“Why not? Street performers are a thing in Tennessee too, I assume. Do you have the song on your phone?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Perfect.” He drops my hand and walks over to the group of teens. He has a brief conversation that involves him pulling out his wallet, and then he returns with a ball cap. The teen holding the money has a bad case of hat hair and a grin on his face.

  Dax tosses the hat on the ground and plunks a five-dollar bill into it, along with the change from his pocket to keep the bill from blowing away.

  “I’m your first paying customer. Let’s see whatcha got.” He backs away, leans on the telephone pole, and crosses his arms over his chest.

  My heart is fluttering but not from fear. From excitement. I love to perform. Shakily I pull out my phone and cue up the song, do a few stretches as the music starts, and then I dance.

  Dax

  Eyes closed, Becca moves her body to the beat. I’m transfixed. On the periphery, I notice a crowd gathering, but I don’t take my eyes off her. I have no idea what kind of dancing this is, whether there are bits of ballet thrown in with interpretive dance, or if this is something new—a combo of the two.

  Whatever it is, I’m rapt. And not just me. Even the kid I paid for his hat is a part of the circle of people surrounding Becca, his crooked smile suggesting a dirty fantasy is brewing inside his mussed head.

  One of the first details I noticed about Becca was the way she moves. She’s in complete control of her body. She’s not the least bit afraid to use her body to communicate what she’s thinking or what she’s feeling.

  That’s when it hits me. She’s shared a million tiny secrets over the course of the last week, and she’s said them all with her body. When we make love, when she cooks, when she snuggles against me and we watch TV.

  She’s incredible.

  The instrumental music shifts and the beat picks up and, yeah, I’m not ashamed to say that I recognize the pop princess my pop princess is now shaking her ass to.

  The crowd knows their Taylor Swift. They’re clapping, cheering, and dancing along with the moves Becca beautifully executes.

  She drops her head back and laughs—a sound of pure joy—when a little girl steps into the middle of the circle and starts dancing with her.

  Becca meets my eyes over the crowd as she lifts her arms, drops her hips, and swivels. I uncross my arms and clap, as mesmerized as the rest of them. We’re all eating out of the palm of her hand.

  Or maybe I have been since the beginning.

  She finishes with a flourish, doing a dramatic bow as the song fades to an end. More clapping accompanies more cash in the hat.

  She scoops up the money, puts the hat on the head of the boy I bought it from—he gives her a sheepish smile—and stuffs the bills into her pocket. She delivers a hug and allows a photo with the little girl who danced with her before waving farewell to her fans.

  At her side, I put an arm around her and pull all that warmth against me. She’s a little out of breath. Lately there’s nothing I’ve been enjoying more than the sound of Becca catching her breath.

  “That was incredible.”

  “Thank you.” She wraps one arm around my waist, coming so close our hips bump as we walk. “Now that I’m independently wealthy, can I offer to take you for dessert?”

  “No. Save that money for the restaurant you open. Or, hell, the dance studio you build.”

  “How do you do it? Own two bars and have a life? I’ve seen the way Tad burns the candle at both ends—and then buys more candles and lights those up too.” She shakes her head. “It’s a nightmare.”

  “Hire people you trust. Don’t hover. That’s how I do it. I put in a bid for another location about a week and a half ago.” The new place is close enough to my other two that I can check in, though it’s going to need a lot of work inside. “It used to be a coffeehouse. I want to turn it into a restaurant and bar like McGreevy’s. But with a different style.”

  “Sounds amazing.”

  “It doesn’t have to be as miserable as your brother makes it look, Princess. Some of us can handle running a business alongside burying a family member and still appreciate that life is pretty fucking great.”

  “You’re pretty fucking great.” She lifts her chin for a kiss that I duck my head to deliver.

  Ah, hell. She’s being sweet again.

  “Yeah, so are you. On second thought, where are you taking me for dessert? Is there any other weird food you’d like to treat me to while I’m here?”

  “Actually...” She stops in front of a shop with a sign that reads HERBAL REMEDIES. “Why don’t I make you something special tonight?”

