Page 12 of Echoes of a Southern Song

I groan. “It’s a nightmare for us.”

“How so?”

“Winter’s the worst for the farm,” I admit, leaning forward on the table. “Cows aren’t exactly fans of sub-zero temps. We have to break ice out of their water troughs every morning, sometimes twice a day if it’s really cold. And forget about getting them to move—they’ll huddle together like a bunch of stubborn teenagers refusing to leave their warm beds.”

Jinnie laughs, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “I can’t even imagine. I’d probably be one of those cows, honestly. Give me a blanket and a warm spot, and I’m not moving until spring.”

“Yeah, but you’re a lot cuter than a cow,” I say, grinning.

She rolls her eyes but smiles anyway. “Smooth talker.”

“Only for you,” I say, my tone light but my chest tightening a little as I realize how true it is. I clear my throat and steer the conversation back to safer territory. “Anyway, the worst part is the calving season. Sometimes we get late winter storms right when the calves are being born. It’s brutal—trying to keep them warm, making sure they don’t freeze before they even get a chance to stand up.”

Her smile softens, and she tilts her head slightly. “That sounds hard. I never thought about how much work goes into it.”

I shrug, trying to downplay it. “It’s just part of the job. But yeah, it’s not exactly glamorous work.”

“Which explains why you don’t want to do it for the rest of your life.”

“It’s not that I’m afraid of hard work, but there’s no reward in it for me. My brothers and dad like the work. They like the farm. I’m just not cut out for it, I guess.”

“Everyone is good at something,” she says. “You’re good at singing. Not everyone can be everything.”

I nod, but it doesn’t really make me feel any better. My dad was absolutely convinced I was meant to be a farmer. But I’m not. I’m something else, even if I’m still figuring out exactly what that is.

The conversation drifts to lighter topics after that—bands we’re both into, the latest town gossip, and what it’s going to be like not having to go to school in the fall for the first time in our lives.

By the time we finish dinner, the tension from earlier has mostly melted away. As we walk out to the truck, she links her arm through mine, her fingers resting lightly on my forearm.

“Thanks for tonight,” she says softly, leaning into me as we walk. “I needed this.”

“Me too,” I admit, squeezing her hand.

When we get back to her place, I’m not sure what to expect. I walk her to her door under a sky full of stars. It’s one of those beautiful nights. Cool enough to be comfortable but not too cold.

Jinnie turns to me, her back against the door. “I had a really good time tonight.”

“Me too.”

She reaches up, her fingers tracing my jaw. “You okay? Really?”

I catch her hand, pressing a kiss to her palm. “Better now.”

“I guess you were right about the milkshakes and fries. It really did make everything better.”

I grin. “It always works for me.”

She stares up at me. It’s apparent she isn’t inviting me inside. That’s cool. I get it. I’m not sure I should anyway with her husband roaming around town. That’s the last thing I want.

“Jack?”

“Yes?”

“I know I’m legally married, but I don’t feel married,” she whispers. “I’m with you.”

I nod. “Okay.”

She leans up on her tiptoes and brushes her lips across mine. It’s light as a butterfly’s wings. She’s too tempting to resist. I kiss her back, wrapping my arm around her waist and anchoring her to me. She tilts her head, her mouth parting just enough to invite me in. I don’t hesitate. My hands slide up her back, pulling her closer as the kiss deepens. Her fingers tangle in my hair, tugging lightly. I groan against her mouth, the sound low and raw. She tastes like strawberries from the milkshake, sweet and intoxicating. I can’t get enough.

Her body molds to mine, every curve pressing into me like she’s trying to erase the space between us. My heart pounds in my chest. I kiss her like it’s the last time I’ll ever get to, pouring everything I feel into it—every ounce of want, every flicker of fear, every desperate hope that this thing between us is real and lasting.

Her hands slide down to my shoulders, gripping tight as if she’s afraid I’ll pull away. But I won’t. Not now. Not ever.

When we finally break apart, we’re both breathless, our foreheads resting together as we try to steady ourselves. Her eyes flutter open, dark and heavy with the same hunger I feel coursing through me.

This woman has me wrapped around her finger and there is nothing I can do to unwind myself.

She’s got me.