Page 53 of All of You

“I do, but why do you say that?”

Then I realized he’d told me he loved Waylon last year, not in our current relationship. And it was the perfect opening. I imagined myself in that moment, a fleeting vision, taking his hand and pressing it to my lips and saying, “You told me once…”

But I didn’t do that. No, I cowered, the trill of fear that lined my rib cage stopping me from taking the chance.

“You seemed to love ‘Nashville Bum,’ and I’ve gathered you prefer old Country, so it makes sense.” I smiled mildly, hoping that sounded legitimate, hoping he couldn’t tell how uncomfortable I was lying to his face.

“You’re right. I do prefer the old guys. And women, for that matter. It was just different a few decades ago, you know?” He sounded genuinely troubled.

He tapped his phone to turn down the volume so the next song, a George Jones track called “Walk Through This World with Me” accompanied the conversation without interrupting it.

“Yeah. I loved Patsy Cline and Loretta Lynn. That’s what got me started wanting to perform.”

“Really? Did your family listen to Country?” he asked, wrapping the cord of his headphones up and slipping them into a little baggy.

It didn’t surprise me he didn’t have wireless ones—nothing about Ben was flashy or demanding to have the newest and best stuff.

“Uh, no.” A light chuckle covered the discomfort.

He tilted his head to one side like it would help me see him better. “You never told me about your family.”

“No, I haven’t.”

“What’s the story there? Obviously, it’s not your favorite subject, but at this point, I hope you know you can trust me,” he said, ducking to catch my eye.

I rolled my lips between my teeth and let out a forced breath. “My parents had me trained in classical music—piano. I went to Juilliard, but dropped out after a little over a year to go compete on SouthernStar.”

His mouth dropped open a little, then snapped shut. “Juilliard?”

“Yeah. I was good.” An understatement, which he could tell if the grin on his face meant anything.

“I’m sure you were. So what’d they say when you dropped out of school?” He leaned back and rested his hands behind his head.

“Um… not much. We haven’t really spoken.” I studied the clean white stitching on the comforter beneath me.

“That was…”

“Four years ago, about.”

He swore under his breath, then wrapped his hand around my arm.

“Come here,” he said in that low, sweet voice.

He pulled me over to him and tucked me into his side, my head on his shoulder, arm between my body and his, my body and legs stretched out next to his. He pulled my other arm over his belly and then set his hand on my wrist. “Tell me.”

I tilted my head up to see his face, and he stared back at me. He nodded, urging me on wordlessly.

“My legal name is Eleanor Whitley Ford Grantham.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Whit

He smiled. “That’s pretty.”

“It’s a mouthful. But it’s nice enough. When I signed up for the show, I used Whit… I’m not even sure why except that I knew I wanted a degree of separation from my parents and their disapproval. I knew they’d be disappointed by me leaving school, and they wouldn’t understand me giving up their dream for me in favor of my own dream.”

The arm holding me to him squeezed me tighter, and that big, solid hand ran up and down my back. That moment of sweetness and solidity grounded me, and for the first time, I didn’t feel as much dread as I’d expected at revealing my big lie—well, one of them—to this forthright, genuine man.

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