Page 24 of Christmas Music
I groaned and looked again, counting the execs for her and looking for anyone else who appeared to be from out of town. She was worried about other agents being in the crowd, I realized, and wanted to make sure she was the only one here from Nashville.
I mean, aside from the people actually putting on the contest.
“When do you go on?” she asked suddenly, and I jerked.
“Huh?” I asked, sounding just as clever as I had hoped.
She gave me a long, confused look. “When. Do. You. Go. On. You are entered in the contest, right?”
I bit my lip. Technically, yes, I was entered. I had a position and a number and everything, and I was pretty sure that if there was a schedule pasted out there somewhere, my name was in spot #2.
The problem was, I still hadn’t decided whether I was actually going to perform or not. I had the song Connor and I had written together and I’d put together some really great lyrics for it. But I hadn’t forgotten the look on Mrs. Wheating’s face when she told me that Connor wanted the contract so he could save the ranch, or the tears in her eyes when she begged the assessor to reassess the property with the idea of Connor staying on to run the place.
I certainly hadn’t forgotten the broken look on his face when he told me he didn’t have time to talk to me.
He needed this contract, and if I was guessing right—and judging the talent the way Parker had taught me to—he was sure to win it. As long as he competed and I didn’t.
I had the song I wanted to sing in my head. But at the end of the day, I wasn’t sure if I was actually going to do it or not. I didn’t know if I could do that to Connor.
Parker, who had always been far too good at reading my thoughts, watched me think through the situation, narrowed her eyes, and scowled. “Are you really going to just let him win it?”
I looked at her helplessly, not knowing how to put my thoughts into words and praying she’d just be able to read it in my eyes, and after a moment, she nodded slowly.
“Got it. I’d heard their family was in trouble, and if this is the only way for them to save the day...”
“It is,” I whispered.
“Then I guess your job is to help me watch for any other talent in the room,” she answered.
I threw my arms around her and squeezed as tightly as I could, loving her with every ounce of my being. “Have I ever told you how lucky I am to have you?”
She chuckled. “I mean you have, but I don’t think it would be a bad idea to tell me more often.”
“Consider it done.”
I was just pulling away from her when the show itself started with an announcement from the bar area calling the first contestant.
“Connor Wheating, to the stage,” the tender said, his voice thundering through the crowd.
I jumped, caught off-balance by the suddenness of it, and barely managed to step out of the way before Connor himself came barreling through the space, headed for the stage. He stopped when he saw me and opened his mouth, looking like he had something important he needed to say. But one of the stage hand grabbed him and shoved him onto the stage, whispering loudly that he was up, and that it was time to show what he was made of.
I watched as Connor shuffled onto the stage, his guitar in hand and whatever he’d meant to say lost to the noise of the crowd.
He looked out over the people, his shoulders tight and his knuckles white on the neck of his guitar, and though the spotlights made it impossible to see the audience or his face, I knew how he looked. He’d have that faraway look in his eyes, like he was hearing the music in his head before he played it. A slight smile on his lips.
That dimple in his right cheek.
No, I couldn’t see him. But I lied before about never having been to one of his shows in Nashville. I’d been to a few.
Okay, I’d been to every one. I couldn’t help it. I’d had a crush on the boy through all of high school. I’d wanted to see what his shows were like, and once I went to one, I couldn’t stop myself.
Instead of pulling his guitar to him and starting right in, though, he paused and nearly turned back toward the curtain. He stopped himself, finally brought his guitar up, and started strumming... only to stutter to a stop.
He didn’t even start singing.
And in that moment, I knew that he didn’t have a song prepared. He’d come to the contest—and all the way to the stage—without a song in hand, because he’d had so much going on that he hadn’t had time to write anything.
Anything but the one we wrote together.
