shook the bottle of basil over the pot until the mystery contents were greener than the lawn. “I don’t listen to much music at all. Sometimes the guys will have the radio on in the trailer, but I never really notice it.”
Butch winced when she took up the salt shaker. “We grew up with music in the house. My mother plays piano, and my father sings. Jeb and I both have played piano and guitar since we were big enough to handle the instruments.”
“I grew up on construction sites. I drove a Bobcat when I was twelve. By sixteen, I was a better backhoe operator than most of the guys on my father’s crew. This has about twenty minutes yet. Will you play a song for me?”
“You want to hear one of my songs?”
She adjusted the temperature on the stove. “Yes. This has to simmer for a little while so we have time.”
Butch winced at the thought of the chicken “blackening” for twenty more minutes as he took her hand and led her upstairs. He sat on the bar stool and lifted his favorite guitar into his lap. Kate crossed her legs and sat tailor fashion in the middle of the floor. She rested her chin on her folded hands and looked up at him with wide, blue eyes.
Butch saw those eyes and forgot his name. He dropped his pick, fumbling it again when she handed it to him. She pulled the band from her ponytail, letting her hair fall around her shoulders like a sinful rain. The guitar slipped from his leg. Good thing the strap around his shoulder caught.
Butch swallowed a lump in his throat and began a sultry ballad accompanied by his acoustic guitar. Kate never looked away. Those amazing eyes focused on him so intently he nearly forgot the words. He sang to her, willing her to understand that the words he sang, he sang just for her.
When he finished, she sprang to her feet. “You are amazing! How are you not, like, King of Nashville?”
His fingers picked out another tune. He sang with a joy he hadn’t felt in a long time, fueled by the carefree happiness displayed as his audience spun in circles in the intimate space.
The alarm on Kate’s phone rang. “Time flew, didn’t it? You are amazing. I can’t believe you haven’t won an Oscar or Tony. Which one is for music?”
“A Grammy.” He knew, because he had one. Vegas had good odds on him getting another.
“Yeah. A Grammy. Come on, let’s eat dinner.”
They set the kitchen table with white cloth, real napkins, two red candles, and the good glasses. The sunlight waned as night began to rise, providing a backdrop of cotton ball clouds for the candlelight dinner.
Kate plated the chicken and pasta at the stove and set the two dishes on the pretty table.
Butch opened the bottle of wine and generously wet the glasses. “This is nice.”
“It makes me feel like a grown up, eating off of something you don’t throw away.” Katie accepted her glass. “What should we drink to?”
He raised his glass to the things that brought her to him. “Construction zones, wrong turns, and flat tires.”
She guffawed and raised her glass high. “Your granddad’s sign, a John Deere tractor, and a mud puddle the size of Delaware.”
Glass kissed glass. Lips touched glass while gazes met.
“I hope you’re hungry,” Kate said. “I made enough for you to have leftovers for a few days.”
Butch inspected the green-speckled sea of red on his plate. He poked at the rubbery lump of flesh, wondering how something could be raw and burned at the same time, and stabbed at the pile of mushy pasta with his fork.
Kate sliced the bread that had come from the bakery. “It’s not a field mouse, and you’re not a cat. Stop playing with your food and eat it.”
Butch raised his eyes. “You first, Katie.”
“Chicken.” Kate put the bit of chicken into her mouth. She chewed once, twice, and snapped the napkin from the table to discreetly spit out the wad of macerated flesh.
Butch roared with laughter. “Your specialty, huh?”
Kate rolled her eyes and blushed. “I’m
Butch winced when she took up the salt shaker. “We grew up with music in the house. My mother plays piano, and my father sings. Jeb and I both have played piano and guitar since we were big enough to handle the instruments.”
“I grew up on construction sites. I drove a Bobcat when I was twelve. By sixteen, I was a better backhoe operator than most of the guys on my father’s crew. This has about twenty minutes yet. Will you play a song for me?”
“You want to hear one of my songs?”
She adjusted the temperature on the stove. “Yes. This has to simmer for a little while so we have time.”
Butch winced at the thought of the chicken “blackening” for twenty more minutes as he took her hand and led her upstairs. He sat on the bar stool and lifted his favorite guitar into his lap. Kate crossed her legs and sat tailor fashion in the middle of the floor. She rested her chin on her folded hands and looked up at him with wide, blue eyes.
Butch saw those eyes and forgot his name. He dropped his pick, fumbling it again when she handed it to him. She pulled the band from her ponytail, letting her hair fall around her shoulders like a sinful rain. The guitar slipped from his leg. Good thing the strap around his shoulder caught.
Butch swallowed a lump in his throat and began a sultry ballad accompanied by his acoustic guitar. Kate never looked away. Those amazing eyes focused on him so intently he nearly forgot the words. He sang to her, willing her to understand that the words he sang, he sang just for her.
When he finished, she sprang to her feet. “You are amazing! How are you not, like, King of Nashville?”
His fingers picked out another tune. He sang with a joy he hadn’t felt in a long time, fueled by the carefree happiness displayed as his audience spun in circles in the intimate space.
The alarm on Kate’s phone rang. “Time flew, didn’t it? You are amazing. I can’t believe you haven’t won an Oscar or Tony. Which one is for music?”
“A Grammy.” He knew, because he had one. Vegas had good odds on him getting another.
“Yeah. A Grammy. Come on, let’s eat dinner.”
They set the kitchen table with white cloth, real napkins, two red candles, and the good glasses. The sunlight waned as night began to rise, providing a backdrop of cotton ball clouds for the candlelight dinner.
Kate plated the chicken and pasta at the stove and set the two dishes on the pretty table.
Butch opened the bottle of wine and generously wet the glasses. “This is nice.”
“It makes me feel like a grown up, eating off of something you don’t throw away.” Katie accepted her glass. “What should we drink to?”
He raised his glass to the things that brought her to him. “Construction zones, wrong turns, and flat tires.”
She guffawed and raised her glass high. “Your granddad’s sign, a John Deere tractor, and a mud puddle the size of Delaware.”
Glass kissed glass. Lips touched glass while gazes met.
“I hope you’re hungry,” Kate said. “I made enough for you to have leftovers for a few days.”
Butch inspected the green-speckled sea of red on his plate. He poked at the rubbery lump of flesh, wondering how something could be raw and burned at the same time, and stabbed at the pile of mushy pasta with his fork.
Kate sliced the bread that had come from the bakery. “It’s not a field mouse, and you’re not a cat. Stop playing with your food and eat it.”
Butch raised his eyes. “You first, Katie.”
“Chicken.” Kate put the bit of chicken into her mouth. She chewed once, twice, and snapped the napkin from the table to discreetly spit out the wad of macerated flesh.
Butch roared with laughter. “Your specialty, huh?”
Kate rolled her eyes and blushed. “I’m
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