Chapter 21 #2
No such luck, because when I round the corner into the living room, the music cuts off, and two sets of identical blue eyes snap to me.
Maggie bolts from the sofa like she’s been caught doing something she shouldn’t, while Ben—definitely Ben with that family resemblance—casually sets his guitar aside and stands.
My gaze flicks to the skillet on the stove. “Gabi dropped off some kolaches, but it looks like I’m too late.”
“Nah, man. Just in time for second breakfast.” Ben comes around the island in maroon Texas State joggers and a white T-shirt that looks like it may have been pressed. “Can I get you some coffee?”
“I’d love that.”
“I’m Ben, by the way,” he says, holding out his hand for me to shake.
“Holden.” I nod toward the guitar—an old acoustic, scuffed around the edges, the finish worn smooth from years of playing. “You’re really good.”
“So are you.”
My face heats. “Sorry about that. Didn’t think about my window being open.” I rub the back of my neck. “Hope I didn’t keep you guys up.”
“Not at all,” Ben says, grabbing a mug from a hook. “I only heard you when I got dropped off last night. House is solid stone. Can’t hear a thing in here.”
Maggie’s muffled snicker draws my gaze, and she bites her lip, eyes lowered to her fingers teasing the tie on her navy plaid pajama pants.
Her blue-painted toes are tucked into fuzzy white slippers, and she’s in a red tank, not the sweatshirt I gave her last night that I’d sort of hoped to find her in.
“You up for a little practice today?” I ask.
“Yeah, um…sure. Give me a minute to change.”
She pushes off the arm of the sofa and heads in the opposite direction. I watch until she turns the corner and wonder what her room’s like—where she sleeps, if it’s filled with books, a desk, if it’s where she writes.
And then my mind shifts to last night—if she’s upset with me, if she heard me play her namesake song a million fucking times, if it freaked her out.
I join Ben in the kitchen and set the kolaches on the island. “Maggie okay? I feel like I just missed the punchline of a joke.”
Or maybe I’m the punchline.
He chuckles and hands me a cup. “Don’t think she got much sleep. Cream? Sugar?”
“Black’s fine, thanks.” I take a seat on a barstool, the rich scent of coffee curling up from the mug. “Seriously, man, you slayed that intro. I’ve never even attempted it.”
“It’s my favorite part. Been playing it as long as I can remember. ‘Maggie May’ was pretty popular in this house growing up.”
“Bet she must hate it.”
His mouth twitches. “Used to. Probably doesn’t anymore.”
I take a careful sip. “I know you’re busy with school, but if you’ve got time while I’m here, think you could show me?”
He slides onto the stool beside me and reaches for a kolache. “Yeah, definitely. Finals tomorrow and Tuesday, but after that I’m free.” He takes a bite, groans. “Shit, these are really good. You said Gabrielle Martin got them? I’m having a really hard time picturing that.”
“Probably her PA. But she did drive them over, all by herself.” I smirk and grab another one out of the box. “First time having them.”
“Technically, these aren’t real kolaches. We just call them that.” He wipes his hands on a napkin. “Real ones are sweet. More like Danishes.”
“Huh. I wonder if—damn.”
“Ready,” Maggie says, stealing whatever the hell thing I was about to say.
My eyes immediately go to those sinful blue boots, then make the slow, appreciative climb up indigo, almost-black jeans to a sleeveless lace crop top that’s absolutely going to ruin my focus. With effort, I keep my eyes on hers, not the flash of skin at her waist.
Her hair’s pinned up, twisted in a clip, with a few loose pieces framing her face. Her lashes are darker, cheeks a little pinker, and she’s wearing gold hoop earrings and a small heart pendant that rests just below her collarbone.
“You look nice,” I say. “I mean, you always look nice, but…yeah.”
Ben snorts a laugh, and I adjust my hat a little lower on my head.
Jesus Christ, Shaw. Shut up.
I fill my blathering mouth with kolache, then chase it down with coffee.
“Thanks,” Maggie says—and I swear her eyes are twinkling. “Might do something with Constance later.”
“Oh?” Ben coughs. “When did that happen?”
She shoots him a glare that lands low in my chest. Did something happen with her friend last night? Because I bailed?
“You want a to-go cup for that?” she asks, snapping me out of the thought.
“Nah, I’m okay.” I slide off the stool and carry my mug to the sink. “Good luck with finals,” I tell Ben as we head out. “Oh, and, hey, thanks for letting me use your truck.”
“Yeah, of course.”
Maggie’s quiet all the way to the barn. She doesn’t seem upset, and she’s definitely not freaked out. Just lost in her head. Maybe even amused.
It has to be that damn song.
We stop at the entrance, and I lean against the limestone wall, eyes drifting to the wildflowers swaying in the field. “You, uh, sleep okay last night?”
“Off and on,” she says, smiling up at me—something of a Cheshire grin, but softer. The kind of smile that says, I know what you’re asking, and I’m not going to make it easy on you.
I kick at the loose gravel with the toe of my boot. “So you did hear it. Guess the house isn’t as soundproof as your brother implied.”
“I liked it,” she says, her voice easy as she opens the door.
