Chapter 34
Instead of riding with Constance and her sister to the wrap party, I bring my brother as my date. Lord knows he deserves it after everything he did for my non-dinner last night.
I told him only the bare minimum: that Holden’s commitments have changed, and that was the end of it. He didn’t press for more. I’m sure he could tell I was hanging by a thread. I haven’t cried since Mama’s funeral, and I’d sure like to keep that streak alive.
Ben probably would too.
“You look handsome,” I tell him as we cross the dance hall parking lot.
He’s in a charcoal blazer over a white button-down and dark Wranglers, his everyday work boots swapped for a new pair of black Tecovas that, judging by his gait, might not be broken in yet.
I especially love his black felt Stetson, something I haven’t seen him wear in ages. “I never get to see you dressed up.”
“I never get invited to wrap parties.” He grins as he opens the door for me. “You look nice too, little sis.”
“Thanks,” I say, glancing down at the little satiny black dress I throw on anytime I need to gussy up (so basically never).
Spaghetti straps, backless, braless… Nothing I have to think too hard about.
A hem that hits mid-thigh, making my legs look longer than they are.
I like it because it’s easy. And right now, I need easy.
Inside, the hall looks just like it did before filming, except for the neon Cody’s Icehouse sign still glowing behind the stage.
The lights are low, the music loud, and the dance floor packed.
Graham Barrett’s nephew’s band is tearing it up, and I have to say, they’re not half-bad.
Maybe that “horny bull song,” as Dez called it, was a one-off.
“Maggie!”
Constance’s voice cuts through the crowd like thunder on a tin roof.
Her smile is pure bliss, and it takes every ounce of strength I’ve got to match it.
The last time we talked, she assured me I’d made the right decision to keep things going with Holden.
She has no idea what’s happened since, and somehow, I’ll have to find it in me to tell her.
Ben senses my unease and steps in.
“Maggie says you’re going for your teaching certification,” he says, drawing her into a hug.
It works, and after a minute I’m able to slip away to the bar for a little liquid courage.
I order a TX neat for me and a beer for my brother. But when I turn to head back, I nearly collide with Graham Barrett.
“Magnolia,” he says, his eyes lifting to mine. “I wondered if I’d see you here.”
“You remember me.”
Must be the name, I think, but manage to keep from saying it.
He arches a brow. “It’s not every day I get rebuked for critiquing a young writer.”
“Critiquing,” I say. “Interesting word choice.”
The space around us begins to fill and he motions toward an empty table. “Might I have a word?”
The part of me that still feels two feet tall after the rebuking he gave me wants to turn and walk. But the rest of me—the stubborn, starry-eyed part—still kind of idolizes the man.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Barrett?” I ask once we’re clear of the crowd. How did he ever make me feel so small? I’ve got six inches on him at least, maybe eight in these heels. “I don’t need an apology.”
He laughs at that, and my grip on both drinks tightens. I set them on the table.
The man’s ego makes the height difference kind of irrelevant.
“I’m not the apologizing sort,” he says, pushing my glass away to make room for his forearm. “But I can admit when I’ve been…harsh.”
“Look, if it helps, your delivery left a lot to be desired, but your critique was spot on. My writing lacked something, which was why I sought you out to begin with. And now I know what that something is. So, thank you, I guess.”
His lips quirk in a smug little smile. “And what, pray tell, was lacking?”
“Me.” I lift my chin. “My early writing was bland, like you so eloquently pointed out, but I didn’t know why.
My poetry was personal, but when I moved to fiction, I held back.
Never connected with my characters.” The AC vent above me kicks on, and I fold my arms over my chest. “I didn’t realize that was the problem until recently, when I started writing about a subject that’s… important to me.”
He pushes a piece of graying hair back from his face. “Would this subject happen to be the young man who—how do you kids say it—handed my ass to me after you left?”
My brows draw together. “Young man?”
Graham Barrett looks past me and tips his chin. “The same young man staring daggers into me now.”
As soon as he says it, I feel Holden’s gaze on me, and it takes everything I have not to turn around.
“I’d never seen such a delicious display of chivalrous fury,” he says, snickering like the memory still amuses him.
“If you’re writing about him, I imagine you feel the same.
Use it. The excitement, the fear. The love.
” He narrows his eyes. “And if he hurts you, angers you, destroys you, use that too. That’s maybe the best part of being a writer, Magnolia.
No emotion is ever wasted. No experience, good or bad. ”
“I’ll try to remember that,” I say, my tone the slightest bit softer now. No question the guy’s a jerk, but that was actually some okay advice. “Anything else?”
