“Brenna—”
“I need to check my lip gloss.”
“But—”
“Right back.” She sent him a quick wave over her shoulder and made for the hallway, scattering Excuse mes as she went, weaving her way as fast as she could through the tight knots of people, ignoring anyone who spoke to her or glanced her way.
When she reached the hallway, she kept on going, her eyes on the glowing green exit sign down at the end. She got to the ladies’ room and she didn’t even slow down. She just kept right on walking down to the end of the hall.
And out the back door.
The heavy door swung shut behind Brenna, and the racket from inside dimmed a little. She’d emerged into a loading area, with the packed dirt parking lot spread out beyond. Under the light of a few lamps on tall wooden poles, the rows of empty cars waited, not a soul in sight. Brenna shivered at the eeriness of it after the crush of people inside.
With no idea what to do next, she kept walking, her arms wrapped tightly around herself, her head tipped down, not knowing where she was going—until she ran right into someone coming the other way.
“Whoa, now...” said a raspy male voice.
She blinked and looked up—first at the dirty top half of a union suit. The shirt was frayed around the wattled neck of an old man with bristly gray whiskers and thinning, scraggly white hair. “Homer,” she said in a dazed whisper. “Homer Gilmore.”
The old man smiled, showing crooked, yellowed teeth. “If it isn’t Brenna O’Reilly. Where you headin’ in such an all-fired hurry?”
“I was just...”
“Runnin’ away?” he finished for her.
Homer was famous in Rust Creek Falls for a number of reasons. He made moonshine that made people throw off their inhibitions. He tended to show up when you least expected him. And he knew things. Travis might scoff at her for saying it, but that didn’t make it any less true. Homer really could read things about people. He always seemed to know intuitively what folks were going through.
She started to deny that she was running anywhere. “I was just—”
“Scared, is what you were. And that is not like you.”
“I got—”
“Stage fright. I know. Sometimes it happens.”
“Homer, how do you—”
“Know things?” He only laughed, a sound every bit as ragged and rusty as the rest of him. And then he lowered his head. Brenna followed his gaze to his gnarled right hand, in which he held a jar of clear liquid.
“Homer, is that—”
“Just what you need about now? Yeah, Brenna. It is.”
She looked up into his watery eyes again. “But I don’t want to get—”
“Drunk? Uh-uh. You won’t be. This is just a little magic for you, that’s all. A little nudge in the right direction for this one time. Look at me, Brenna.” His voice was softer now. She could just wrap it around her, it sounded so soothing and good. She looked right into his eyes.
“Say what you’re thinking,” he instructed.
And she did. “I’m still afraid, but it’s okay. I’m bigger than my fear.”
“That’s right. That’s the spirit.” He held out the jar. “Take one long drink, Brenna O’Reilly. And then get back in there and show them what you’re made of.”
She took the jar and unscrewed the lid.
* * *
Travis was getting really worried.
And not only about the fact that Giselle kept shooting him dirty looks and mouthing, “Where is she?” across the crowded dance floor at him.
He was worried about Brenna. She’d looked so upset when she took off for the restroom. He shouldn’t have let her go like that. He should have gone with her, made sure she got there safe, made sure she was okay.
She’d seemed so cocky and confident yesterday, so completely Brenna, out there behind the beauty shop. He’d really believed she could handle anything The Great Roundup could throw at her. So he’d gotten her into this.
Travis had pulled some crazy stunts in his life, but one thing he’d always done right was to look out for Brenna O’Reilly. He’d protected her from more than one potential disaster.
Not tonight, though. Something was really bothering her, and he knew it. And still, he’d let her leave his side.
It was an error in judgment on his part, and he needed to rectify that. He needed to stop standing here like a damn fool and go after her.
He started for the hallway that led to the restrooms. People pushed in around him, and he just pushed back. Nodding, forcing a smile when anyone spoke to him, he kept going until he reached the hallway, where a line of women waited to get into the restroom. Brenna was not among them.
He was just trying to decide whether or not to barge into the ladies’ room shouting her name when the door all the way down at the end of the hallway opened—and there she was.
“Brenna!”
She tipped her chin high so he could see her face clearly under the brim of her hat. She spotted him—and she smiled, a bright, glowing smile. Hot damn, she was gorgeous.
And apparently, she’d gotten over whatever had been bothering her.
“Travis!” She gave him a jaunty wave and started toward him.
“’Scuse me, ladies.” He eased his way between two women at the front of the restroom line and went for her, not stopping till he stood in front of her a few feet from the door. “Brenna, are you okay?”
She grinned up at him. “Never better.” She really did seem fine now, brimming with her usual bright confidence.
But he had to be sure. He leaned close and said for her ears alone, “We don’t have to do this. I can take you home.”
She reached up and got a handful of the front of his shirt. “We’re not giving up now. Don’t even think it.”
“But are you—”
She cut him off by jerking him down to her and lifting her mouth to within an inch from his. “We are doing this.” Her eyes had stars in them. “And we are taking home the prize.”
“Brenna...” She smelled of flowers and fresh-cut grass. He really wanted to kiss her.
“Do it,” she whispered, clearly reading his mind. “We need to do it. How can we pretend that we’re headed for forever when you’ve never even put your lips on mine?”
Was she right? Did he really need to kiss her to make their fake relationship seem real for Giselle and the others? Hell if he knew. All he could think was that he’d never kissed her—and he had to kiss her.
Finally. At last.
He lowered his head a fraction closer, and she surged up.
His mouth touched hers.
With a sigh, she let go of his shirtfront and her hands slid up to clasp the back of his neck. “Travis...” She stroked his nape with her soft fingers as she whispered his name, kissing it onto his lips.
So good. So right. She tasted of honey, of ripe summer fruit—peaches and blackberries, watermelon. Cherries. She tasted of promises, sweet hopes and big dreams. She tasted of home.