Chapter Four

Michaela

Christmas Day

 

Jen sought me out before I left the barn. “Great job today. Thank you for being part of our wedding.” The red gown was a perfect holiday color.

Dylan joined her side. “Yes, thanks. I was focused on her and didn’t retain a word, but you sounded beautiful.”

“You guys are too sweet. I’m just glad I had no car trouble this time.” We laughed.

“Enjoy the party,” she said.

I shook hands with them and they moved on.

Everyone left to enter the reception in the front great room.

Mrs. Lindsey—Beth—had done a great job of transforming the space into a mini ballroom. I found a stool out of the way to sit on, then felt eyes on me.

Lincoln.

Dude, you’re barking up the wrong tree.

Dylan and Jen reached the threshold and the DJ announced them as Mr. and Mrs. Smith. Lots of cheers from the small crowd. They deserved all the happiness.

But I planned to only stay as long as politeness dictated. It wasn’t anyone else’s fault, but all this cheer and love would sadden and depress me and I didn’t need a trigger tonight.

More than being around happy people on a holiday already was, anyway.

There was dancing and Christmas music and cake.

And adult eggnog.

The waiters handed out glasses to toast the newlyweds when they cut the cake and it was the best eggnog I’d ever tried. Like holiday in a cup. I only figured out rum was in it when I started feeling warm after drinking half my serving. But I was good. There was amazing cake, and cookies, and the Lindseys had generously provided rides to and fro, so no buzz worries.

If I couldn’t indulge a tiny bit on Christmas, then when?

Dylan and Jen were such a beautiful couple.

I watched them sway to yet another song, and sighed.

Wistful, party of one.

Someone came up next to me and the masculine cologne was intoxicating, not clashing with the pine scent in the room at all, but making me think of a campfire in the woods.

“Would you like to dance?” Lincoln asked for my ears only.

“I don’t—”

His hand was offered palm up. “One dance. We can even back around the corner so no one sees your feet have no rhythm.”

I turned and shot him a glare. “No rhythm—”

He grinned widely and whoa. “So I can get your attention.”

He just kept smiling and waited for me to take his lead.

Rolling my eyes, I said, “Fine. One dance junior-high-style.” No close touching.

My fingers landed on his as lightly as possible. Another zing.

True to his word, we slipped around the corner to a hallway with bathrooms and bedrooms, out of sight of the party but easily discovered. He tried to pull me in, but I kept to my word, setting my hands on his suit-jacketed shoulders with my arms extended.

“Michaela, this is ridiculous. I won’t bite.” Yet his emerald eyes were full of mischief.

“Lincoln, you seem like a nice guy, but I—”

“Don’t date? Have someone? Keep me company. I only joined the band a couple months ago, so I’m just as out of place as you feel.”

I sighed. Maybe a few more minutes wouldn’t hurt.

The instrumental version of What Are You Doing New Year’s Eve ended.

The same thing I do every year, Ella.

“Company? Merely chatting?” I asked skeptically.

He nodded. “We entertain each other, we sit awkwardly, or we leave. Wedding receptions are super awkward for lone single people, so maybe it’ll be more tolerable together.”

True. “I was going to leave after cake.”

“See?”

“Fine. So, how did you get into professional music?”

“Fresh out of high school. Our hands were stamped everywhere we played and a lot of places would only let us come in the rear, perform, then kick us back out again. Minors in the building made them squirrely. But we thought we were hot shit.”

“You weren’t?”

He laughed and shook his head. “No! We did covers because every time we tried an original song, we got booed. Our guitarist was the songwriter, but he only wrote in the keys he could sing in, which was out of the range of our lead. Poor dude tried his best, but he screeched on those high notes every time and never had the performance charisma to make people not care.”

“Where were you playing?”

“Bar gigs. You’re lucky the sound guy doesn’t make you sound like a cat in heat.”

“They’re not my favorite.”

“Sweating backstage, doing the pee-pee dance while you wait for management to remember you exist and introduce you. Your share of the pie is shitty, but you gotta pay your dues…and the rent.”

I was good at keeping other people talking while sharing little of myself, but Lincoln made it easy to forget I’d wanted to leave soon. He had lots of stories from his musical life.

Stories I could relate to.

And servers kept offering those damned cups of dangerous eggnog.