bar door opens behind us and we both turn. Deacon hands over a bag of take-out containers. “Tonight’s winnings.”
Shoot. I forgot to feed her. I’m the world’s worst date.
Then, when we both reach for the bag, Dixie intercepts it. “I can carry my own stuff.” She turns back to Deacon with a grin. “I should give a victory speech! I beat Jack’s butt!”
“Easy there, sugar.” Deacon flashes her a slow grin. “You and Jack are co-winners. Means there can only be mutual, consensual spanking.”
I try not to expire in flames of embarrassment. This is next-level dating.
“But I’m better at winning. You should totally pick me.” She leans up to whisper in Deacon’s ear, her fingers still threaded through mine, a big grin splitting her face. “PS, I have a secret: I hate losing.”
“That’s not much of a secret, darlin’.” Deacon runs a hand down his beard and heads back inside Southern Comforts, still shaking his head.
Dixie guffaws. “I like him! And he pays way better than my last gig. I scored a Diet Coke and that was it.
“Lead on, Macduff,” she misquotes happily, waving a hand at Main Street. It’s small, but it’s been home since the first summer I came here as a kid. “Are you close by? Do I get the town tour on our way to your place?”
I glance around as if a Hilton or a Holiday Inn might appear from nowhere.
Not that offering to take her to a hotel sounds any better than come home with me.
“There’s no hotel in Wickham Hollow. We don’t have a motel, or even an Airbnb.
My offer still stands, though—you’re welcome to my spare bedroom, no strings attached. ”
I suppose I should drive her to that motel off the interstate, but it’s an hour away and skeevy as heck. Plus, she’ll have to come back for her van.
“Oh, I’m going home with you,” she declares. “Unless—”
She tilts her head back to…look at the moon? The stars. Maybe there’s a comet up there or a new planet. It certainly feels like asteroid weather. Any minute now, a giant chunk of rock will crash-land in my life—I put it on the list for Future Jack to worry about.
She tugs her fingers free and throws her hands up. “You ever just look up and feel small? Like, in a good way, not a bad way? Like all your problems and plans are just the teeniest, tiniest specks in the grand cosmic mess of it all?”
I follow her pointing finger. Star, star, star, cloud, plane. The plane chugs across the dark sky, its anti-collision lights a bright, white beacon. “I mostly look up and think, God sure knew what He was doing.”
“Right. That guy.” Dixie twirls in a circle, hand over her head, skirts and the French fry bag orbiting around her. I drag my gaze back to her face. Do not stare at her legs. “See, I like to think that those stars have more say in things than some ancient dude with a clipboard.”
God as a middle manager with office supplies wasn’t exactly covered in seminary. “That’s one way to put it,” I say finally.
She’s waiting for me to argue theology with her, but honestly? After tonight, I’m not sure about anything except that she makes me want to believe in whatever she’s selling.
“You know, checking off names, deciding who gets what? Kind of like Santa Claus but instead of an annual, fun holiday, it’s the performance review of a lifetime?
‘Dixie Pearl, here’s your starter dose of stardom, but let’s balance it out with a side of chronic pain and a tendency to make really bad decisions about men.
’” She thinks for a beat, while I tell myself not to ask questions about chronic pain.
“And women. My romantic mishaps are very equal opportunity. Or divine retribution. My just deserts? I’m Team Astrology. ”
She grabs my hand briefly and I find myself holding the take-out bag she vowed to carry herself. I bite back a grin as she rummages inside it with a crow of delight.
“But really, I don’t have a whole lot of quality relationshipping under my belt,” she confides moments later around a mouthful of French fry. “So, it’s not surprising that I’m not living my happily-ever-after. You gotta practice if you want to be perfect!”
I can relate. Dating as a minister comes with its own special brand of awkwardness. “Rough experiences?”
“Yes!” She waves a half-eaten fry. “It’s not that I think the stars are a cosmic matchmaking service, but when you’ve spent enough time making bad choices in love, sometimes it helps to have a little celestial warning label.
If Mercury retrograde can remind me to back up my hard drive, maybe it can also remind me not to text my ex. ”
I set my free hand at the small of her back and steer her toward the rectory. “So, you believe in karma? Or astrology?”
“I’m greedy! I believe in both, because I like to hedge my bets.
” Dixie taps a fry contemplatively against her lips.
Her lipstick is miraculous, the color unsmudged.
“But if I had to pick a favorite child, I’d trust the stars.
I’m a Sagittarius, born under a fire sign—passionate, restless, a little reckless. ”
A little reckless is putting it mildly. The woman has zero filter and even less inhibition. It’s fascinating.
She eyes me suspiciously and edges away. “Are you judging me? I’ve judged you to be the judgmental type, so now’s the moment to live down to my expectations.”
“I’m too busy being shocked to judge anyone,” I say. “You’ve used up all my processing power.”
“Phew. What’s your sign? When were you born?” She drops the remainder of her fry in my hand.
I hook the take-out bag over my arm and pull my handkerchief out, handing it to her so she can wipe her fingers. “April.”
This earns me a shocked face. “Oh no.”
“What?”
“We’re about to have a moment. I’m setting the mood. Dum-dum-dummmmm.”
I smile despite myself.
“Good news, bad news, Jack. You’re either an Aries or a Taurus. Aries would make sense—gruff, stubborn, takes charge. But if you’re a Taurus, that’d mean you’re a romantic at heart, love good food, and prefer stability over chaos. Possibly, you have the soul of a ninety-year-old man.”
She waves my handkerchief pointedly and I burst out laughing. “Guess which one sounds more like me.”
She grins. “You’re a Taurus, aren’t you?”
“I do like good food.” I finish her fry, retrieve my handkerchief, and wipe my own fingers.
“Damn, that explains why you’re built like a brick house and give off all that ‘slow and steady wins the race’ energy. But we’re either about to succumb to irresistible attraction or total frustration. We Sagittarius types are a challenging romantic match for you Tauri.”
“So, you actually make decisions based on a star chart?”
“You make yours based on an old book.”
“The Bible.”
“Tomato, to-mah-to.”
“I think my ancient pieces of paper have a little more credibility.”
“Burning bushes and talking snakes are not credible, mister.” Her mouth curves up.
“And you’ve got…what was it, Mercury in retrograde?”
“Exactly. When things go wrong in my life, I get to blame planetary alignment. What do you blame?”
“Free will,” I say dryly.
“Maybe.” Dixie skips along at my side. “Maybe not. But maybe they brought me to this particular stretch of road at this particular moment. Maybe they lined things up just right. Maybe the stars think we should hook up.”
I freeze. “That’s…”
“Awesome. Spectacular. Probably proof that there is a God, after all—and she has a thing for hot, bearded preacher men.” She fishes for her phone and I redirect my gaze toward the Gemini twins in the sky because she’s stashed the phone inside her bra.
“Did you check your horoscope for today? ‘Stability is your strength, but today the universe nudges you to embrace a little spontaneity. A surprising connection could deepen in unexpected ways—if you’re willing to let go of control. Love may be closer than you think and tonight just might be your lucky night.’ See? You get a lucky night!”
I smile. “It sure is.”
When we pass Deacon’s auto shop, she detours and beelines toward her van.
“Deacon will check the van out first thing,” I say. “He and his brother, Slate, are the town mechanics.”
“I can handle my own van,” she mutters, loud enough for me to hear, and yanks open the van doors.