Before the Rain by JoAnne Kenrick

nearby. Was this man as sexy as the Welshman she had her eye on?
    Her mind went to her farmer.
    He gyrates on stage, his beard trimmed to a tidy goatee and his abs covered by a bejeweled jumpsuit glorious enough for Elvis. His shirt is slit along the front, and his six-pack is clear to see and adore. Smothered in baby oil and looking all glistened and profiled under the stage lights, he is perfection. And he knows it. Strutting across the stage, he’s all that and more. He pivots and blows a kiss at Zoe, then swings his hips.
    “Throw your panties at me, Miss America,” he growls.
    She obliges. Slipping her undergarments down, she yanks them away and flings them at him.
    They land on the stage beside him, and he nods approvingly.
    “Lace. Nice. Now your bra.”
    “I’m not taking my bra off.”
    “What?” Betty let out a belly laugh.
    “Your bra?” Dylan raised both brows, his usual steely glare softening. He ducked his head and grabbed his drink. “Time for me to go.”
    He swiped a scone from their table and winked at Betty.
    “Hey,” Betty protested.
    “Oh, Aunty Betty, you knew full you wouldn’t eat all those and that you’d bring them home for supper. I’m saving you a job.”
    “True.” She nodded. “I’m stuffed already.”
    “Me, too. Couldn’t fit another thing in my mouth if I tried,” Zoe added.
    He raised a brow. “Really?”
    She pushed her plate forward. “Ugh, I’m as full as a tick.”
    They both stared at her, one brow raised. “Come again?”
    “Eaten too much.”
    “Ah.”
    “Right.” Dylan shook his head. “I’m gonna grab a shower before the big fete meeting starts.” He grabbed yet another scone and turned to Zoe. “No need for you to turn up at the meeting. Since we’re singing together, I can just fill you in on the doings on the night. ’kay?”
    Zoe turned to Betty, mouth agape. “We’re singing together? As in duets?”
    The woman shrugged. “That’s what I told you, isn’t it?”
    “Ha! Not even close, Betty.”
    “But you’ll do it, won’t you?” She fluttered her eyelashes and pouted.
    “Do I have a choice?”
    “You can thank me later.” Betty winked. “The things you’ll see at this fete will be months’ worth of newspaper material. Trust me.”
    Famous last words.
     

Chapter Seven
     
    One week later ….
     
    Zoe perched on a barstool and leaned an elbow on the pristine marble-topped bar, too tired after helping at the fete to enjoy the country-pub vibe. Complete with a stone hearth, copper mugs hanging from the rafters, and all the usual patrons you’d expect to see, the place was cliché cozy.
    She slumped and nursed a beer.
    The putrid stench of the pub punched her in the nose. As far as she could make out, it smelled of beer, baking pot pies, and years of cigarette smoke woven into the very fabric of the place. A hint of pine mixed in for good measure, probably from the cleaning fluid they used. The rest she couldn’t make out, but it was fetid. She would have to write about this in her article.
    Zoe sighed, ready to call it a night and go to bed. She’d gotten a few photos at the fete with her digital camera: a cake stall, Betty pouring coffee, and several shots of David as he kept photo-bombing her.
    “What’s up with you?” Betty sat beside her, chugging her white wine. When she finished her glass, she ordered another.
    “It’s been a long day. I’m exhausted.”
    “ Ia , you worked hard flogging our jumble at the fete.”
    “I think the hordes of teens who kept coming back to buy more baked goods were just chatting me up for zodiac info on their crushes.”
    Betty wrinkled her brow. “Oh, love, I’m sure that’s not true. They were just interested in the newb in town. And my fondant fancies.”
    Zoe dismissed her with a wave. “Either way, I’m talked out.”
    Betty poked her arm. “Wake up, love. The day’s main event is yet to come. You’ve got some singing to do.”
    Zoe straightened and smoothed out her