Page 5 of All of You

Ru worked as my driver when I was in town and often on tour, as well. He was a dad of four and only liked old Country, so we got into it when he felt chatty. But mostly, he left me to myself. Yet another part of this big family I’d cobbled together.

“Yes.” The word came between two crunches of the last few nuts still in my mouth. A swig of water and a swish later, a stick of gum then went in. “Let’s go.”

Damon had left earlier, and Amanda waved me off from where she sat on my couch. If this had been an awards show, she might have come with me, but since it was a smaller event, I didn’t need her touching up—I’d learned that, at least, in the time I’d been doing this. A small powder, lip gloss, and my ID and credit card always accompanied me, today in my small, sparkling pink clutch. We were going for very feminine tonight, apparently, though it was just what I’d been in the mood for.

We pulled up to the conference center—the Gaylord Opryland, one of the strangest, most Nashville places you can think of. Upon my exit from the car, only a camera or two snapped, much to my delight. I waved Ru off and smiled at the photographers, chatting mildly while inching my way toward the door. Being kind and unrushed was important, but so was staying in motion. If you stopped, it would be hard to get moving again—learned that the hard way.

Once I reached the building, someone opened a door, allowing me to walk through without looking. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” came a familiar voice.

I’d only heard it a handful of times, but I’d know it anywhere. I whipped around to find Ben smiling at me.

“Oh! Hi.” My voice was breathy as I took him in. He was as good-looking as in my memories.

Which was maybe a problem.

“You look beautiful.” He smiled softly.

His gaze, notably, stayed on my face, which I found alternately charming and irritating. The dress did nice things for me, after all.

“Thank you. You look very nice, too.”

And he did. He really did.

I’d told him he could wear his dress blues, if he wanted, because most soldiers had them, but he’d said he preferred to rent a tux. That couldn’t have been cheap, based on the clean lines and close fit—no boxy shoulders or worn sleeves to indicate a rental. It was an effort for him to be here with me, and seeing him all dressed up, his hair just barely long and styled on top, making him look particularly dapper, brought that home. “Thank you for doing this.”

“It’s not a hardship.” He quirked an eyebrow and offered me his arm.

I took it, and we started walking.

Even through his jacket, his warmth radiated under my touch. Strange how for formal events, women ended up in very little clothing, and men always wore long pants and long sleeves. I’d worn some heavy dresses, but almost never felt overheated due to my clothing. Impossible to imagine being layered up in a dress shirt and full jacket, even on a cool evening.

“How have your last few weeks been?” It dawned on me that we’d never shared casual conversation in person.

“Good. Busy, but good.”

A little thrill shot through me when our eyes met. He looked like he should be an Abercrombie and Fitch model, all golden hair and bright blue eyes. He certainly filled out his suit perfectly—his broad shoulders and narrow waist tucking into slim, perfectly fitted black tux pants.

Normally, unless they were also in the spotlight, I’d detect a hint of nerves from a date. It had been a few years since I’d tried going out with anyone like Ben—anyone whose life and job were, well… normal.

Shoulders squared, back straight, I could detect no hint of unease about him.

Then again, facing down cameras wouldn’t be all that stressful compared to being in a war zone.

“Whit Grantham, come here, baby!” Colton Danes said from the entryway.

Great.

“Hi there, Colton. How’re you doin’?”

I tended to lay on the accent a little thick in these situations, particularly considering I didn’t have much twang at all when speaking naturally. But something about Colton Danes, notorious playboy and self-proclaimed good ol’ Country boy, made me want to fling out all my bless your hearts and drop all my g’s.

“Aw, baby, I’m just so glad to see you here. Getting out already after your tour—good for you.” The slimebucket sidled up to me as he ran a hand through his shaggy sandy brown hair, his date trailing just behind him.

“Colton Danes,” he said, and shot out a manicured hand to Ben.

“Ben Holder. Nice to meet you,” Ben returned, and shook Danes’ hand like it was no big deal.

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