Chapter 18
Eighteen
Girl rolls down the window and lets it all out
Dixie
“You know,” says Jack, turning the truck down yet another no-name country back road.
He’s driving one-handed with a sexy confidence, his other, flannel-covered arm resting on the open window.
It’s a much better view than the trees, cows, and shadows outside my window, although let’s hope he’s not about to repeat the questions he asked earlier tonight.
You feel something for me, he said. Yeah, Jack.
I do. Attraction. Desire. The deadly, deadly sin of lust. It’s nothing more than that. I won’t let it be.
“You were right about needing something more interesting than ‘Amazing Grace’ for the talent show.”
I’m safe. He’s not asking to rethink our relationship.
In fact, he’s finally coming around to my way of thinking.
This totally works for me. It’s not like words can change anything and the talent show is coming up fast—that’s the whole point of my leading the choir rehearsals, to drag them to greatness.
Or at least the grand prize. And yet… I want to make things easier for Jack.
What is wrong with me? Merle Haggard sings on Jack’s ancient radio about how hard it is for everyday folks to get by. I feel you, Merle. I feel you.
“Finally,” I say. “Safe is for suckers, Jack.”
“Yeah.” He turns right onto another dark road. Jeez. Why does one tree-lined lane look like another? “After seeing that group tonight, it’s obvious we can’t outsing them. So we do need something that’ll make the judges remember us.”
“I’m not saying talent doesn’t count.” Talent matters, Jack. It MATTERS. “But they didn’t feel hungry. They weren’t singing like their lives depended on it.”
“Is that what it’s like for you?”
“Yeah. It’s not just about playing for me. It’s about winning over the audience. About making them feel. It always has been. I know that sounds arrogant.”
“No,” he says. “It sounds honest.”
“I used to tell myself I just wanted to be heard,” I go on, because apparently there’s no pause button for my mouth tonight, “but that’s a lie.
I want to matter. I want people to stand up after a set and say, ‘That woman? She’s the best I’ve ever heard.
’ Not just ‘That was nice’ or ‘She’s not bad. ’ I want the blue ribbon.”
Jack’s quiet, but it’s the good kind of quiet. A listening quiet.
“I recorded my first demo when I was nineteen. Sold my first guitar to do it. My granddad’s guitar.”
His eyes flick to me. “That the same granddad who taught you to play?”
“Yeah. It was this beat-up old Gibson, missing a knob, duct tape holding the pickguard on. Had his name and mine carved on the back and it was the ugliest guitar ever—but it sounded like magic.”
“You miss it.”
“Every damn day. But I needed studio time. I thought if I could just get one clean demo, someone would hear it and sign me on the spot. That didn’t happen, by the way. Plot twist!”
He smiles. “Still. That’s a big sacrifice.”
“It felt like trading in a part of myself,” I admit. “But it also felt like the price of admission. Like maybe that’s what success costs.”
He nods, thoughtful. “Sometimes it is. I didn’t always want to be a preacher.”
I glance at him, curious. “What was baby Jack like?”
“Angry,” he says with a rueful smile. “Joined the Marines right out of high school. Thought I’d serve my country, get my head on straight, maybe push myself into being someone better. It didn’t work because it turns out, you can’t outrun yourself just by wearing a uniform.”
“So, what changed?”
“I stopped thinking about who I wanted to be. Started asking how I could help. Who I could help. Ministry isn’t about perfection. It’s about showing up. It’s patching a roof, delivering groceries, sitting with people when they’re scared. It’s about being useful.”
“You’re good at that showing-up thing.”
“So are you.”
I laugh. “I literally showed up because my van died on Main Street.”
“Still counts. You ever think about getting that guitar back?”
“I tried, once. Called the pawn shop, but it was long gone. Probably sitting in someone’s closet now, collecting dust.”
He reaches over and squeezes my hand gently. “I’m sorry.”
“Me, too. But, you know, choices. I made them, I live with them.”
I can’t stop stealing glances at Jack. The dim dashboard light catches the strong line of his jaw, the way his beard has gotten ever so slightly mussed during our reconnaissance mission.
He looks relaxed for the first time all week—pulling off low-level choir espionage is apparently exactly what he needed.
“So.” I shift in my seat to face him better. “You ready to hear more about ‘Jingle Bell Dash’? Because here comes the tell-all.”
He chuckles, a low sound that does things to my insides. “Tell me everything.”
