“And I told you. Candy hit a hell of a groove, that’s all. The audience enjoyed it. There isn’t any deeper meaning, so stop wasting time trying to find it.”
Easy for him to say. He wasn’t the one whose lips still felt the kiss, whose pulse had yet to quit racing. She toyed with the seam in the bar’s padded edge, picking at threads that weren’t there. “Let’s hope it was a one-time thing. With Marshall’s retrial coming up, Miranda can’t afford for Candy to start getting careless.”
“Does that mean you haven’t changed your mind about singing at the Christmas dance?”
“No. I haven’t.” She wouldn’t take Candy Cane out of Club Crimson, even as a favor to Patrice. She’d reiterated to Alan and his wife all the reasons why when first asked to perform at the Mistletoe County High dance.
“The kids would love it,” Alan said, wooing her by wiggling both brows. “All they know is the legend of the sexy redhead who sings at the inn.”
And if Miranda had her way, that was all the students would ever know about her. “The kids would not love it. I’m an old fart who sings old-fart songs. If anyone needs to perform for them, it’s Zoe.”
Corinne’s younger daughter was seventeen and as brilliant a singer as her sister. Her voice was a deep, throaty alto, incredibly rich and mature for a girl so young.
Zoe was the reason Miranda had used a chunk of her obscenely large divorce settlement to establish the Candy Cane Scholarship for the Arts, and why she continued to funnel into it all the money she made at the club.
Even if Corinne had her reasons for not accepting Brenna’s offer to repay the misappropriated funds plus interest, Zoe was too good to be hidden away. A legitimate study of voice and music seemed to Miranda the perfect compromise. The scholarship was her way of putting her money where her mouth was.
Miranda looked back at Alan. “I wish Patrice would add her to the program. Zoe could use the exposure.”
“She’s going to,” Alan said, thrilling Miranda to bits. “But the kids know Zoe. Patrice was hoping for a big-name headliner.”
“I heard her sister’s in town,” Miranda said, thinking about Corinne and her relationships with her girls. Sooner or later mother needed to meet older daughter halfway—even if only for the sake of the younger. “Patrice should try to snag Ravyn.”
“That might work if Patrice were willing to forget everything Mistletoe stands for and invade Ravyn’s privacy, which she’s not going to do. And if Brenna and Corinne weren’t on the outs. There’s no way Patrice is going behind Corinne’s back just to make points with the kids.”
Miranda knew he was right. As cool a coup as it would be for the senior class to have Evermore’s lead singer at their Christmas dance, there were a whole lot of circumstances in the way of it happening.
Besides, with Ravyn—Brenna—estranged from her family, her visit to Mistletoe sans the band pretty much confirmed the rumors of her romantic liaison with right-wing and conveniently newly single congressman Teddy Eagleton, who Miranda had seen in the lobby earlier in the day.
Whatever the two were doing here, mentioning it to Corinne was nothing Miranda wanted to do. Especially since the other woman might soon be dealing with the reporters turned away by security from the inn. Having experienced the same, Miranda had great sympathy for what Corinne had ahead of her.
“You finished with that?” Alan asked, looking over Miranda’s head.
She started to tell him that he’d already done his conscientious-bartender-and-childhood-friend duty and taken her wineglass away. Then he realized she wasn’t the one to whom he was speaking.
She glanced over her shoulder and peered into the dark. A man was walking toward them from the club’s far corner, a coffee cup and saucer in hand.
He was tall, and he rolled with a swagger, his legs long, his hips and waist narrow, his shoulders wide beneath the dark jacket he wore with his jeans…his jeans…
She’d sat in the lap of a man wearing jeans, a man who’d watched her show from the club’s far corner. Crap and double crap. She turned back quickly, hissing at her ex-friend to get his attention.
“He’s been here all this time and you didn’t tell me?” Dear God, had she given herself away? Had he overheard Alan call her Miranda? Had she confessed that she was still reeling from the contact of their lips and their tongues? “What the hell is wrong with you?”
Alan smirked his ex-friend enjoyment of her distress. “Patrice said you’ve been extra moody lately. I figured you might need to get laid.”
“I hate you, you know.”
“I know. I hate you, too.”
Thank God she hadn’t taken off her wig. That was the only thought that crossed her mind before the stranger who kissed like a god climbed onto the stool beside her, filling the space as if it had been waiting a lifetime for him to find it. Uh, yeah. This couldn’t be good.
“Thanks for the coffee,” he told Alan, giving Miranda his profile to study as he handed the cup and saucer across the bar. “I wasn’t sure I’d be able to make it to my room, or even remember where I put it.”
As hard as she tried not to, Miranda couldn’t help a soft laugh; the sound had him swiveling slowly toward her, cocking his head, drinking her in until she forgot to breathe and changed her mind about this being good.
“Laugh at me, laugh with me. I’ll take either one.”
Oh, he was sharp. And gorgeous. Somehow she’d missed the full extent of his gorgeousness when she’d been in his lap, but there was still nothing she wouldn’t give right now for a big fat hole in the ground.
A hole swallowing her would keep her from looking at his mouth. His mouth, his lips, his tongue, his teeth. She remembered them all. She wanted them all. She wanted more.
She wanted him. She’d been right the first time. This was not good.
“Caleb McGregor,” he said, offering her his hand.
After a moment, she took it. “Candy Cane.”
“According to the marquee,” he said, before letting her go.
Touché, she thought, refusing to confirm his assumption with body language or voice. “I’m not sure if I should thank you or beg your forgiveness.”
The mouth that had been all over hers and made her into a marshmallow smiled. “There’s nothing to forgive, and I’m pretty sure I’m the one who should be thanking you.”
He was smart. Smooth. Cutely self-deprecating rather than smarmy. Or maybe that was the kiss talking, and she should be listening to her survival instincts instead. “You were a good sport, and I’m sorry if I embarrassed you. I don’t usually get that…personal with the audience.”
He paused a moment, taking her in. “Then I’m glad I was there when you decided to change things up.”
Spice, Alan had called it. Adding spice to Candy’s routine. If only it were that simple, adding, changing, but the truth rarely was. And this particular truth wasn’t easy to admit.
There had been no conscious decision in what she’d done. Her brain had had nothing to do with her sliding into his lap. Hormones and lust were responsible for her pressing her mouth to his and giving him her tongue. She’d seen him. She’d wanted him. She’d taken him.
And now here he was, sitting beside her, close, his knee brushing her thigh when he swiveled on the stool, a whiff of Scotch and coffee reaching her nose along with the scent of something earthy and warm.
She needed to excuse herself. To go. She was in so much trouble here. So, of course, she went ahead and made it worse. “What brings you to Mistletoe,