Page 93 of Tennessee Trouble

A drumroll plays over the speakers, as Franklin plays at opening the results on his phone. I don’t know if he’s dragging this out on purpose or if he’s just that tech illiterate—really, could go either way—but I need him to hurry up.

“The Rocky Top Double from Tennessee Trouble!”

Wait…wait…did he just…

“Ahhhhhh!” Kyra screams.

“Fuck, yes!” Rylan echoes.

We won. We actually won.

The world stops. All the cheering around me hushes to a soft buzz, my head going dizzy. We won. I won.

Holy shit.

I don’t know who grabs me in the hug first, just that a pair of arms wraps around me and squeezes. Followed by another, and then another, and then more. My whole family. All of us in a great big group hug making me feel like I could suffocate. In a good way.

Yet, something is still missing. The person I want to be celebrating with the most.

Nope, not going there…

I break away, smoothing out my shirt and making my way to the stage. Everything around me is still fuzzy, the shock flowing through my veins leaving me feeling borderline drunk. Nonetheless, I manage to shake hands with Franklin, graciously accepting the certificate he hands me. I even manage to get out a thank you. I think.

If I didn’t, I’ll properly thank him later. The whole committee actually. And write a thank you note. Right now, my brain can only process one thing—we won a SLOSH award.

Kyra is going to have a field day being able to promote this. Not to mention what Mikayla will be able to use it for in her negotiations. Tennessee Trouble will be one of a very exclusive list of legacy brands that will be able to say we are winners of a SLOSH award. I can’t wait to get back home and hang this award in the lobby, showing it off for the world to see.

“Lindee.”

I freeze. I’m barely three steps off stage, the din of the crowd in the stadium coming more and more into focus. But I’d know that voice anywhere. The deep, rough yet beautiful, sweet timbre mixed with a Georgia accent that still fills my dreams. Probably always will.

Brandt Rawlins.

I spin around, and there he is. Five feet away and looking as delicious as always in his jeans and a button-down. Seriously, fuck him for looking this good. It’s not fair.

“Brandt.”

“Congratulations.”

He stops just shy of me, leaving a mere couple of inches between us. My body aches to leap into his arms, wrapping myself around him to celebrate. Kiss him until I can’t breathe and my lungs cry for mercy. But I don’t. I stay right where I am, frozen like a statue.

“Thanks,” I stutter.

I lick my lips, nodding, not knowing what else to do. Everything inside is warring against itself, the anger and hurt over it all still hovering just under the surface, still simmering.

“I never had any doubt that you’d win. You deserve it. And so much more.”

Taking a step forward, he places a hand on my shoulder, leaning in and kissing my forehead. It’s soft, chaste, and simple. A show of respect and affection.

It leaves me absolutely crumbling inside.

Rocking back again, Brandt smiles, then hands me a long, white box. I take it from him, looking up into his eyes, hoping for some kind of clue as to what he’s doing. I get nothing though. Just a simple nod before he steps around me and walks away.

Without even saying goodbye.

I want to cry all over again, the little pieces left of my heart feeling like they’ve been walked on all over again. Crushed and ground into dust.

“Was that…?” Kyra asks, coming out of nowhere.