“It’s actually my dad’s song. He’s the Hank Pearl who wrote it. It was his minor hit twenty years ago. So yeah, he’d probably let us sing it. Hell, he’d drag us into his studio and make it a whole production if I agreed to come along.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because he wants me to come home and do a Christmas album remake with him. Keeps calling and texting about it.” I pick at a tear in my jeans. “Which is a hard no from me.”
Jack’s quiet for a moment. “Then why would you want to sing his song with the choir? Wouldn’t that just encourage him?”
I grin. “Because it ticks our boxes. It’s fucking ridiculous, but you can’t stop listening to it. It’s like a car wreck on the highway—everyone slows down for a lookie-loo and then talks about it later.”
“Why not write something of your own?”
“You want me to write you a song, Jack?”
“Yeah.” He nods enthusiastically. “Screw your dad’s song. Do something different.”
It strikes me like a fiddle bow hitting the right string. I’ve been trying to make myself fit the music—first with Dad’s expectation, then Nashville’s, and now with Jack’s safe hymn choice. But that isn’t how it works. The music has to fit us.
Safe is for suckers.
“If I do it,” I say, sitting up straighter, “you have to promise me that you’ll actually let them sing it. No backing down because it’s too loud or too much.”
He nods slowly. “Deal.”
“Good.” I grin. “Chaos. Pure, beautiful chaos. We lean into what makes us different—we’re scrappy, we’re loud, and we sure as hell aren’t afraid to make fools of ourselves in a good cause.”
That makes him laugh—really laugh, his shoulders shaking, his eyes crinkling at the corners. Of course he’s not afraid and he’s all in.
My mind reminds me what he looked like, navigating the fair like he owned the place.
Charming the ring toss guy, making small talk with complete strangers, winning me the bonus bear that’s on my lap and telling me he did it because he could see me looking at it.
My face warms remembering his words. I didn’t have to tell him anything.
He just watched and learned me. How do I even begin to date him for real?
I’m about to go back to Nashville. I’ll be on tour, making albums, hundreds of miles and light-years away from him.
It would be crazy for a preacher and a country music star to have a thing.
Wouldn’t it? But… He’s not just a preacher and he definitely sees me.
He seems to like that woman. So what am I supposed to do?
“You know,” I say, voice pitched lower than it needs to be because fuck all these emotions he’s stirred up in me. I’m picking the only one that’s familiar: lust. “You’re different when you’re not being all ministerial.”
He slides me a wary glance. “Different how?”
“Looser. More…” I drag my gaze over him deliberately. “Dangerous.”
He chokes. “Dangerous?”
“Mmm-hmm.” I lean close enough to smell his soap and something that’s pure Jack. “Like maybe you’ve got some secrets tucked away under all that flannel and good behavior.”
The truck slows. I think he’s frozen. “Dixie…”
“What?” I trail my finger over the back of his neck, just barely grazing skin. He shivers. “I’m just making conversation.”
“That’s not conversation. That’s trouble.” His voice goes all stern.
“I like trouble.” My hand drifts down to his shoulder, fingers finding the edge of his collar. Bad fingers! “Question is, do you?”
There’s only the rumble of the engine and the whisper of tires on asphalt for a second. Then Jack yanks the wheel hard and pulls over, bringing us to a whiplash-inducing stop.
He aggressively puts the truck in Park, unbuckles, and looks at me. Calm Jack has vanished. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide. I’m riding shotgun with a caveman.
“You know, you should probably practice your emergency stop. I bet you could do it smoother if you tried.”
“Okay,” he growls. Growls! I’m under his skin, worming my way inside him. “Cards on the table. You’re staying in my house. You’re my guest. And I’ve tried really hard to be respectful about that.”
And that’s a good idea why?!
“Wait! Jack, Jack, Jack,” I complain. “Are we not having sex because I’m living down the hall from you and you think it’s disrespectful to put the moves on me?”
“I want you so bad it’s making me insane.
” His jaw ticks—or does something. Whatever, Preacher Man’s definitely getting his feels on and is trying real hard not to show it.
“I’m telling you that every morning when I make you coffee, I think about backing you up against the counter.
Every time you steal my shirts, I think about taking them off you.
Every goddamn time you sing in my kitchen, I want to—” He stops, running a hand through his hair.
“But you’re stuck in Wickham Hollow. With me. And that’s not a level playing field.”
“You think I can’t consent because my van’s broken?”
“I think you might feel obligated—”
“Jack. Jack, Jack, Jack.” When I put my hand on his thigh, the muscles jump under my palm. “I’m a grown woman. I make my own choices. And right now, I’m choosing to be very, very interested in what you were about to say you wanted to do.”