Chapter 11 Lauren
Lauren
I make it exactly fifteen miles down the mountain and another twenty to the nearest town before I have to pull over because I’m debating turning around and going back to the cabin.
"This is ridiculous," I tell my steering wheel. "You knew him for two days. TWO DAYS."
My steering wheel, like Buck the reindeer, offers no commentary.
I idle in the parking lot of a convenience store, glancing around the small town. There is some kind of holiday festival going on. Lots of families and older folks bundled up and walking toward the center of town. Maybe I should take a stroll through the square and clear my head.
My phone is in the cupholder and I grab it. Dylan's text from an hour ago makes my chest ache.
Rule number seven: Text me when you're home safe.
Of course he's worried about me. Of course he's sweet and thoughtful even after I essentially ran out of the cabin like it was on fire.
I stare at the screen, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. I should just send a quick "will do" and leave it at that. Keep it simple, keep it clean, keep that door firmly closed.
But my traitorous fingers type.
Stopped at the holiday market in town. Need to clear my head before the drive back.
His response is immediate.
Good idea. Drive safe.
That's it. No "I'll meet you there" or "can we talk." Just concern for my safety, which somehow makes me feel worse.
I toss my phone onto the passenger seat and check my face in the mirror. My mascara has held up surprisingly well, though my eyes are definitely puffy. I look exactly like what I am: a woman who just had an amazing weekend and then panicked and ran away from it.
The holiday market is easy to find by following the crowd.
It's set up in the town square, with white tents and twinkling lights strung between the bare trees. There are vendors selling handmade crafts, hot cider, roasted chestnuts. A small stage is set up at one end where a local band is playing country Christmas covers. It’s so early I wonder if this is a breakfast with Santa sort of thing.
After parking, I grab my guitar and wander through the stalls, trying to distract myself.
Maybe I can find a bench and try to write.
Instead, I let an hour slip away while I buy a hand-knitted scarf I don't need (though it does remind me of Dylan's grandmother's scarf) and a jar of local honey.
A woman is selling ornaments shaped like musical notes, and before I can stop myself, I've bought two—one for me, one that I tell myself I definitely won't mail to Dylan.
Who am I kidding? I'm absolutely going to mail it to him. Though I don’t have his address. I guess I could send it to Four Brothers Bourbon and hope he never gets it.
The band finishes their song and the lead singer announces they're taking a short break. She spots me standing near the stage, my guitar case visible where I'd set it down next to a bench. She’s an older woman wearing a sparkling red dress and a giant lime green puffer coat over it. It’s a vibe for a Sunday morning.
"You play?" she calls out.
"I do."
"Want to sit in for a song? We love having guests." Her smile is warm and genuine.
Every instinct tells me to say no, to keep my head down and my emotions in check. But something about this moment—the crisp air, the giant Christmas tree, the fact that I just walked away from something real—makes me impulsive.
"Sure," I hear myself say. "Why not?"
The band welcomes me like an old friend. The silver-haired singer’s name is Janet and she asks what I want to play. I suggest a classic country Christmas song that every musician knows. We run through it once quickly, and then Janet is handing me the microphone.
The first notes flow out of my guitar and I start to sing.
It feels good. Really good. Like coming home after a long trip. My voice is steady, the words familiar, and for the first time since I left the cabin, I can breathe properly. The small crowd that's gathered claps along, and I can see people swaying to the music.
This is why I do this. This feeling right here. The connection, the joy, the way music can make everything else fade away.
I'm halfway through the second verse when I see him.
Dylan is standing at the edge of the crowd, snowflakes just starting to fall again and catching in his dark hair. He's wearing his navy hoodie and jeans, and he's staring at me with an expression I can't quite read.
My voice falters for just a second, but I recover and finish the song. The crowd applauds, and Janet is grinning at me.
"That was beautiful, honey," she says. "You've got a real gift."
"Thank you." I'm trying to figure out how to gracefully exit the stage, but Dylan is making his way through the crowd now, and my heart is pounding so hard I'm surprised the microphone isn't picking it up.
He stops at the base of the stage, and we stare at each other for a long moment.
Then Janet, bless her meddling heart, says, "Looks like you've got a fan. Want to do another song?"
Before I can answer, Dylan calls out, "Can I say something?"
Janet looks delighted. "Sure thing, sugar. Come on up."
