Page 25 of Tate
“Except the Yankee Belles are on hiatus, right? Are you sure you’re getting back together?”
“Uh. Yeah. I mean…” Except Kelsey had returned to the Marshall ranch with Knox and…well, she knew her friend. She’d been looking for a real home all her life after her parents had been killed. Glo wouldn’t blame Kelsey if she wanted to stay.
And Dixie definitely had something brewing with Elijah Blue, their drummer. She’d seen an Instagram picture of them in Florida at some theme park.
Her realization must have played on her face, because Cher leaned back, folded her arms. “I always said you had enough of your own ‘glow’ to be center stage. Maybe it’s time.”
“It’s not time. I’m not?—”
“Ever since I’ve known you, Glo, you’ve had a guitar or a banjo or a Dobro on your lap, penning songs, singing to yourself. You are totally a solo act.”
Glo drew in a breath. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m a one-hit wonder.”
“No. You’re not. But I know it feels that way right now. You’re caught in the post-breakup noise ofwhy not meandwhat if? You’re looking ahead into the future, and it feels gray and dismal.”
“Are you sure you weren’t a psychology minor?”
“The school of experience. You just need to regroup. Figure out what you want.”
“I don’t know what I want…”
“How about a happy ending to that action thriller?”
“No. Just one I can live with, I guess. One that won’t leave me alone and brokenhearted. I don’t know that I deserve more than that.”
Cher raised an eyebrow. “Oh no. You’re listening to the ghosts again. What is it they say about the dead? They always have the last word?”
Glo looked away. “Maybe they’re right.”
“Please. So you’re the twin who lived. And the girlfriend who loved a fallen soldier. It doesn’t mean you don’t deserve to be happy.”
Sometimes it felt that way.
“Heads up. Ex-groupie ten o’clock— Hey, Sloan.”
Glo found her politician smile.
Except,hello.Sloan Anderson had grown up. Way up—height, shoulders, and presence. No longer the skinny, wide-eyed fan who showed up to carry her gear and offer her rides after her gigs. Which had been sweet, really.
This Sloan had a seasoned, almost streetwise aura about him, maybe gleaned from years negotiating on Capitol Hill. He wore his dark brown hair short, but with a styled rumple of curl at the front. A smattering of a five-o’clock shadow hinted at the after-work hour. And he smelled good, as if he’d just showered after a workout. “Hey, Glo. I heard you were back in town.”
Even his voice had grown up. Deeper, a husk to it she’d never noticed before. It left a little unsettled trail inside her. Huh.
“Sloan.” She slid out of the booth and gave him a one-armed hug, leaning away from her shoulder wound. He hugged her back, and she noticed, despite herself, the lean planes of his body. “You look good.”
“You too.” But his gaze fell on the yellow-red speckles of her remaining bruise. It seemed he wanted to say something, but instead he smiled and glanced at her friend. “Hey, Cher.”
Glo noticed Cher’s gaze run over him, a little interest in her eyes.
Sloan turned back to Glo. “You in town for your mother’s big party this weekend?”
She frowned but nodded. “How did you know?—”
“My father’s throwing it. He’s a huge supporter of your mother’s campaign. Thinks she’d make a great president.”
“She would. She’s dedicated and strong and smart?—”
“Not unlike her daughter.”
