Matt walked into the Dahlia Lounge a couple of minutes before four and scanned the interior. He was happy she hadn’t suggested the bars or honky-tonks on Broadway. He enjoyed the hustle and bustle of the popular joints occasionally, but they weren’t conducive to talking.
He meandered to a table toward the back with windows facing the street and looked over the menu. Or pretended to. The words swam in front of his eyes. Questions stacked up in his head like cars in a demolition derby.
He’d jumped from wanting to know ‘why was he here’ and ‘what did she really want’ to the questions he’d been tossing around for days. What had her life been like for the past nine years? How did she find herself in Nashville? How long had she worked at the station? Was she in a relationship? Was she married?
Wait.
Could she be married? To someone else? His stomach dropped. He’d asked her to be his wife.
“Hey,” came a soft voice, interrupting his thoughts.
He looked up to see her standing tentatively at the edge of the table.
“Are you married?” he blurted, instead of a greeting.
She laughed. “I remember you being much more tactful.”
The server set a beer on the table and winked at him.
“Now, that hasn’t changed,” Amy-Lynn said as the young woman sashayed away, an intentional swing in her curvy hips.
Matt grunted.
“What? Is it hard having women falling at your feet?”
“It’s harder than you think,” he mumbled.
“What?”
He looked back at her. “Nothing.”
She slid into the bench seat opposite him and grabbed the plastic-coated menu from behind the napkins, not looking at him. “No, I’m not married. And,” she said, raising a finger to stop his next question, “I’m not dating anyone.”
“Why not?”
“My job and my family are my priorities. No time to date. You?”
He shook his head. “Not presently.”
The server returned with an overflowing basket of fries.
“I didn’t order these,” Matt said to the woman.
“On the house.”
Her smile dimmed as she turned to Amy-Lynn. “What can I getcha?”
She ordered a drink and chicken wings, taking a fry from the free basket. “I forgot about the benefits of being with Matt Taylor.”
An eyebrow popped up. “Excuse me?”
“The fries,” she said, pink creeping across her face. “So, how are your mom and dad?” she asked, quickly changing the subject. She grabbed for the bottle of ketchup and pounded the bottom. Nothing came out.
He watched her for a beat, wondering if he should ask her more about the ‘benefits of being with Matt Taylor,’ but he didn’t want to make her more uncomfortable—or look like he needed his ego stroked. “Here, let me.” He reached for the bottle, gave it one swift hit with the palm of his hand, and the ketchup flowed out.
She rolled her eyes and shook her head.
“Another benefit of being with Matt Taylor?” he asked, unable to stop himself.
She pulled a face. “Your parents?” she repeated. “Are they good?”
He bit back a smile. Turned out, she still got flustered easily—and he still loved teasing her. “Still in Marla. Filling their time bragging about their kids and grandkids.”
“Having a famous musician in the family is certainly something to talk about.”
His smile faded. “I don’t think I qualify as famous.”
“All the emails the station has gotten say otherwise.” She dragged a french fry through the ketchup now covering her plate and popped it in her mouth.
Matt pulled a long draw from his beer. “I doubt my parents would be interested in electronic marriage proposals. They pay no more attention to me now than they did when we were teenagers.”
She waved her hand in the air. “Oh, come on, they love you like crazy.”
“I don’t deny that. It’s just they were tired by the time I came along. They let me do whatever I wanted. And what I wanted was for them to notice me. I made a lot of unnecessary trouble, hoping to get their attention.”
“That’s right”—she smiled and snapped her fingers— “what was it the old ladies called you?”
“Beautiful, but feral,” he grumbled.
“Ha! That’s right! Does that description still fit?”
He smoothed his hands down his chest. “You tell me.”
She blushed a deep red. “I meant the feral part.”
He looked down at the table. “Depends on who you ask.”
She cocked her head to the side. “What does that mean?”
“It means things aren’t always as they seem.” He studied his beer. That might have been cryptic, but it was as close to his truth as he’d let anyone see in a long time. Likely the last time was when the same woman sat across the table from him.
“One rum and coke,” the server said, sliding Amy-Lynn’s drink across the table. “How are the fries?” she said, turning to Matt once again.
“You’ll have to ask my date. She’s tried them, I haven’t yet.”