  She drags me into a shop that’s half health-food store, half apothecary. Nearly everything the store sells is displayed in big glass containers. Blooming teas, dried herbs, essential oils...

  “Oh, I get it. You’re going to sacrifice me to the gods,” I say as she tugs me down the aisles.

  “No. But I am thinking sake bombs for a nightcap, and maybe some of the really cool chocolates they sell by the ounce.”

  “Sake bombs?”

  “Mm-hm. You haven’t lived until you’ve dropped a shot of sake into your beer by banging the table and knocking it off the chopsticks it’s balanced on.” She says this while grabbing two sets of chopsticks and a small bottle of sake from the shelf. “Just you wait.”

  We stop in front of a glass case filled with chocolates as the woman behind it greets us with a smile.

  “Let me guess,” the woman tells us. “Lovers’ special? We have many aphrodisiac chocolates. Ones with strawberries, chili peppers, and, if you’re truly daring, oysters.”

  “Good God,” Becca says at the same time I have to mentally will my lunch to stay in my stomach. “I don’t think we’ll be that daring. Thanks, though.”

  Becca buys an array of chocolates—oyster-free, thank you very much. We drop off the goods at the Jeep and then drive up the mountain for one last experience she insists I have while I’m visiting.

  Zip-lining.

  No. I’ve never done it.

  She says she hasn’t either, but she double-checks her harness like a pro. Twilight is setting in, and from the top of the hill I watch as several visitors scream their way down. The rocks and tops of trees resemble a canyon that is gradually growing darker. Once I’m strapped in, a surge of excitement laced with adrenaline courses through my veins. Like with Becca, I’m trusting the ride will be worth it.

  Turns out zip-lining is fast, fun, and over before I know it.

  As we’re disconnecting from the cable with the help of the guy working the platform, I can’t help thinking that zip-lining is very similar to what it’s like to be with the blonde at my side.

  The fast and fun I like, but the closer we get to “over,” the less inclined I am to wrap things up with her.

  Chapter 19

  SATURDAY

  Becca

  Two days later, Dax and I are in his Jeep, the windshield wipers working hard to keep the window clear of rain. He navigates downtown as we make our way to the movie theater for a matinee. Going to the movies had not been our original plan for today.

  The original plan involved a hike in the mountains, stopping to soak in a picturesque view, and then enjoying a picnic lunch.

  “You are officially the rain king,” I say, watching the rain pour in sheets from the sky. “Our romantic wine-and-crab-cake lunch is about to be reduced to Jujubes and flat fountain Coke.”

  “Jujubes are plenty romantic. You’ll see.” Dax, arm outstretched, fist gripping the top of the steering wheel, takes his eyes off the road for a second to send me a smirk.

  That one look sends shivers up both my arms.

  “I guess I’ll have to save my outfit for another time.” I let out an exaggerated sigh. “Super short shorts, hiking boots, and a red and black plaid I would have knotted at my bare midriff...”

  I grin when he groans.

  “You did that on purpose.” He shifts in his seat like he’s feeling a bit of tightness down below.

  Heck yeah, I did it on purpose. It’s nice to be liked. It’s extra nice to be liked by him.

  My cellphone rings. I dig it out of my bag, consider the screen for the length of another ring, and finally accept my fate.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “Sweetheart! So glad I caught you! I’m running late.” She sounds frantic, and that’s not unusual. My mom is going to be late for her own funeral. I guess we have that in common. “Dad’s birthday is tomorrow,” she tells me, referring to my dad, not hers.

  “What’s the plan?” If there is one.

  “Well, dinner”—I hear the oven door bang open and then slam shut—“will be done in an hour.” I let that sink in before asking her to clarify.

  “Pardon?”

  “Dinner, sweetheart. For Dad’s birthday. One hour. Oh, and can you pick up a cake? I didn’t have time to make one and the lasagna is in the oven, so I can’t put a cake in there with it, now can I?”

  “But...tonight?”

