Page 65 of Where the Music Grows

I glance at Jack, who nods. “I like it. We’ll take it.”

“Jack, no.” I laugh. “You’re blowing all your hard-earned money.”

“It’s not hard-earned when it’s fun,” he quips.

He quickly pays for the bracelet and then insists on putting it on my wrist. I stare at it and find it all so perfect for this moment. Jack is a rising star. One day, five years down the road, I’m going to look at this bracelet and remember the guy who bought it for me. He’ll probably be playing sold-out stadiums by then.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Yes, fine. I love it.”

We start walking again. And then his fingers are brushing the back of my hand. He doesn’t look at me, just casually takes my hand in his. My fingers thread through his and hold on tight to his bigger, stronger hand. A little thrill of excitement tears through me.

“You sure you’re okay missing your gig tonight?” I ask.

He shrugs, one hand loose on the wheel. “Aggie threatened to fire me if I didn’t take a night off.”

I laugh. He chose this. Chose me over the stage, even just for one night.

We stop at a booth and buy an elephant ear to share.

“I really need a burger or something,” he groans. “I’ve eaten way too much sugar.”

“Do you want a burger? Nachos? Corndog?”

“Yes.”

I can’t help but laugh again. “All right, then.”

We make our way to the food tents, Jack’s hand still warm in mine. The smell of sizzling meat and greasy fries fills the air. My stomach growls in anticipation.

“Burgers?” he asks, nodding toward a truck with a line wrapping around the side.

“And fries,” I add. “And maybe a corndog.”

He laughs, shaking his head. “You’re gonna explode.”

“It’s the fair. Exploding is part of the experience.”

We join the line, and while we wait, Jack lets go of my hand to pull out his wallet. I don’t argue—he’s been insistent on paying for everything today, and honestly, it’s kind of sweet. When we finally reach the front, he orders two cheeseburgers, a corndog for me, and a giant basket of fries to share. The guy behind the counter hands over our food in a greasy paper bag. We find an empty picnic table under a shaded tree.

I unwrap my corndog first, taking a bite before it even hits the table. It’s hot and crispy, and I let out an embarrassingly loud moan of appreciation. Jack laughs through a mouthful of burger, ketchup smudging the corner of his mouth.

“Good?” he asks, wiping his face with a napkin.

“So good,” I say around another bite. “You’re missing out. I love fair food.”

“Do you have to be back early?” he asks.

“Nope. You?”

“No. Aggie will be at the bar until late, so I’m free. That’s such a strange feeling.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m still trying to get used to the idea I don’t have to rush back home to feed calves on time or get hay thrown out or the millions of other things. That’s not even counting stuff around the house. It feels weird to just be sitting here.”

“Weird in a good way?”