Where the hell was Clay?
A familiar peal of laughter pulled Ethan’s attention to the dancers. And there was Miranda, smiling and laughing as she danced with some other guy. Who was that?
“Are you growling?”
Maybe.
Ethan loosened the fingers he’d clenched around the handle of his guitar case and turned to Clay. “Wondered where you were.”
“Not dancing with Miranda.”
Ethan grunted as he recognized her partner. Ben Rawlings was the head of the Wishful Volunteer Fire Department. He was a good guy, a good firefighter. One Ethan presently wanted to punch.
“Come on and eat something before you go do something stupid,” Clay urged.
Ethan followed him over to the food tables and threaded some kielbasa on a skewer. Clay was smart enough not to remark on the fact that he set himself up to roast it where he could keep watching Miranda and Ben. They didn’t stop after the one dance. All he could think was that it should’ve been him.
He knew what it was to dance with her. He’d had her in his arms, had her looking up at him, smiling at him and making him feel about ten feet tall. He’d loved every minute he’d spent with her. Too much. So much that he’d stupidly walked away, and now here she was dancing with another guy.
Dumbass, she was interested in you, but you blew her off.
He’d done this to himself and faced with the consequences of his own fears, he regretted it.
But maybe…maybe he could still have this. Just this. The fun and the laughter. It didn’t have to be serious and forever. She hadn’t actually offered that, hadn’t asked for it. It could just be fun and good. That’s what normal people did, right?
Maybe he hadn’t blown it completely. He just needed to apologize.
“You’re gonna do something stupid, aren’t you?” Clay asked.
“I’m gonna risk looking stupid and hopefully do something smart.”
Clay rubbed his hands together and grinned. “Oh boy, this should be fun.”
As soon as he’d finished his dinner—which he’d burned—Ethan pulled out his guitar. Somebody took that as a sign to cut the music that had been playing. Thank God. He and Clay set up on one of the picnic tables, and folks scrambled to rearrange camp chairs to better hear their performance.
“How you wanna do this?” Clay asked.
“Old school. It’s been about a million years since we did an unplugged show.”
“All right then. Let’s see if you can keep up, old man.” He began to strum.
As soon as Ethan recognized Brooks and Dunn’s “Neon Moon”, he jumped in and found a little piece of home he hadn’t even realized he’d missed.
They rolled from one to the next. Alan Jackson. Kentucky Headhunters. Diamond Rio. Garth Brooks. George Straight. They kept it fast and light, fun, in keeping with the tone of the gathering, and as they played, Ethan felt something of his younger, lighter-hearted self come back to life. Several people got up to dance. Miranda wasn’t one of them, he noted. Others sang along. As they finished their first set, Ethan grinned and offered his fist to Clay for a bump.
Clay returned the gesture. “Good to have you back.”
“Good to be back.”
Miranda appeared at his elbow, bottles of water in her hands. Now that she was here, Ethan couldn’t seem to say anything but “Thanks,” as she handed over the water. She looked flushed and beautiful, but there was a layer of reserve he wasn’t used to seeing. That was his fault, no doubt. At the very least, he’d pissed her off, and at worst, he’d hurt her with his silence.
His mouth seemed unreasonably dry, so he opened his bottle and tipped it back, buying time to think of something brilliant to say.
“So do you ever sing about anything other than outlaws, drinking, breakups, or exes?” she asked.
Clay laughed and answered for him. “Ethan stopped that a long time ago as a matter of self preservation.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because everything else tended to result in either marriage proposals or excessive casseroles.” Clay gave a wistful sigh. “Those were the days.”
Miranda snorted, some of the unnatural reserve cracking. “Seriously?”
She had no idea. Why should she? She hadn’t been in Austin during their heyday. Ethan angled his head to study her. “Is that a challenge?”
“Sure. Why not? Show me what you’ve got, Chief.”
Chief, not Cowboy. Yeah, if he’d needed a clear sign that he’d screwed up, there it was.
He’d wanted to apologize. What better way to do it than this? Strumming his fingers lightly over the strings, he fixed his eyes on hers. “I’ve been hanging on to this one just for you.”
Miranda wasn’t sure what she’d expected. He’d said he was the balladeer, so something soulful, maybe. Something blatantly sexy. But as he fixed his eyes on her and her alone and began to play, he sang a prayer. His rich baritone wrapped around her, creating a cocoon from everybody and everything else as he sang of a man who’d hit bottom and lost everything that mattered—including the woman he loved. It was a song of apology, one that seduced her, not only in the simplicity of the plea for a second chance, but in the sincerity of his performance. His gaze never wavered from hers, and the vulnerability he put on display broke through the wall she’d determinedly erected against him.
By the time the last notes died away, Miranda understood that Clay had spoken nothing more than the truth about Ethan’s effect on women. That had been a panty-melting performance, as evidenced by the wild cheering from the other women present. Ethan was still watching her, the gray of his eyes almost swallowed up by black. Miranda knew she had to say something, and it had to be something other than, “Come home with me, right now.” She needed to lighten the mood somehow and get a hold on her rioting libido.
Taking a firmer grip on the beer bottle she’d nearly dropped, she worked up a casual expression. Or at least one that didn’t involve her mouth hanging open. “Well damn. And here I thought Clay gave good smolder.”
He remained totally serious, but for the glint in his eyes. “With great power comes great responsibility.” One corner of that sinfully sexy mouth kicked up. “So how bout it, Legs? You feeling the urge to bake a chicken pot pie?”
She was feeling the urge to do a lot of things. Most of them naked. Not a one involved a chicken pot pie. “Not a bit.”
“Just as well. I need to watch my figure.” He set the guitar aside and patted the flat stomach she felt sure sported a six-pack beneath that shirt.
Miranda just shook her head. “I’ve seen your ass. It’d take more than a few casseroles to make it anything less than a work of art. Medically speaking.” She took a sip of her beer to wet her parched throat and managed a real smile this time. “How are your stitches?”
He threw back his head and laughed, a big booming roll of sound. “I’ll refrain from making the obvious double-entendre about house calls so you can check.”
She tipped her beer in his direction for a toast. “Your heroic restraint is noted and appreciated.”
Delaney materialized behind him and mimed fanning herself on the way to the s’mores table. Hot, hot, hot indeed. Miranda dragged her chair a little further from the fire for the next set. By the end of the third, she thought she’d cooled off enough that she could be trusted not to proposition him on the way to her car.