He didn’t belong here, and everything he stood for threatened my town, my way of life, my farm, my bees. As such, the odds of me behaving any better than a rottweiler at a junkyard gate were pretty low, even if he did have a steak in his hand.
I was on for another song, this time a ballad that Daisy took to the piano for, “Gonna Hurry (As Slow As I Can)” by Dolly, brought down to a key I could manage. The lights were low, but I could see Stone just fine. A passive effect of his charisma, I supposed. And the town singles were flapping around in his orbit like moths. He was new, shiny, rich, and this town’s dating pool was stagnant and covered in pond scum.
There were two ways to find love in Lindenbach—either you married your high school sweetheart or you left town and brought somebody back with you. So an eligible bachelor with a sports car that cost five times the town's median income would get noticed. Recently divorced, middle-aged Dolores James, who’d quit paying attention to fashion somewhere around 2002, literally adjusted her boobs—hands in the cups and everything—before sauntering over to him, lashes flapping and smile on full blast. He didn’t even look at her when she bumped into him.
He was too busy staring at me with a smug look on his face.
Dolores looked at him looking at me, then looked at me and narrowed her eyes. Then she tapped him on the arm and told him something—about me, judging by her spiteful eye contact with me—when he finally acknowledged her. She was gossiping. He slurped up whatever she’d said like a bowl of ramen noodles.
I saw his face turn to mine in my periphery—I’d looked away like I didn’t care. Which I didn’t. But also fuck Dolores.
Instead, I watched the couples in the town take their turns around the dance floor, cheek to cheek under golden Edison bulbs. And around them in a half circle stood everyone else, looking in on their love with some longing, some envy, and a whole lot of loneliness.
I wasn’t sure where I fell in the mix. Curiosity perhaps. Detachment. Because what they had, I could never get. No point in wishing for the impossible—I’d rather be practical about it. Own it, as it were. I wasn’t mad or anything, just resigned to the facts. Because even if I wanted to fall in love, I wouldn’t get to keep whatever I found.
Really, it was just math, even though Mama said we hadn’t actually been cursed. My grandmother told a different story, blaming the town witch and some sort of grudge over a man.
Slim pickings bred all kinds of drama.
When my song was over, they paused and clapped again as we bowed and curtsied. Poppy hopped on her mic, informing everyone that we’d be taking a short break, after which Johnny Cash came on over the speakers by way of my playlist.
They’d have loved some of that Kenny Chesney we denied them, but they were getting honky tonk if they were getting anything.
We set down our instruments, converging to walk down the stairs, greeted by townsfolk on our way to the bar. And yes, we had a bar in our town hall. Truth be told, more would get done if they used it while they legislated. As it stood, nothing was getting done. We were in the midst of political gridlock, the town split down the middle, thanks to our mayor and his misguided agenda. We’d only just thwarted his attempt to bring the megastore, Goody’s, to town, and though he was busy licking his wounds, he was planning something else, determined to make a mark on the town. Even if the mark he made was with a sledgehammer.
The fact that he was up Stone’s ass surprised me zero percent. They deserved each other.
Somehow I ended up at the back of the pack after getting pulled over by sweet old Melba Hernandez, who told me a quick story about the time she met Dolly Parton—a story I’d heard about a hundred thousand times since I was five—and when I gave her a squeeze and turned for my sisters, I found Grant Stone instead.
God, he was tall, a tank of a man in khakis. He looked as at home in them as he did in Lindenbach, which was to say, not at all. Somehow, even khakis were too casual for him. But he wore them well, despite the disdain that either I projected or he exuded. I chose to believe the latter.
For a moment, we just stood there, staring at each other—him still smug, me still annoyed. If he hadn’t been standing directly in front of me, I’d have just gone around. But his position left me pinned by propriety, a trait bred into me from birth by my mother, despite my recent behavior.
“Can I help you?” I asked.
He jerked his chin in the direction of the stage. “I heard the Blums could sing, but I didn’t expect you to be that good.”
My face quirked. “That was almost a compliment. It didn’t hurt, did it?”
A single laugh through his nose. “I heard another tidbit about the Blums. Something about a curse.”
Goddamn Dolores. But this was a dance I’d done before. I put on a wicked smile and leaned in a little.
“We’re the kiss of death. Black widows. Get tangled up with one of us, and—” I cut my index finger across my neck.
“Sounds dangerous.” He looked more intrigued than worried.
“Wait—are you one of those rich guys who jumps out of planes and builds rocket ships to go to the moon to fill the void where your soul should be?”
That earned me a genuine laugh. I hated that I very much liked the velvety, easy sound. Snake charmer.
“I’d rather be on a beach in France than jumping out of a plane, though I do enjoy a good hike.”
“I know the perfect one. So you’re going to hop on the highway and head east about fifteen hundred miles. You’ll know it when you get there.”
All I wanted to do was make him mad, but all he did was smile at me like a son of a bitch. “I’m curious as to why you hate me so much.”
“How come you care so much?”
“Humor me.”
“Really? You’re really questioning this?”
An elegant shrug of one shoulder. How anyone could shrug elegantly had been beyond me until that moment. “I get that oil is the bad guy. But that doesn’t explain why you hate me.”
“Fair enough,” I admitted. “I suppose I don’t know you any better than you know me, but I know you want what’s under my farm. And as such, I don’t trust you.” He opened his mouth to speak, but I cut him off. “And if you have some sort of line on your bifurcated tongue about how much more environmentally friendly fracking is these days, just keep it to yourself.”
“For someone who’s adamant that I don’t understand you, you’ve made a lot of assumptions about me.”
“It makes it easier to hate you.”
“Hate is a deep emotion for somebody you don’t know.”
“Smugness is premature for a situation where you don’t have the upper hand.”
“Why not just acknowledge your mistrust and let it go?”
“Let it go?” I shot. “You told me—whispered in my ear like a creep—that you were coming for our farm, and I’m supposed to let it go?”
He didn’t even flinch. Instead, his smile lifted higher on one side. “I never said I was coming for your farm, Jo. I said I was coming for you.”
Heat slithered down my body and cold shot up my spine. The way he’d said it, the look in his eyes … despite accusing him of being a predator more than once since he’d rolled into town, his words hadn’t felt predatory at all.