Chapter 27
Twenty-Seven
Girl falls hard for preacher
Dixie
At least I feel better. Not perfect—my hands still ache and I get tired fast—but I’ve stopped eating ibuprofen like candy. I’m writing again. Singing in the kitchen again. Laughing. I blame Jack.
Jack, who fixes the wobbly porch step without saying a word about it. Jack, who’s a conveyor belt of hot water bottles and who silently reads a book next to me while I nap. Jack, who demands I take up space in his life because he’s sure I belong there.
I don’t, of course. Not really. But I want to. God help me, I want to.
Lately, things between Jack and me are cozy.
Not just the occasional knee bump on the couch or the hand brush in the kitchen kind of cozy, but the real, tangled-up kind.
Somewhere between me stealing his flannel shirts and him learning how I like my tea, we’ve started sharing a bed.
Not just for sex—though we’ve been doing plenty of that—but for the scary stuff.
Now it’s me crawling under the covers when my joints ache or when I’m lonely but don’t want to admit it out loud.
He never makes a big deal out of it. Just curls his big body around mine, warm and solid, his hand on my hip or tucked under my shirt at the small of my back like he’s been sleeping next to me forever. Like we’re normal.
Which is why I’ve written a song.
Not a serious one. Not a burn-down-the-charts power ballad or one I’ll send to my agent. Just a fun ditty I strum out on Jack’s front porch with Huck at my feet and Georgia Peach sulking in the window. She’s such a little murder bean!
What’s it called? I’m so glad you asked! “Asking Out My Man.”
Okay, yeah. Bold-as-hell title. But I’m ready to stop playing it safe and pretending I don’t care.
If he doesn’t feel the same way, whatever.
I’ll make a joke out of it, go back to acting like I’m not stupidly, ridiculously gone for a man who says shit like “let’s fix it together” and means both the leaky church roof and my disaster of a life.
I wait until we’re elbow-deep in dishwater to spring it on him. Also noted: When I finally make it big—when, not if—I’m buying my man a damn dishwasher.
“You doing anything Thursday night?” I hand him a plate to dry.
He looks up from the dish towel. “Thursday?”
Yes, Jack. The fourth day of the week for those of us who don’t start our workweek on Sunday.
“Karaoke night. Southern Comforts.”
To be fair (which I’m not interested in being), Deacon and Slate are willing to karaoke any night Southern Comforts is open. I can hit Jack with my new lyrics anytime.
He gives me that look—equal parts curiosity and fond exasperation. It’s so damn cute. “You’re performing?”
“I wrote a new song. Thought you might want to hear it.”
God, I like him. Like, I totally want to jump on him right now, wrestle him to the floor, and demand he make space for me in his life. You know, more than he already has. I’m a greedy bitch.
Jack folds the towel into thirds. “You inviting me to karaoke night?”
I nod vigorously. Let there be no doubt, Jack! “Technically, I’m inviting you to be serenaded.”
He pauses. He smells a rat. “Should I be nervous?”
He’s rubbing a hand down his beard, so he’s already nervous. I’ve gotten to know his tells over the last few weeks, and he’s uncomfortable. That makes two of us.
“Also,” he adds, trying to look casual, “shouldn’t you be posting cryptic song lyrics on Instagram first? Build the suspense? Get your—what is it now, half a million?—followers wondering what Dixie Pearl’s up to next?”
I make a face. “God, don’t remind me. They’re all waiting for ‘Hot for Preacher: The Sequel.’”
“So—” he grins “—it seems like you’re breaking your own social media protocol here. Giving me an exclusive preview instead of teasing it online first.”
“Don’t let it go to your head, Preacher Man. Maybe I just want to see your face when you hear what happens next before the rest of the internet does.”
* * *
“What the hell are you up to?” Deacon hands me a Diet Coke. We’re standing in front of his crappy, makeshift stage in Southern Comforts.
I wink at him. “Tonight is my world premiere of a brand-new song. You should thank me. I accept Venmo and French fries.”
“Nah.” He gives me that deadpan look. “You’re not just singing. You’re fixin’ to cause trouble.”
Technically I’m not singing right now, either. I’m talking. Pointing that out, however, is likely to get my ass tossed out the door.
He’s got a decent-sized crowd tonight—bigger than usual for a Thursday, probably because word’s gotten around that the girl from the viral preacher song is doing something new. The faces are friendly, however, which is a relief.
“Think I should cancel karaoke night.”
“You can’t do that,” I pout.
“Why’s that?”
“I invited Jack. My brand-new song is for him.”
Deacon’s eyes narrow, and I almost laugh. “You wrote a ton of songs about him.”
“Yeah, but this one’s a present. FOR,” I emphasize. “It’s for him, Deacon. So shut up and let me sing, yeah?”
He curses, but then Jack walks in and he just starts groaning instead. I pat him on the shoulder. He’ll get over it.
Jack’s dressed for the occasion in a black button-down shirt that makes his shoulders look extra wide and his jaw extra carved. He’s wearing dark jeans and cowboy boots.
He nods to Slate, who’s posted up at the bar, judging everyone in silence like a particularly grumpy gargoyle.