Inside, she fusses with the lights and sound system while I wander the barn.
I can only imagine what this place was like before the remodel, when Maggie was just a kid chasing Ben across the concrete floor.
And after, as a teen, hanging out with friends, dancing under the string lights.
I assume Loretta’s sister spent time here too, and the thought drags me back to last night—to sending Maggie to her instead of keeping her with me.
I hate the way it makes me feel.
“You ready?” she asks, phone in hand, thumbs tapping the screen.
Within seconds of my “Yep,” the opening notes of “Bluest Eyes in Texas” spill from the speakers, and I draw in a breath before heading toward her.
She’s standing in the middle of the dance floor, fingers laced in front of her, big blue eyes staring up at me.
Like Baby, at the end of Dirty Dancing, waiting for Patrick Swayze to join her on stage.
“It’s not a fluke,” I mutter to myself as I move into position. My arms go around her—my hand on the bare skin of her back—and I catch her soft floral scent.
Magnolia Sunrise.
It’s every bit as soothing as it is intoxicating, and my shoulders start to loosen.
“Relax,” she says, keenly aware. “It’s just dancing.”
Is it, though?
Because it feels like more. More than a crush, as Gabi had suggested.
“You good?” Maggie asks, head tilting in concern as she reaches for her phone. The barn goes quiet.
My throat works, the swallow so loud I swear I can hear it. I give her a nod, and she starts the song again. Her palm settles high on my arm, wisps of her hair brushing my jaw. I pull her closer, our clasped hands—mine probably clammy—pressed between us.
“Is it possible Maggie feels the same?”
Gabi’s question flits through my mind, stirring hope I don’t want but can’t quite shake.
Because what if she did?
I shove the thought aside and focus instead on the music pulsing through the room.
On the lyrics that know too much.
On the here and now.
On her.
And my feet begin to move.
Quick, quick, slow, slow.
Any leftover tension melts away as we circle the smooth concrete floor of Maggie’s barn. Just like last night, the steps come without thinking. It’s not choreography anymore—it’s instinct. Like learning a new language, when every sentence has to be translated in your head before you speak it.
Until one day, the words just come naturally.
This dance just comes naturally.
The song ends before I’m ready. Our feet stop, but we don’t let go.
Maggie lays her head on my shoulder, her breath warm on my skin. “Why were you playing ‘Maggie May’ last night?” she asks, and I go still in her arms.
“Magnolia…”
“Over and over and over.”
My jaw tightens, the truth locked behind my teeth where it belongs.
I think I may be falling for you.
“It came on Spotify,” I say instead. “Wanted to learn the intro.” The lie rolls off my tongue like I’ve practiced it.
Maggie pulls back. “That’s why you were playing it? You were just trying to learn ‘Henry?’”
“‘Henry?’”
“That’s what the guitar intro’s called.”
I shift on my feet. “Yeah, just trying to learn ‘Henry.’”
Her eyes dim, snuffing out all the light from earlier.
“Maggie…”
“Right. Of course.” She clears her throat, then whips out her phone, her voice all business now. “I think we need to try it with the original song. See if anything sticks.”
The sudden shift throws me. “I thought we agreed to go with the new one. Have them sub in the original during post.”
“Yeah, but that’s not what I promised Artie,” she says quickly. “And I owe it to him to at least try.”
I study her face, her eyes fixed on the screen, and flinch when the music starts. “Take the Bull by the Horns” blares overhead, every note grinding against my skull.
You hurt her, and now she’s punishing you.
“Maggie, I can’t dance to this.”
She plants a hand on her hip. “You can try, Holden. It’s just a stupid song.”
“Artie won’t care, I promise.”
“I care,” she says, each word sharp and pointed. Her chin lifts just a touch, like she’s bracing herself. “I may be the only one who cares, and I really wish I didn’t.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. Forget it.”
The chorus kicks in, the volume rising. I exhale slowly, then hold out my hand. “Come on.”
She hesitates, then pockets her phone and gets into position. But where there was no space between us before, now there’s enough to stretch a canyon. I’m stiff, she’s detached—neither of us really here.
This isn’t going to work, and we both know it.
I step back, hooking my fingers over the brim of my cap. “This is pointless.”
“I knew this would happen,” she says, gesturing wide in frustration. “You’re nothing like Tripp McCoy.” Her words hit like a record scratch. She looks away, face crumpling. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—”
“Didn’t mean it? Or didn’t mean to say it out loud? I’m trying my goddamn best here, Maggie.”
She recoils at my sharp tone, and I wish I could take it back.
I wish I could take back last night and un-play that song.
“I hope you know this is a master class in torture.” I smile weakly, but my attempt at levity falls flat. “Let’s do it again with the new song. Artie will be ecstatic. You’ll see.”
She stares straight ahead, shoulders hunched, arms cinched around her waist. “I’m, um…gonna go. I’ve got to go.”
“Maggie…” I reach for her as she brushes past me, then drop my hand and watch her walk out the door.
She leaves it wide open like a gaping mouth, and I’m left standing on the other side, that fucking song cutting out more and more, the farther away she gets. I don’t move a muscle until the signal drops, swallowing the barn in silence.
Then I power everything off and let myself out.