This cannot be happening. This is not a movie. This is my actual life, and Dylan Lennox is climbing onto a stage at a small-town holiday market where I'm supposed to be clearing my head. I’m wearing my boots with the heels, my new scarf, and really wishing that I had done more with my hair.
An epic moment needs epic hair and this feels like something epic is about to happen.
He takes the microphone from Janet, and now I'm the one staring at him like a deer in headlights. He gives me a wink.
"Hi," he says into the mic to the crowd. "I'm Dylan."
A few people in the crowd call out greetings. This town is clearly very friendly.
"I need to tell Lauren something," Dylan continues, turning to face me fully. "And I figure if I do it here, in front of all these nice people, she can't run away again."
"That's not fair," I whisper, but I'm not sure if I mean it.
“Rule number nine: Let your roommate speak their piece.”
“We’re not roommates anymore. You live in Kentucky and I live in Nashville. I can’t do long distance, Dylan,” I whisper urgently. “It’s too hard.”
It doesn’t deter him. In fact, his mouth splits into a grin. “Is that all this is about, darlin’? Well, holy shit.”
He turns back to the audience. “This might be easier than I thought. It seems we have ourselves a little misunderstanding. Y’all ever had one of those with the person you love?”
There are nods.
I barely notice.
The person you love.
Did he say the person you love?
My heart is hammering and every thought completely flees my brain.
“You right there, in the front with the Santa hat on, I feel like you know what I’m talking about, sir.”
“Damn straight I do,” the man in question calls out. “Wife says I’m so bad at communication my lips might as well be glued shut.”
There’s laughter from the crowd.
“No fixing you, Tommy,” another man calls out.
“Well, I’m going to fix this.” Dylan turns to me and takes my hand. "Lauren. I know you think you need to choose between your career and taking a chance on us," he says, his voice carrying across the square. "But here's the thing, Lauren. I don't live in Kentucky."
I blink. "What?"
"I live in Nashville. Full-time. The distillery is in Wanted, but I live in Nashville because that's where our offices are. I thought you knew that. But I guess I never actually said that." He raises his eyebrows at the crowd. “That’s the part where me and Tommy go wrong I guess.”
There’s more laughter.
It doesn’t go unnoticed that Dylan’s accent is decidedly thicker now too. He is good with people. He warned me about that fact.
He’s good with me. If he lives in town, there is no reason I can’t date him.
"You live in Nashville?" My voice is embarrassingly squeaky.
"Twenty minutes from downtown." He takes a step closer to me.
I have to strain to look up at him now. His green eyes are drilling into me. His expression is soft.
The crowd is eating this up. I can see phones out, recording.
"I still need to focus on my career," I say, because damn it, that is true.
"I know. And I would never ask you not to. But Lauren, you can focus on your music and still let someone care about you. You can chase your dreams and still take a chance on something real." He glances at Janet. "Can I borrow your guitar player for a minute?"
"Honey, you can borrow her for as long as you want," Janet says cheekily.
The fiddle player starts a simple, familiar Christmas classic and Dylan holds out his hand to me.
"I can't sing," he warns. "Like, I really can't. My brothers have banned me from karaoke nights."
"Then what are you doing?" I ask, even as I kind of want to swoon.
"Making a fool of myself for you." He pulls me close and starts singing along to the music, and he wasn't kidding—he's terrible. Off-key, off-rhythm, but singing with his whole heart like it's the most important performance of his life.
I start laughing, I can't help it. Here's this confident, successful man who literally makes bourbon for a living, completely butchering a Christmas song in front of a crowd of strangers. For me.
"You're…kind of ridiculous," I tell him.
"I know." He spins me around, nearly taking out the keyboard player. "But I'm ridiculous about you."
The song ends and Dylan dips me dramatically, which gets a huge cheer from the crowd. When he pulls me back up, we're nose to nose, both of us breathing hard.
"I'm scared," I admit quietly, so only he can hear.
"Me too. I deleted all my dating apps because I thought I was done trying. Then you showed up and threw snowballs at me and mocked my bourbon and made me feel more alive than I have in years."
"Your bourbon does taste like poor decisions."
"But this? You and me?" His thumb brushes across my cheek. "Easiest decision ever. Write your song. Be brilliant. But let me take you to dinner. Let me be there when you play your music for people. Let me see where this—where us—goes."