Page 42 of Snow Much Trouble
Just like us.
As I unlock my car, Dylan pulls me close for one more kiss.
"Thank you," he murmurs against my lips.
"For what?"
"For not driving away forever. For giving this a chance. For being brave enough to let me in."
"Thank you for following me to a holiday market and singing terrible Christmas songs in front of strangers."
"That really sounds like less of a compliment than what I said, but anytime." He grins and opens my car door for me. "I'll be right behind you, okay? Take your time, drive safe. I'm not going anywhere."
I believe him. And that's the scariest, most wonderful thing of all.
As I pull out of the parking lot, I can see Dylan's truck in my rearview mirror, following at a safe distance. My phone buzzes with another text from Avery.
That video has 50k views. You're famous now. Also YOU HAVE TO TELL ME EVERYTHING.
I smile and turn up my radio. A Christmas song is playing and for the first time in weeks, I'm not thinking about my deadline or my career or whether I'm good enough.
I'm just thinking about how sometimes the best songs, the best stories, the best moments in life are the ones you never see coming.
And how maybe, just maybe, I'm about to write the best Christmas song of my career—because now I know exactly what it feels like when snow falls and someone looks at you like you're magic.
My phone rings.
I tap the screen to answer it on speaker. It’s Dylan.
He’s singing the infamous Mariah Carey Christmas song.
Laughing, I tell him, “I’m going to drive off the road! Stop!”
“I just didn’t want you to forget my voice on the drive home.”
“I’m ending this call.”
But I grin as I drive down the mountain with Dylan following behind me.
I know sometimes taking a risk is the only way to find what you've been searching for all along.
Epilogue
LAUREN
The Four Brothers holiday party is at a restaurant in Nashville. The room is strung with thousands of white lights, transforming the industrial space into something magical. I clutch my guitar case a little tighter as Dylan guides me through the crowd with his hand on the small of my back.
"You're going to be amazing," he murmurs in my ear.
"I'm terrified," I admit. "What if they hate it?"
"Impossible. Also, you've played for way tougher crowds than my family and friends."
He's right, but this feels different. These are Dylan's people—his brothers, his parents, employees and distributors who've built Four Brothers from the ground up. And somewhere in this crowd is Jolene Hart, who I texted this morning to let her know I'd be playing tonight.
Malcolm appears with drinks. He has a bourbon for Dylan, something pink and festive for me. "You must be Lauren. I've heard a lot about you."
"All good things, I hope."