  “The Masons invited us out to an art show and dinner tomorrow night. Something about how Debbie’s sister couldn’t go because she came down with the flu, et cetera, et cetera. Anyway, the tickets were free. I didn’t want to leave you kids out of Dad’s celebration, so I thought we’d do dinner tonight.”

  “Mom, I can’t come over in an hour.”

  “Why not? Tad said you weren’t working, and he’s leaving Dominic in charge of the restaurant so that he can come to dinner. What are you doing that’s so important?” Another crash-bang-boom comes through the phone, like she’s rearranging the pots in the cabinet or perhaps pulling out the silverware for the table.

  “Uh...” I turn to Dax, who sends me a curious glance as he spins the wheel to the left and parks in the back of the parking lot at the cinema. “Nothing. I’ll be there. What kind of cake?”

  “No matter. And you don’t have to have his name written on it if you don’t want to. I mean, we all know who he is, right?” She laughs at her own joke. “It’ll be me, you, Dad, Tad, and Lara and the kids. That’s one, two, three...seven. Buy a cake for seven. Or, well, eight. I think they sell them by even numbers, right? Like ‘feeds six to eight’? You’ll figure it out. There’s a nice bakery on—”

  “Mom. I’ve got it.” I have to cut her off, or else she’ll continue hammering out every detail and she’ll burn that lasagna she has in the oven. “I’ll see you soon.”

  I tap the screen of my phone to end the call and sigh.

  “What’s up, babe?” Dax shuts off the engine.

  “Last-minute birthday party for my dad tonight. My mom isn’t much of a planner, and—surprise, surprise!—She’s running late.”

  “Now I know where you inherited your spontaneity.”

  I give him an eye roll when he touches the tip of his finger to my nose.

  “She needs me to pick up a cake at Tracee Bakes and be there within an hour.” I rub an aching spot over one eyebrow as I consider the clock on the Jeep’s dashboard. “Or, well, ninety minutes. Whenever she plans something or I’m involved, everyone knows to add twenty to thirty minutes.”

  “No problem, Princess.” He starts the Jeep and reverses out of the lot. “Where to?”

  “What? Oh, no, you don’t have to chauffeur me. Just take me back to the cabin and—”

  “Took us thirty minutes to get here. I drive you home, you’ll have to drive back down the mountain, pick up a cake, and then drive to your mom’s. Where’s she live?”

  “Spring Falls. About twenty-five minutes from here,” I add, since he doesn’t know the area.

  He lifts his eyebrows like I’m proving his point, then gestures to the road in front of us. “Where to?”

  “I can’t ask you to come to my dad’s impromptu birthday shindig.”

  “Why not?”

  So many reasons.

  Every one of them flies out of my head the moment he grabs my hand, curls his fingers around mine, and kisses my knuckles.

  “They’re the worst,” I manage. Lamely. This brings forth a low chuckle. It’s impossible to be stressed around him. The man exudes “chill.” When I was screaming down the mountain attached to a zip line, Dax’s brief yawp was both manly and calm.

  He returns both hands to the wheel. “Left or right?”

  With another sigh, I give in. “Tracee Bakes is to the left.”

  He turns left, and we’re off.

  Off to my dad’s impromptu birthday shindig, which I’ll be attending with a plus-one.

  Dax

  “Sweetheart!” A tall blond woman, her smile broad, her eyelids coated in a ton of eye makeup, throws open the screen door the moment Becca sets foot on the porch. She takes the cake, studying it through the plastic cellophane on the box top. “This looks delicious.”

  I’m a few steps behind, so when I put a boot on the top step, her mom looks up from the cake and inspects me with interest. Gaze locked on me, she addresses her daughter. “Who’s this?”

  “This is Dax Vaughn. He drove me here,” Becca replies stiffly. “Dax, this is my mom, Carol. Stone. Obviously.”

  She’s not comfortable introducing me to her family, that much is clear. I keep my observation to myself and extend a hand. “Mrs. Stone.”

  Carol shakes my hand and surveys me up and down. Becca worries her lip in that way she has, looking like she might throw up any second. I’m guessing she’s not used to bringing men home to her parents.

  “I didn’t realize you were bringing someone, dear,” Carol says as she lets go of my hand and assesses me once more.

