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Ansley
Itake the rest of the day off, so I can ride with Garrett to take Pierce to Knoxville.
He explains that the judge accepted a plea deal on Garrett’s behalf for the DUI and assault charges and that he will be on probation for the next thirty-six months and have to take a few anger management classes.
“You guys couldn’t get me out of classes?” Garrett gripes.
“Count yourself lucky, asshole. We kept you out of jail,” Pierce snaps, then turns to me and gestures to Garrett with his thumb.
“Ingrate.”
I get a kick out of listening to them banter the entire drive.
Pierce tells me all the juicy tales from their time on tours. Which Garrett isn’t too pleased about.
“And this one time, security caught a girl hiding in the cargo bay of the tour bus. You would be shocked at what women are willing to do to get to this one.”
“Oh, I don’t think I’d be that shocked,” I say.
Garrett’s eyes find mine in the rearview mirror, and I wink.
Pierce looks between the two of us. “I think this one is good for you.”
We drop him off, and I climb into the front seat. I connect my iPhone to the Land Rover’s Bluetooth and pull up my music app.
Garrett’s voice comes over the speakers.
“You don’t even like country music, remember?” he teases.
“Okay. Truth time. I might have listened to ‘Tennessee Sunsets’ on repeat while I studied for finals,” I confess.
“Really? That was an album cut. I didn’t even release it as a single,” he says.
“I know. It’s the fourth song on your debut album, and it’s amazing. It should have been a single.”
“It was written about you,” he says.
“Me?”
“Well, you and me and that night after the homecoming game when we drove out to the tater patch and bedded down in the back of my old pickup truck. I’ll never forget that night or that sunset.”
“I knew it sounded familiar somehow. Like I could relate to the words.”
“You don’t just listen to music. You have to feel it in your bones. A song can make you remember anything or forget everything. That’s the power of good lyrics, and every song I sing makes me remember you,” he tells me.
“Oh.”
He takes my hand and kisses my wrist.
“Every good song I write and every good song I sing, that is.”
“And the other songs?” I ask.
“They’re just filler. Like every other woman in my life. It’s always been you, Foxy. Always.”
When we make it back to Balsam Ridge, I talk him into spending the night at my place. As much as I love the view at the Man Caves, I can’t stand sleeping on that futon.
I open the door and step on a newspaper.
I pick it up and carry it in with us.
“You want coffee?” I ask.
“I could go for one of those Mexican Mochas.”
I set the paper down and walk behind the counter and fire up the espresso machine.
“What’s this?” he asks.
I shrug. “I’m not sure. Someone slid it under the door,” I say.
He flips through it as I make our beverages.
“Damn,” he groans.
“What?” I ask as I set our mugs on the counter.
His eyes come to me. “You’re hot as hell in this photo.”
I take it from him to see what he’s referring to. It’s a feature the local newspaper did on my years as the village librarian. The photo accompanying the article is of me standing on a ladder in the middle of the stacks, reaching up to place a book back on the shelf.
“Honestly? This turns you on?”
“Hell yeah, it turns me on. You in those heels, wearing that skirt that’s sneaking up your thigh as you reach up. Damn, it’s every man’s adolescent naughty-librarian fantasy.”
“Oh, really?” I ask as I lay the paper down on the counter.
I take a pencil from the cup by the register and use it to secure my hair into a tight bun. Then, I grab a pair of the reading glasses from a sales display, prop them on the edge of my nose, and walk over to one of the bookcases. I slowly run my fingers over the spines before plucking a hardback of Lolita and marching over to where he is seated.