“Not outside of my workshop.” He smirks, more tease than bite, then turns to leave. “Perhaps next year I’ll host another,” he adds over his shoulder. “Try not to bore me.”
I tilt my head and watch him go. I did not have Graham Barrett’s non-apology on my bingo card tonight.
“You okay?” I turn around and immediately forget the question.
Holden’s impossibly handsome in slim black jeans and a fitted dark gray button-down.
His belt and lace-up boots are a deep burgundy, and a silver watch sits on his wrist. His hair’s relaxed, tousled, brushing the open collar of his shirt; his face clean-shaven—stripped of the scruff he had yesterday.
For a man who just got the rug pulled out from under him, he’s doing a heck of a job hiding it.
“How are you holding up?” I ask. “Any word on Cara?”
“They should be releasing her this weekend. Perfect timing, actually. The bed won’t be there until Friday.” He nods toward Barrett hovering near the food table. “How’d that go?”
“He was actually kind of pleasant.” I raise a brow. “Did you…lay into him that night?”
He shrugs, hands sliding into his pockets. “We had a few words.”
“You didn’t even like me then.”
“I think you’ve got that backwards, Magnolia.”
Something in the way he says it makes me blush.
When Graham Barrett says my name, it sounds formal, almost dismissive, but he knows me by nothing else. When Holden says it, it’s a choice.
“I know you didn’t need me swooping in to defend your honor,” he says. “But I couldn’t help myself. The guy’s a class-A jackass.”
I smile at the use of the nickname I originally gave Holden, one that doesn’t fit at all anymore. Did it ever?
“No, it’s…nice,” I say. “I completely froze, and of course afterward I thought of a million things I should’ve said and didn’t. I like knowing some of those things might’ve made it to his ears.”
“Excuse me, Holden?” A headset-wearing woman in all black steps up. “They need you outside for cast photos in ten.”
“Thanks,” he says, then turns back to me, arms folded, thumb resting against his smooth jaw. He’s closer now, so close I can smell the warm spice of his cologne. “Maggie…the carriage house. What exactly did I screw up last night?”
I grimace. “Sorry about that. I probably should’ve warned you.”
His expression softens. “Looked like you went all out. I’m sorry I ruined it.”
“It was nothing, really. Just dinner.” Just a little I-love-you steak and potatoes.
The first notes of the horny bull song begin to play, and I’ve never been so happy to hear it.
Holden groans, and a laugh tears out of me, knocking a lock of hair loose from my clip. His hand comes up instinctively, fingers hovering just shy of my cheek, then drops to his side.
The almost-touch hurts. Yesterday, he did it without thinking. Now he’s thinking too much.
“Maggie,” he says, eyes shining now. “I wanted to—”
“Everyone’s out there, Shaw,” Michele says, boots clacking on the hardwood as she approaches our table. “Hi, Maggie. Cute dress.”
“Um, thanks. Yours too.”
Holden checks his watch. “The PA said ten minutes.”
She turns, lifting her arms in a small, helpless gesture. “I’m just the messenger.”
“Guess I should go,” he says. “But you should know, that dress is not cute. You look…stunning.”
“So—so do you.”
He gives my hand a quick squeeze, his thumb sweeping my knuckles just once. Just one last time, I think, with a heaviness that makes my throat burn. “Save me a dance later?”
“Of course,” I say, and then he’s gone.
I toss back my bourbon in a single swallow, grab Ben’s now-warm beer, and set off to find him.
He’s easy to spot, arms flailing at a table near the stage with Constance doubled over laughing, practically wheezing between sips of her drink.
“What did I miss?” I ask, setting down my empty glass.
“We just met Gabrielle Martin,” Constance says. “And your brother…”
More laughter ensues, and I paste on a smile, my body still humming from the conversation with Holden. His almost-touch.
“I may have introduced myself as Brian,” Ben says, his shoulders shaking.
“He was legit starstruck.” Constance wipes her eyes. “Was he like that with Holden?”
“Not even a little,” Ben says.
Because Holden’s just Holden.
I hand my brother his beer. “Here. You probably need this.”
He tips it back, draining half in one go. “I’m gonna grab another. You ladies need anything?”
“I’ll take one,” I say.
Constance shakes her head.
As soon as he’s gone, she crosses her arms and gives me a look. “What’s going on? And don’t tell me nothing. You practically bolted as soon as you got here.”
It takes a second to get the words out. “We ended it.”
“What? No…” Her face falls. “Maggie, we talked about this. You were fine with him coming here.”