  “I don’t eat much,” I lie with a smile. “We were going to the movies before you called, so if you happen to have a tiny bag of gummy bears I can pay you five dollars for, that should suffice.”

  Carol Stone’s face breaks into a smile. No laugh yet, but I’ll get one out of her.

  “You were on a date.” She elbows Becca. “And I interrupted your movie.”

  “The movie’s my fault,” I explain. “The rain came with me.”

  “Anyway!” Becca loops her arm through one of mine and walks me toward the house. “We’d better say hi to Dad. Is he in the basement?”

  “Where else?” Carol asks rhetorically before disappearing in the direction of the kitchen. Inside, Tad is holding a toddler-aged little girl I assume is one of Becca’s nieces.

  By the look of startled fury on his face, I believe he’s more surprised than her mom was to see me. His eyes cut to Becca.

  “Tad, you remember Dax,” she says.

  “You brought him to Dad’s birthday dinner?”

  What the fuck is wrong with everyone? Does “Dad’s birthday” involve a satanic ritual with live chickens or something?

  “I brought her,” I correct. “We were on a date.”

  He nods, but his frown is more indecisive than angry. Kind of reminds me of...me. Wonder what Becca would’ve thought of me if she could’ve seen me back home, glowering at the world.

  Took me getting the hell out of Ohio to crack through the misery. I don’t know what Tad’s excuse is, but it better be a good one. For his wife’s sake, I hope he’s not a miserable bastard all the time.

  Speaking of, a woman, trailed by another little girl, exits the kitchen. “Hey, Bec—oh, hi.”

  Tad puts the toddler on the ground and finds his manners. “This is my wife, Lara. Lara, this is Dax. He came with Becca.”

  “I’ve heard about you. Hi. So good to see you.” She drags the “so” out an extra syllable or two.

  Her smile is cautious, her grip firm as she shakes my hand. She flits a pointed look at Becca.

  “You been talking about me, Princess?” It’s fun to watch Becca squirm. How is she brazen enough to perform on the sidewalk in front of random strangers and this backward about introducing me to her family?

  She presents her nieces next. The little one is Tasha, the older one, Kiera. I earn a high five from Tasha, but Kiera isn’t sure about me yet. She gives me a shy wave instead, which I return with a wave of my own.

  “Has Len met him yet?” Lara asks, jerking her chin toward the basement stairs.

  “Not yet.”

  “Send him down alone. See what happens.” Lara is grinning at me as if that might be like throwing a mouse into a hungry snake’s terrarium.

  “I think we’ll tackle this one together,” Becca says with a laugh.

  I follow her to the stairs. “Your mom likes me, your brother doesn’t, and I can’t get a read on Lara.”

  “She’s on the fence. Like Kiera,” she adds as we descend the basement stairs. It’s a finished basement. I grip the white handrail attached to a painted beige wall.

  “So that’s a ‘no’ from Tad, a ‘yes’ from Mom, a ‘yes’ from Tasha, and two ‘maybes.’ ” I do a quick count. “Sounds like Dad’s the tiebreaker.”

  “Well, I like you.” She stops at the second-to-last step. “So you have that going for you.”

  I descend to the wood floor so that we’re standing eye to eye. After placing a kiss on the center of her lips, I say, “Thanks, Princess. I like you too.”

  “Down here!” comes a shout.

  “Come on. Let’s meet Len.” We pass a darkened home office and a family room with a TV, then round a corner to a room filled to the brim with clocks.

  I’m not shitting you. There have to be fifty of them in the massive room, including the grandfather clock laid on a long bench, open, its parts lying everywhere. The man standing over the clock’s innards, like a surgeon performing an operation, does a double take when he sees me. He pulls his glasses off his nose and smiles.

  “Hey, there. Lenny Stone.” He rounds the bench, extending a hand. He’s shorter than I am, stouter than I expected—Becca must’ve inherited her height from her mom—and ten times friendlier than Lara alluded. I barely suppress a chuckle of appreciation. It’s good that Becca has people looking out for her.