When Jack sees me, he smiles. Not the polite preacher smile he flashes around at church. The real one. The one that makes me want to write a thousand more songs just to see it again.
Deacon insists I have to wait my turn (“You’re lucky I don’t make you go fucking last, Pearl, because you’re gonna show everyone up for the amateurs they are”) so it’s a while before I get to go up onstage.
I spend the time cozied up to Jack at the bar.
He’s ordered the hot honey chicken sliders and a plate of buttermilk biscuit nachos, and I’ve generously agreed to help him out with those. A girl’s gotta eat, after all.
“I’m buying next time,” I tell him.
He laughs. “Of course you are. I’ll bring my appetite.”
I’ll have to save up because Jack’s appetite is as giant as the rest of him.
When it’s finally my turn (Jesus, Deacon, what took so long?) I take the stage and make Deacon haul up a chair for me to sit in. Then I make him scoot it around a bit because I’m feeling bitchy about the wait. He gives me major stink eye but does it anyway.
When I sit down, my hands are only slightly shaky as I adjust the mic and my guitar. “So, this is a little song I wrote.”
That gets a reaction from my audience.
“Wait, is she allowed to do an original?”
“Doesn’t she have to pick off the list?”
“Hope it’s not one of those slow, mopey ones.”
I ignore them.
“This one’s for a guy I know. He’s been feeding me, sheltering me, fixing broken things around the house, and putting up with my bullshit for weeks. Which, let’s be honest, is a lot of bullshit. So, I thought I’d thank him the only way I know how. Through public embarrassment.”
A few people laugh. Jack crosses his arms and smiles. I start to play.
“He brings me coffee, black as sin,
Fixed my van and the life I fell in.
He’s a preacher man with a heart of gold,
And I’m just a mess with a suitcase full of songs.
But he makes me feel like maybe I could stay,
So here I am, singing it anyway—
Would it be weird if I asked out my man?
Even though I’m crashing in a secondhand van?
Is it tacky to say, ‘I want more than this’?
’Cause I’m pretty sure I’d give up Nashville for his kiss.”
The crowd whoops. I don’t look at Jack until the last chord fades. When I do, he’s still standing at the bar, still smiling, but now with that soft, stunned look on his face. Like I just sucker punched him with feelings. Now go get your man!
I hop down from the stage and make my way through all the Wickham Hollowites who want to give me unsolicited feedback on my performance. Jack meets me halfway.
“So,” I say.
“So,” he echoes.
“That wasn’t a joke.” Subtlety has never been my strong suit.
“I figured.”
We stand there for a second. Close enough that I can feel the heat coming off his body, close enough to smell that stupidly good soap he uses. I look up at him. “Are you gonna say something preacher-y or are you gonna kiss me?”
He laughs. “Neither. Yet.”
I blink. “Yet?”
“I’m gonna take you on a proper date first.”
“You mean this isn’t it?”
“This is karaoke night. You asked me out in front of half the town. I think you’ve earned pie.”
“Alright, but there’s no pie in Wickham Hollow at nine o’clock at night.”
He laughs. Then he tugs me out the door and down the street. I don’t really care where we’re going. Our fingers are laced together and we’re officially on our first date. A date.
I’d wanted him to like my song. I’d wanted him to feel like the center of attention. My attention. Seen. I hadn’t thought about what came after, though.
“Here,” he says, tugging me around the corner to the back of Dee and Tilly’s bakery.
Behind the building is an unexpectedly elaborate display of hostas in terra-cotta pots, each one covered with a glass cloche like they’re precious botanical specimens.
Dozens of varieties create a miniature greenhouse effect along the back wall, their leaves impossibly lush and full for March in Tennessee.
Ferns in matching pots frame the whole setup, creating what looks like a secret garden that belongs in a Victorian conservatory and not behind a small-town bakery.
Tilly’s gone completely plant-crazy back here.
But I’m having trouble focusing on her green-thumb insanity because I’d rather look at Jack.
His back view is incredible. His jeans hug his ass and his shirt rides up, showing a strip of dark boxer briefs and skin when he bends over to mess with some kind of metal box attached to the building. And pulls out—
“Pie!”
Turns out Dee has one of those honor-system pie safes out back for after-hours emergencies. My girl is brilliant.
We split a slice of coconut cream sitting on her back patio and talk about nothing important—music and pets and childhood stories we haven’t told each other yet.
When we’re walking back, he holds my hand. Just reaches out and laces his fingers through mine like it’s the most natural thing in the world. I watch our joined hands while he tells me about his day. When we get to the rectory, I pause at the bottom of the steps.
“So,” I say. “About that song.”
“I liked it.”
“I meant what I said.”
“I know.”
I don’t need him to call me a liar, but that’s not exactly the answer I was hoping for.
“You gonna do something about it?”
He steps closer. “I want to be that man for you, Dixie.”
I wait all of a second. My heart pounds.
“Are you asking me to be your girlfriend?”
He nods. “Yeah.”
“Exclusively? No more hot church groupies?”
His mouth twitches. “I’m pretty sure they’re a figment of your amazing imagination but agreed.”
I grin. “Good.”
Then he kisses me.
And I know—really know—that maybe this could work.
I don’t belong here, but I kind of want to.
And if that’s not terrifying, I don’t know what is.