Chapter 28
Twenty-Eight
Daddy drama
Dixie
“Look at this one.” Jack angles his tablet toward me. On the screen, a solemn golden retriever is wearing a crocheted broccoli hat. “Think Huck would tolerate haberdashery?”
I snort. “Huck would pose for the camera. It’s Georgia Peach who would kill us in our sleep.”
“She’s already plotting,” Jack agrees, nodding toward the window where our resident murder bean glares at us from the top of the dresser. “I swear she understands English.”
“Of course she does. She’s cataloging our transgressions for her revenge list.” I’m sprawled against Jack’s side, watching water droplets from his recent shower sneak down his very distracting torso. “She’s probably got a whole spreadsheet.”
Jack moves on to the next video—a basset hound in what looks like a corn-on-the-cob costume. “We could start small. Maybe just a bow tie.”
“Don’t you dare. I’m not sleeping with one eye open because you gave her fashion accessories.”
My phone buzzes against the nightstand. Deacon’s name flashes on the screen.
Jack nudges me. “You should take that.”
“It’s probably about the van.” I don’t want to know. “And I’m too comfortable for bad news.”
But Jack has already handed me the phone, as he’s annoyingly responsible about things like returning calls promptly.
“Hey, Deacon.” I eye the corn-dog costume with suspicion.
“Van’s ready,” he says without preamble. “Runs like a dream now.”
Someone has cut the elevator cables in my torso. No! If the van works, I can hit the road. Return to Nashville. Stop complicating Jack’s life with a live-in girlfriend he’s only known for weeks.
“Are you sure?” It’s smart to double-check. Maybe he’s a crap mechanic.
“Took her for a spin this morning. She’s purring like a kitten.”
I can’t help grinning despite my panic. “She’s never purred in her life, so that’s impressive.”
“New fuel pump. Fresh oil. Cleaned out some wildlife behind the glove box.”
“What?” I’m 99.99 percent certain he’s joking.
“Nothing you need to worry about now. She’s parked outside when you’re ready.”
Jack’s gone still beside me, his hand frozen on my shoulder.
“Thanks, Deacon. Seriously,” I manage.
“Don’t make me regret it,” he mutters before hanging up.
I stare at the mournful basset hound in its corn costume. I feel you, dog.
“So,” I try. “The van’s fixed.”
Jack leans back against the headboard, managing to look like a lumberjack underwear model even while processing life-altering news. He wraps his arm around me more securely. “Do you want to hit the road?”
You’re stuck with me, Preacher Man. “Do you think I should go?”
“We’ve done everything backward.” His voice is carefully neutral. “Moving my girlfriend in before we’d even been on a date was pretty crazy.”
I twist to look at him properly. His eyes are warm as chocolate lava cake, which is reassuring.
“Totally impulsive! Plus, she’s got a job that involves travel. When are you going to see her if you don’t move her in?” I press my face into the cedar-scented hollow of his shoulder. This is way better than cute animal videos.
Jack switches off the tablet and kills the lights. I immediately starfish all over him like I do, and he adjusts so I don’t slide off the bed.
“You realize we’d never see each other if you weren’t living here, right?” he says into the darkness.
“Oh really? Absolutely never?”
“Nope. We’d waste so much time scheduling things. Texting. Driving. Trying to figure out which place to hang out at. It’d be inefficient.”
“Tragic,” I agree solemnly. “All that wasted gas money.”
Jack hums his agreement. “This is just fiscally responsible. Splitting utilities? That’s good stewardship.”
“We’re basically cohabiting geniuses.”
“Pure logic,” he says, and I can feel his smile against my neck.
We settle into comfortable silence, but he’s still thinking.
“I thought about sabotaging your van, you know,” he admits. “So, you’d have to stay.”
“Me, too.”
“Deacon would have killed us.”
“Totally worth it, though.”
“Yeah,” he says.
I listen to the steady rhythm of his heart beating beneath my cheek.
I’ve imagined red carpets and recording contracts.
Playing bigger venues. Actually earning a living from my music.
Those things won’t happen if I stay here, but right now—right now I’m unexpectedly happy. Not quitting. Just readjusting.
Totally worth it.
* * *
So here’s the deal with today’s Dirty Girls meeting—and before y’all start getting ideas, let me explain why there are actually guys at what’s usually a ladies-only plants-obsessing situation.
We’re officially set up on Dee’s front porch, which, by the way, looks like it fell out of a Southern Living magazine and landed smack-dab on Main Street.
After Slate hauls three bags of dirt up the steps (because apparently his grumpy ass is super useful for manual labor), he just sits down and doesn’t leave.