“You should try them,” the server said before turning back toward the kitchen. “They’re delicious.”
Amy-Lynn smirked. “No using me as a human shield, Mr. Taylor.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, this is not a date.”
Matt cocked a single eyebrow. “Then what is it?” He’d really like to know.
“One colleague thanking another.” She held up her glass. “Thank you for filling in for me today—and bringing in Grace O’Connor. Celeste says the response was good.”
He lifted his half-empty pint and clinked her glass. “To colleagues,” he said. “You checked up on me?”
She didn’t even flinch. “Of course. I’ve spent nine years crafting a following. The listeners trust me to deliver a specific product. I need to know everything that goes on and how people are reacting to it.”
Because she still didn’t trust him. Didn’t believe in him. Even after today. His lips tightened into a thin line. “Even I couldn’t ruin nine years of work in one day.”
She sighed and rubbed the center of her clavicle. “I don’t want to fight. I’m particular about my show. It has nothing to do with you.”
He bounced a fist off his thigh. “Sure.”
“Matt, you have nine shows left. I’d like it if we could get along. It would make everything so much easier. How about we put the past behind us and focus on the show? Can we do that?”
“Maybe.” For tonight. He grinned at her, but it was his performer’s grin. He didn’t want to bury the past, not before he had the answers he’d been craving for nearly a decade. “Another drink?”
She stared into the cup. He could see her warring with herself. “I guess I could have one more. It’s Friday. I don’t have to get up for the show tomorrow.”
He signaled the server for another round before turning his attention back to Amy-Lynn. “When’s the last time you let go? Just let everything wash away for a while?”
She looked at him and a sadness passed over her eyes. “I don’t know. 1995, maybe?”
He laughed, choking on his beer. “When you were five? Was that a joke, Mac?”
She flinched at the name but said nothing. He wondered if it wasn’t so much the name as him saying it.
“Hey, I’m capable of producing a joke on rare occasions.” She gave him a self-deprecating—and real—smile.
Time to test his theory. “Do your mom and Jess call you Avery?”
She chewed on the end of her straw. “No. They still call me Amy-Lynn.” She shrugged. “People at work call me Avery.”
“What do your friends call you?”
She squirmed in her seat. “Depends on when they met me.”
Matt gazed at her, knowing he should probably let this line of questioning go. But for whatever reason, he needed the answer. “But you’d prefer I call you Avery?”
She looked at him from under her lashes. “Yes,” she said, barely over a whisper.
“What about Mac? Can I call you that?” He was really pushing things, and he wasn’t entirely sure why.
“Avery, please,” she said, this time with a little more force.
It didn’t take a genius to know she was trying to put some distance between them. But the bigger question was why? If she didn’t have any feelings left for him, what did it matter what he called her? Maybe she wasn’t as unaffected as she pretended.
She cleared her throat, swung her hair over her shoulders, and wiped the condensation from the ridges of her plastic cup. “So, you joined Storyhill seven years ago?”
His eyebrows rose. The subject change was jarring, but he put that aside, happy she was still sitting across from him, not hustling toward the nearest exit. “How did you know that?”
She looked away and shrugged. “It doesn’t take a genius to figure it out. I know when you graduated college, and you said you worked at Dollywood for a couple of years, I did the math.”
No way was he letting her off the hook that easily. “Have you been following my career, Avery Lind?”
Her head snapped up. “You called me Avery.”
“You just asked me to.”
She leaned back to allow the server to place the plate of chicken wings in front of her. “Doesn’t mean I actually thought you’d do it.”
He reached across the table and ran his fingers over her knuckles and damn if fireworks didn’t pop and crackle over them. She flinched but didn’t pull her hand away. “Maybe it’s because I already know Amy-Lynn and I’d like to learn more about Avery. Would that be okay?”
“Smooth,” she said with a chuckle.
He grinned back at her. “I’ll ask again, how is it you knew I joined Storyhill seven years ago?”
She bit into a chicken wing. “Mouth’s fwull,” she said, pointing at her lips.
He followed her finger and stared at her full lips for a beat too long. It might have been nine years since he’d felt them pressed against his own, but he could feel their last kiss like it happened minutes ago.
