Chapter 7 #2
“Reverend.” I scowl. “Don’t you have sermons to be writing? Souls to be saving?”
His clothes are dusty and he has smudges of what looks like tar on his forearms.
“Nope.” He jogs up the steps and into the rectory.
“Hey!” I bellow after him. “That’s my stuff.”
He disappears inside, leaving the door wide open. It’s a trap. One of those honeypot things. I’ll go inside and gotcha! Humiliation galore.
I hate that I’m checking him out while he’s stealing my luggage, but damn if he doesn’t still look like he belongs in the Tennessee mountains with their granite rocks and jutting peaks.
All broad shoulders and flannel, beard hiding that mouth that does interesting things when he smiles at me.
Not remarkable at all except for how he’s completely messing with my head.
I need to remember that when he looks at me, he sees someone to fix. Homeless? Find her housing! Check!
I do not want to be a box on this man’s to-do list.
He comes back out empty-handed. If he thinks he can move me around like a Monopoly piece, he’s about to find out that I’m not the boot or the cute Scottie dog. I’m the freaking battleship.
He’s tall, broad, and far too steady for his own good.
The kind of man who looks like he’s been preparing his whole life to disapprove of someone like me.
His arms are crossed, his shoulders squared, and that quiet, unreadable face is set to preacher-neutral, which somehow feels more damning than a full-blown scowl.
He has slow, serious good looks—the kind that sneak up on you.
Not movie-star handsome, but solid. Reliable.
Those brown eyes see more than they miss, and the way his jaw tightens when he’s thinking makes me want to rattle him just to see what else he’s holding back.
And yet.
Something about the way he stands there—calm and unbothered, like nothing I throw at him can shake him—makes my skin buzz in places it has no business buzzing.
I hate that my body hasn’t gotten the memo: This man’s a walking, talking reminder that I don’t belong here.
I’m a mess while he’s the kind of person who files receipts and flosses nightly.
I stomp up the steps.
“Down the hall,” he calls. “Last door on the right.”
The guest bedroom screams granny chic—white chenille spread, milk-glass vase full of droopy purple flowers, and a water glass painted with ladybugs. My temporary prison, but whatever. It’ll do.
When I trudge back outside, he’s leaning against his truck waiting for me, mouth set in a firm line. If I hadn’t kissed him last night, I wouldn’t know how soft those lips get when he stops being so damn serious.
“Let’s get the rest of your things.”
“I’ve got it.” It’ll take me a dozen trips if I carry everything by hand, but that’s a reasonable compromise if it lets me avoid his company. “Or did you not meet your good-deeds quota for the day? You don’t have to help me.”
“I know.” He opens the passenger-side door.
I stomp over and get in. “Then why are you?”
“Because everyone needs a place to land sometimes.” He waits for me to buckle up, even though we’re driving two blocks at five miles an hour. “Even people who don’t want one.”
Why does he say it like that? All gentle and sure, like I’m not some train wreck. Just a person with a bag full of crap and nowhere else to go.
I don’t know what to do with kindness I haven’t paid for.
“Fine, but I’m not staying long.”
“Didn’t think you would.”
He drives down the street like a turtle.
It feels like I’m riding a parade float.
He waves a hand at someone on the left side of the street.
Then at someone on the right. We’re nodded at, hollered at, and get the one-hand lift.
The honk-and-wave combo. There’s absolutely nothing discreet about my move-in.
I slump lower in my seat. “Wow, you’re really leaning into this.”
“We’re getting your stuff.”
“You’re gonna have so much explaining to do.”
When he pulls into the parking lot at Sweetgum Auto, I all but throw myself out of the truck.
The top of my van’s grown a potted marigold. The succulent-shaped sticky note stuck to the side says: For our newest Dirty Girl!
Two years ago, I was living and playing from this van.
A year ago? Same story. Last fucking week?
Same song, same refrain. I’ve always been on my way up but not there yet.
Making it big(ger) in the country music world.
I’d been sure I had a musical future. A recording contract coming my way and people who’d love my music.
Now I’m stuck in Nowhere, Tennessee, and my only career path forward is partnering with my dad.
I have an empty bank account, a maxed-out credit card, and nothing whatsoever to show for eight years of hustling—except, maybe, just maybe, a half-thought-out song on Instagram.
Jack comes around to stand beside me. “Point out what you need. I’ll grab it.”
The fight drains out of me like water from a backed-up toilet that finally unclogged—sudden, messy, and with an undignified gurgle. Pride’s a real luxury commodity.
“You know what? Fine.” I throw my hands up. You win, Jack. You win. “I’m accepting your help because I literally have no other options. But don’t expect me to be all sunshine and gratitude about it.”
Because my whole damn life I’ve been told that needing help means you’re weak, that it means you’re not trying hard enough, and I’ll be damned if I give anyone—especially Jack with his good intentions and perfect shoulders—the satisfaction of proving Dear Old Dad right.
“Never,” he says solemnly, but there’s a smile hiding in his beard.
“And I’m going to be a terrible houseguest. Just awful. Singing at all hours. Using all the hot water. Leaving my stuff everywhere.”
“I’m trembling with fear.”
“You should be.” I grab the guitar case from him. “And I always carry my own guitar.”
He inclines his head. “As you wish.”
And damn him, that almost makes me smile back.
“Do you have anyone else to call?” He grabs a music stand and tilts his head at me.
“I know tons of people! I can have a phone conversation anytime I want but that’s very nineties of you.” And none of those conversations would include the words “Hey! Can you be my unpaid moving and pickup service?”
Jack’s obviously big on relationships. He knows everyone we passed. I bet he could knock on any door and whoever answered would happily drive hours and hours to Nashville for him. He’s disgustingly friendly.
He shrugs one big shoulder. “And did you call these people?”
“No.” A point to you, Preacher Man. My soul resists the demand to confess more than a couch potato asked to run a marathon.
“So let’s get you moved in. I can find ways for you to help out. I have a whole talent show act to plan.”
“Singing?” My ears perk up despite myself. Performance is my turf. My jam. My superpower.
“The choir.” He gives me an assessing look. “You know, you could actually help with that. You being a professional singer and all.”
“You want me to work with your church choir?” I can’t hide the horror in my voice. Hell, I don’t want to. “I’m a solo act, Jack.”
“They need help,” he says stubbornly, looking toward the church where a tarp flaps in the breeze over one section of the roof. “We need help, mostly in the form of the prize money from the talent show. It’s our best shot at fixing that roof before the whole thing collapses.”
Even from here, I can see the missing shingles, the uneven patches, the spots where water damage shows on the eaves.
“I don’t do backup vocals—” anymore “—and I definitely don’t do gospel. Just how terrible are they? And how much money are we talking?”
He doesn’t deny they suck. Just smiles that infuriating smile.
“For the roof? Forty thousand, give or take. For the talent show? First prize is fifty.”
That’s a lot of money.
“I’d rather eat glass than coach church music,” I mutter.
After his first trip from the van to the truck, Jack stops to strip off his flannel shirt and toss it in the front seat. He shifts my huge suitcase, plus the plastic bags with the overflow clothes, and then he climbs all the way in to go for the huge box of sheet music crammed in the far corner.
Slate frowns at me from across the lot. He and Deacon have their hands on the back of a rusty old car.
“Gotta roll this old Buick past you and into the bay—y’all mind scootin’?” Deacon asks.
I wave an acknowledgment and watch them lean into the car, muscles straining as they get the heavy beast rolling. The Buick starts creeping forward with a metallic groan. They’ll need room to maneuver, so I hop into the van and slam the door shut.