Boom. He’s an honorary lady. No worries—we pot around him, pressing ridiculously tiny snapdragon seeds into the dirt.
Feels like kindergarten, except instead of finger painting, we’re gossiping about every soul in Wickham Hollow while sprawled on Dee’s perfect porch furniture.
Then Jack shows up (because Slate’s paved the way for gentlemen everywhere), and the ladies perk up like they’ve been waiting for this moment all day.
He does that thing where he leans against the wall—you know, that whole I’m-off-duty-but-remember-I’m-your-preacher pose.
Arms crossed, shoulders relaxed, body slouched just enough to look casual.
No one’s kicking him out, either—he’s too pretty.
So yeah, that’s why there are guys at Dirty Girls club today.
Sometimes the good ones just show up and make everything better.
The corners of his mouth turn up behind his beard when he brushes a kiss over my cheek. “Hey,” he says to me. Which is basically a goddamned Shakespearean sonnet right there.
“Hey yourself.” And there I am, channeling my inner bard like some kind of literary genius.
Cut the chorus of enthusiastic hellos, one grunt from Slate (because emotions are hard), and a bunch of finger waves. The older lady on the far end of the porch actually claps her hands together like she’s watching her favorite soap opera couple finally get their act together.
I plop down on Dee’s ottoman—seriously, the roundest piece of furniture known to mankind.
Jack has to move what looks like half of Pottery Barn’s pillow collection before he can sit down and pull me into his side.
And damned if I don’t just melt into all that warmth and that delicious cedar scent that follows him around.
The ladies are doing that thing where they exchange looks and satisfied smiles. Yeah, there’s some side-eye happening, but it’s the good kind—the kind that says they’ve been rooting for us this whole time and are pretty pleased with their matchmaking skills.
I want to climb him like a tree. Kiss him back with tongue.
He’s told me I don’t have to hold back in public, but I’ve tried to keep things G-rated (okay, maybe PG), because screwing around in the workplace isn’t really my thing, and honestly?
All of Wickham Hollow feels like Jack’s workplace.
Looking at him right now, I’m seriously regretting that commitment.
Feels like way too long since I’ve properly kissed him.
“Well, look at you two!” Dee beams, already reaching for her phone. “Quick! Let me get a picture for my Insta!”
I give her a little salute with my middle finger behind my back.
Jack covers my saluting fingers with his own and tugs them back between us. The man knows me way too well.
When I say, “Scold me later, Preacher Man,” Slate actually snorts.
Jealous I mouth at him. He shakes his head, but we both know the truth.
I’ve never had this kind of easy, everyday relationship before. I’m leaning in to kiss him back when we hear the rumble of a truck coming up the street. Everyone turns to look, and Jesus—it’s this electric-blue monstrosity with oversize tires and a custom mesh grille with LED light bars.
“Hot damn,” someone says.
Tilly squints up the street, having taken off her glasses. “Can’t plant what I can’t see,” she mutters, more to herself than to anyone else. “What is that?”
The truck slows to a crawl and I get a bad feeling.
Slate decides he has to answer the question literally. “Lifted F-450 with chrome running boards and custom rims.”
“No.” Dee shakes her head. “You’re missing the point. That’s a famous-person car.”
“Do you think it’s Luke Combs or one of those Osborne brothers? I can’t decide which is prettier.”
“Luke Combs? Does he drive a truck?”
When the truck slows in front of Dee’s house, I get a good look at the license plate. My stomach drops like a stone. RHINESTR.
Oh, hell no.
I’ve parked behind that ridiculous vanity plate more times than I can count—in studio lots, outside honky-tonk bars, in the driveway of every house I ever lived in growing up.
You can’t miss that frame. The top reads, in bold, engraved script: “Nashville Called—Again” and the bottom announces “I Let It Go Platinum, Baby.” The whole thing is bracketed in tiny, silver guitars and Swarovski-studded cowboy hats.
It doesn’t just say “I’m a country legend” (my dad’s usual brand of exaggeration).
It screams, “I have backstage access and I drink my Jack Daniels through a gold-plated straw.”
Jack’s arm tightens around me as my whole body goes rigid. This isn’t happening. Not here. Not now. Not in front of Dee, who texts me plant updates at midnight. Not in front of Slate, who actually grunted good morning at me yesterday—practically a declaration of eternal friendship from him.
My dad’s in town. This town. My I’m-a-big-deal father who believes small towns are where dreams go to die.
“Prepare to be starstruck,” I warn the group.
“GARTH brOOKS?”
That question’s gonna answer itself.