She must have sensed it because she quickly swallowed and wiped a napkin across her lips. “I told you before, Momma’s kept tabs on you.”
“Oh, it’s Isabel that’s been following my career, is it?”
“She’s got mad Googling skills . . . and she’s a bit of a YouTube junkie.”
“Really?”
She swatted at his hand with her napkin. “Yes, really, Mr. Ego. She might be a grandmother, but she’s not even fifty yet.”
He nodded. “I forgot how young she was when she had you.”
Her smirk flatlined. “Yeah.”
“I can’t imagine how an unexpected pregnancy changes your life.”
She cleared her throat. “Do you think you could get the server’s attention?” she said, rattling the ice in her empty cup.
He’d hit a sore spot. He reached for her hand, and this time she pulled it away. “I’m sorry. I know it wasn’t always easy for you, and your parents had some issues.”
“I’m going to go find her.” Amy-Lynn stood from the booth and headed to the bar.
He watched her go, a little confused. She’d never been comfortable discussing her family life, but this seemed more pronounced. And nine years had passed. Things changed. He was no longer her confidant. But he wanted her to know that she could still tell him anything. Like before.
But it wasn’t before. It was after.
She returned to the table with two more glasses. He noticed a little wobble in her step.
“You okay with a third?”
“You monitoring my drinking?” she snapped.
He held his hands up in surrender.
“You’re right,” she said with a sigh. “I probably shouldn’t have a third. I’m a total lightweight. I never do this. But I’m just so tired of always being the responsible one. It’s been so long since I’ve thought about anything other than what Momma or Jess might need or what Celeste wants.” She laid her head on the table. “I just want to think about me for a while.”
At least that’s what he thought she said. The table muffled her voice.
“Avery?” It was so hard to call her that, but if that’s what she wanted, he’d do it. For her. He smoothed a hand over her raspberry-colored hair. “Avery, honey?”
“What?” she said, her head still down on the table.
“I’d like to see your pretty face.”
She looked up, and he brushed her hair back. “How about I don’t drink this one.” He pushed the beer away. “We’ll order some more food and some water, and I’ll make sure you get home safely. Have as many as you want.”
“But what about my car?”
“I’ll drive it to your house and Uber back here.”
“But then you’d see where I live,” she said, a slight slur inching into her voice.
“I’ll close my eyes.”
“Okay,” she said.
He chuckled to himself.
“And a second idea. Tomorrow night, Storyhill is getting together. It’ll be the guys, our tech team, and their significant others. We do the potluck thing, have a beverage or two, play some games. Come with me.”
Her chest rose as she drew in an enormous breath. “With you? Like a date?”
Stop looking at her chest. He forced his eyes to meet hers.
Yes, he would love to call it a date, but she’d never let that happen. “Not a date. I’ve just never known anyone who needed a night out as much as you.”
She frowned and waggled a finger in front of his face. “But all your friends will think it’s a date.”
Would that be so bad? Women were usually clamoring to go out with him. “Grace mentioned in the interview that she’d like to meet you. How about we tell them that’s why you came?”
“Okay,” she said, downing the dregs of another rum and Coke.
“You’ll go?” He tried to hide his surprise. He hoped she’d remember this in the morning.
“Yes. For research.”
“Playing games with Storyhill is research? For the show?”
She giggled and nodded, the alcohol exaggerating her motions. “Country music singers in their natural habitat.” She looked side-to-side, placing a finger over her lips. “What will they do? What will they say?” she whispered as if on safari. “There are always new things to learn.”
“All right, David Attenborough,” he said, laughing. “Now let’s get you a little more food and some water.”
“And another drink?”
“If you still want one after the food and water, sure.”
“You, Matthew Benjamin Taylor, are a stick in the mud,” she pouted.
Okay, not too drunk. She still knew his full name.
“Yeah, that’s what people always say about me.”
She giggled and then snorted. Her eyes flew wide, and she slapped a hand over her mouth.
“Classy,” he said, nearly drunk himself from a few notes of her laughter.
She stuck out her bottom lip. “At least I know who David Attenborough is.”
He sucked in his lips, biting back a smile. “Um. I think I brought him up.”
“Really?” She looked at him, cocked her head, and squeezed one eye shut.
