failed to raise her eyes
from the notebook. “I didn’t know you were there.”
“You don’t have to stop on my account,” he said quietly. “That
was real pretty, ma’am.”
“It’s mediocre at best,” she said, still not brave enough to
venture a look at him in case he was in a state of undress.
“Mediocre? Anyone who sings like you doesn’t come close to
mediocrity.” He sat down beside her on the tiny bed, leaned forward and rested
his elbows on his knees, his hands laced together. “And about earlier today, I
didn’t mean anything by what I said about you trying to be discovered. I was
kidding. Bud told me you had a sense of humor.”
“I do. Most of the time.” She ventured a glance and a weak
smile. He was already dressed in a navy blue neatly pressed shirt and blue
jeans, his trademark black hat resting brim-up between them. “I’m a little
touchy when it comes to music. Sorry I jumped down your throat.”
“You’re not the first and you won’t be the last.” He pointed to
the binder. “Are those songs?”
“Yeah. My decrepit book of dreams.”
Brett smiled so gently it took her aback. “When I have a
chance, will you let me look at those?”
“Take my word for it, you aren’t missing anything.”
“Why don’t you let me decide?”
She studied the front of the binder to avoid his scrutiny. Then
he touched her.
It was no more significant than a lift of her chin so she would
again meet his eyes. But when he dropped his fingertips, the area tingled with
the memory of that simple gesture.
“I don’t know why, but for some reason you don’t understand
your talent,” Brett said. “Now, it’s not my place to say what you should or
shouldn’t do, but I’d continue to work real hard on that last song. It’s got hit written all over it.”
Cammie looked at him with doubt, just a bit afraid of her
sudden awareness of him, every little nuance, including his aftershave. “You
don’t have to humor me, Brett.”
He grinned, exposing perfect white teeth. “That’s the first
time you’ve called me by my name, Cammie. And now that we’ve been properly
introduced, I’ll go to work.” He pushed off the bed, put on the hat and adjusted
it low on his brow. “You’ll still be here when I get back?”
An odd question. “Of course. Nothing better to do.”
“I don’t know. A girl as pretty as you just might run off with
one of my fellow performers. Mark Jensen’s bus is parked on the other side of
the band’s.”
Cammie’s heart grew stone cold at the mention of his name. Bud
had warned her this would happen, but she needed more time to prepare, to gather
some courage. If she was lucky, they’d leave before Mark realized she was
there.
“Really?” Her voice sounded hoarse and tentative.
Brett frowned. “You okay, Cammie?”
“I’m fine.”
He walked toward the door and paused to face her again. “Are
you sure? You look a little rattled. But I guess Mark Jensen’s been known to
have that effect on the ladies.”
Talk about the pot calling the kettle black. If he only knew
what she really thought of Mark Jensen. “You’re going to be late, Mr. Taylor. If
you don’t leave, there might be some rumors started about us.”
“I can think of worse things than that.” He smiled and tipped
his hat.
So could Cammie—turning the rumors into reality.
A sudden image of Brett kissing her played out in her mind. How
foolish to imagine something so absurd. He wouldn’t be interested in a woman who
drove buses and had reached a total stalemate in her life. And she wouldn’t be
interested in a singer who had women falling all over him every day of the
week.
She’d already had enough bad experiences with one talent too
many. It would take a lot more than a little innuendo from a certified living
legend to lead her to believe Brett Taylor would be any different.
* * *
“ D ON ’ T LOOK NOW , but here comes trouble.”
In response to Pat’s comment, Brett glanced
from the notebook. “I didn’t know you were there.”
“You don’t have to stop on my account,” he said quietly. “That
was real pretty, ma’am.”
“It’s mediocre at best,” she said, still not brave enough to
venture a look at him in case he was in a state of undress.
“Mediocre? Anyone who sings like you doesn’t come close to
mediocrity.” He sat down beside her on the tiny bed, leaned forward and rested
his elbows on his knees, his hands laced together. “And about earlier today, I
didn’t mean anything by what I said about you trying to be discovered. I was
kidding. Bud told me you had a sense of humor.”
“I do. Most of the time.” She ventured a glance and a weak
smile. He was already dressed in a navy blue neatly pressed shirt and blue
jeans, his trademark black hat resting brim-up between them. “I’m a little
touchy when it comes to music. Sorry I jumped down your throat.”
“You’re not the first and you won’t be the last.” He pointed to
the binder. “Are those songs?”
“Yeah. My decrepit book of dreams.”
Brett smiled so gently it took her aback. “When I have a
chance, will you let me look at those?”
“Take my word for it, you aren’t missing anything.”
“Why don’t you let me decide?”
She studied the front of the binder to avoid his scrutiny. Then
he touched her.
It was no more significant than a lift of her chin so she would
again meet his eyes. But when he dropped his fingertips, the area tingled with
the memory of that simple gesture.
“I don’t know why, but for some reason you don’t understand
your talent,” Brett said. “Now, it’s not my place to say what you should or
shouldn’t do, but I’d continue to work real hard on that last song. It’s got hit written all over it.”
Cammie looked at him with doubt, just a bit afraid of her
sudden awareness of him, every little nuance, including his aftershave. “You
don’t have to humor me, Brett.”
He grinned, exposing perfect white teeth. “That’s the first
time you’ve called me by my name, Cammie. And now that we’ve been properly
introduced, I’ll go to work.” He pushed off the bed, put on the hat and adjusted
it low on his brow. “You’ll still be here when I get back?”
An odd question. “Of course. Nothing better to do.”
“I don’t know. A girl as pretty as you just might run off with
one of my fellow performers. Mark Jensen’s bus is parked on the other side of
the band’s.”
Cammie’s heart grew stone cold at the mention of his name. Bud
had warned her this would happen, but she needed more time to prepare, to gather
some courage. If she was lucky, they’d leave before Mark realized she was
there.
“Really?” Her voice sounded hoarse and tentative.
Brett frowned. “You okay, Cammie?”
“I’m fine.”
He walked toward the door and paused to face her again. “Are
you sure? You look a little rattled. But I guess Mark Jensen’s been known to
have that effect on the ladies.”
Talk about the pot calling the kettle black. If he only knew
what she really thought of Mark Jensen. “You’re going to be late, Mr. Taylor. If
you don’t leave, there might be some rumors started about us.”
“I can think of worse things than that.” He smiled and tipped
his hat.
So could Cammie—turning the rumors into reality.
A sudden image of Brett kissing her played out in her mind. How
foolish to imagine something so absurd. He wouldn’t be interested in a woman who
drove buses and had reached a total stalemate in her life. And she wouldn’t be
interested in a singer who had women falling all over him every day of the
week.
She’d already had enough bad experiences with one talent too
many. It would take a lot more than a little innuendo from a certified living
legend to lead her to believe Brett Taylor would be any different.
* * *
“ D ON ’ T LOOK NOW , but here comes trouble.”
In response to Pat’s comment, Brett glanced
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