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He’s turned fully to me. No one in the crowd can miss the zing of electricity between us. The chemistry is undeniable. Even if I desperately want to deny it.
He pulls deep and sings boldly, unlike before, and he hits every note, eroding away at my resolve, chipping away my defenses.
The crowd is enamored. They’re on their feet singing along, but I can’t hear a thing.
Except Eli.
Eli pouring out his heart.
Publicly. Musically. Boldly.
He’s undoing all my Lorrie Morgan mojo.
And I can’t even be mad about it.
And then he does it again.
“Ladies and gentlemen, would you like a duet? Want to hear the amazing Dr. Brighton Ranger again, if she’s willing to sing with me?”
The crowd hoots and hollers.
He doesn’t see my little head shake. He doesn’t hear the voice in my head. Don’t do this to me, Elias. Don’t make me fall for you. Don’t bulldoze my defenses. I won’t survive losing you.
“I’m going to need more response than that to get her to agree, folks. She seems almost shy.” He turns to me, a smirk playing on his lips. “Brighton, how about Billy Joel’s “To Make you Feel my Love”? What do you say?”
But the song is already playing and the bar owner—flush with money from tonight’s impromptu concert—presses a microphone into my palm just as the piano begins.
And as naturally as if we’d practiced or had been crooning together for years, we sing. We effortlessly weave in and out of the lyrics as if we’d planned it. I find places to support his words with easy harmony.
It’s the fact that he holds my eyes the whole time, the fact that he never looks away as he tells me what he never has. It’s a big gesture. More so, it’s him saying what he never has, and not quietly or privately, when he’s moving inside me. There’s nothing to gain for him, immediately or carnally, from this act.
It’s Elias Finchley laying it out there, saying what I’ve always wanted to hear.
I don’t bother to look for the blonde. He’s effectively dismissed her. I’d feel sorry for her—I know how she feels. But I don’t give a shit about anything aside from the man standing in front of me. The man I’ve wanted since I was twelve.
TEN
THE BURNING OF LEMON JUICE IN A PAPER CUT
BRIGHTON
Iwake the next morning with an ice pick lodged behind my left eye. Well, it might as well be. The sun slices across my face and brings with it the burning of lemon juice in a paper cut—acute, brutal, and razor sharp.
And my stomach is roiling.
When did I get to the age when hangovers hurt?
My text alert screeches from the nightstand. I reach for it, but struggle to move without vomiting. I’m not this old. Next to my phone is a bottle of Tylenol, a sports drink with electrolytes, and a package of those orange peanut butter crackers.
Braxton: Need you. Can you stop by and be the scary Ranger you are?
He has no idea how scary I can be right now. My breath alone could kill us both. But seriously, this is not the time. I need an eight-hour snooze, a greasy burger, and a brain transplant.
I can’t sit up without the room becoming a tilt-a-whirl, much less “stop by.” And then there’s the whole effort of keeping the contents of my stomach down.
It’s well after I’m normally at work. Easily an hour or two later, but I try, nonetheless. Besides, after yesterday, I’m guessing he doesn’t even know I’m not at the barn.
Me: Do you know what time it is?