It was about the cutest damn thing he’d ever seen.
She brushed her hair back from her face. “Don’t tell Celeste about this, okay?”
He paused. Was he not supposed to tell Celeste she’d invited him out for drinks or that she’d gotten drunk or that she didn’t remember who first brought up David Attenborough? It didn’t matter. He didn’t intend on telling Celeste—or anyone else—about their evening. This was his memory to cherish.
He pulled into her driveway. A beautiful Craftsman bungalow in East Nashville. The perfect place for a family.
He turned to her. Her head lolled to the side, and she was softly snoring.
“Avery,” he said, shaking her shoulder gently.
Her eyes popped open and focused on his face. She reached out, placed her hand on his face, and rubbed her thumb under his chin. The touch left a trail of warmth, nearly searing his skin. How many times had he dreamed of her touch?
“Matt,” she breathed out.
He went still. Was she dreaming?
“Avery, honey, are you awake?”
She traced a finger along his jawbone. “Yes, I’m awake. You could kiss me right now. I’d let you.”
God, how he wanted that. But if—when—he kissed her again, he didn’t want it to be like this. He had to know it was something she really wanted.
“Probably better not to let Captain Morgan make decisions for you.”
She frowned, her forehead creasing into deep wrinkles. “I’m sober now.”
Matt pursed his lips, cocking his head to the side. “I’m not sure that’s entirely true. How about this? I’ll walk you to the door and if you can walk a straight line, I’ll give you a goodnight kiss.”
She pushed her bottom lip out in a pout. “You don’t think I’m pretty anymore.”
“No.” His groin tightened at the sight of her lower lip on full display. “You’re more beautiful than ever.” He slipped out the door and opened hers before he said or did something stupid.
“Out we go.” He offered her his hand and slid her from the car. “I’m putting your keys in your purse.”
He wrapped an arm around her and guided her to the house. She accidentally kicked one of the solar lights lining the sidewalk and giggled.
Nope, not sober.
When he reached the door, he knocked. Isabel opened the door.
“Matt?” she said, surprise widening her eyes.
“Hi Momma!” Amy-Lynn announced.
“Hi baby,” she said, her eyes flashing between her daughter and Matt.
Amy-Lynn staggered a step to the left, and he pulled her tighter to his side. “He wouldn’t even kiss me goodnight, Momma. Can you believe that?”
Matt shrugged. “Think you can take it from here, Mrs. McWilliams?”
“She’s drunk,” Isabel said, surprise still filling her voice.
“Yep,” Matt said, laughing.
Isabel pushed the door open wide. “She’s never drunk.”
Matt winced. “She had a stressful week. I think she needed to let loose a little.”
“I’m right here. I can hear you guys. And I’m not drunk. Not anymore.” She slipped out from under Matt’s arm and ducked beside her mother, flopping into the chair nearest the door.
They both watched as she closed her eyes and let her head fall back.
“I’ll see she drinks some water and takes some aspirin,” Isabel said, watching her daughter out of the corner of her eye.
He stole a last glance at the woman who’d once been his entire world. “Avery?”
She opened one eye and looked at him. “Mmm?”
“Remember. Tomorrow night. I’ll text you the details.”
She gave him the thumbs up sign before closing her eyes again.
Isabel gaped at him. “You called her Avery.”
He shrugged. “It’s what she wants.”
Isabel narrowed her eyes and scanned him from head to toe. “Huh.”
Matt held up a single hand. “It was good to see you, Isabel.”
“You too, Matt,” Isabel said, her eyes still shifting from Matt to Amy-Lynn.
He turned down the walk and pulled out his phone to order an Uber. Two minutes away.
Isabel called after him. “Thanks for getting her home safe.”
He turned and walked backwards. “Of course.”
“And Matt,” she continued, stepping out onto the porch. “I’ve never seen her drunk.”
Matt sighed. “I bring out the best in people.”
“I agree, but not in the way you mean it. She’d never have done this with someone she didn’t trust.”
A warmth flooded his chest, surrounding his heart. He wanted to sink into the feeling. But he couldn’t. Not yet. Not until he got a few more questions answered.
The Uber pulled up to the curb. “Good night, Isabel. Take care of our girl.”