Chapter 39

CHAPTER

THIRTY-NINE

H arry raised his hand when the waiter said, “Ribeye, medium rare, no onions,” and the man put his food in front of him.

He had to admit that this leg of the tour in Jackson felt more like what he’d done for the past two albums. Living out of hotel rooms, eating at restaurants with the band and crew after every show, laughing, smiling, making friends and bonds and memories.

“Crispy chicken sandwich,” the waiter said next, and Belle raised her hand.

Harry grinned over at her plate of food because, in this high-end restaurant, their meal for tonight looked amazing.

“That looks good,” Harry said, taking in the golden, crispy onion rings. Belle loved onion rings.

“Sure does,” she said. She leaned closer and hugged his bicep. “Can I have some of your French fries? ”

She’d ordered onion rings with the expectation that they could split and share, so he’d get half fries, and she’d get half onion rings.

“Sure thing,” he said, and he pushed his plate a little closer to hers.

She only had two more shows with him in Jackson, and then they’d go back to Coral Canyon for the last month of the tour. She’d been getting daily solicitations from managers, talent scouts, agents, and record producers in Nashville since the first show had aired a few weeks ago. She told him about all of them. Every. Single. One.

Harry had listened to her read every email, all the excitement in Belle’s voice, and he tried to be the best supportive boyfriend he could. But deep down, Harry did not want her to go to Nashville. In fact, late at night, after he finally finished everything for the day, in the deepest, darkest part of the evening, fear crept in—fear that she would leave Coral Canyon, fear that he was not a strong enough force hold to keep her there, fear that, once again, the timing of their relationship wasn’t right.

Harry pushed hard against that fear as it crowded into his throat right there at the dinner table. The clanking of silverware against plates, his friends talking, and all the delicious scents of the food couldn’t drive away the fact that the country music industry hadn’t been ready for Belle ten years ago, but they certainly were now.

She had told him a couple of times that it sure was nice to have her talent recognized. And while she hadn’t been seeing a counselor since the tour started, Harry had seen her come alive on the stage in a way she hadn’t been before.

Some people were simply meant to perform. His dad, Uncle Tex, Uncle Luke, Uncle Otis, Bryce—they all had talent and charm and charisma in spades, and Belle did too. They bantered back and forth for a few minutes before they played her song. The script was long gone because, while she looked like a frightened field mouse in the very moment before she stepped on stage, the second her foot hit those planks, she switched on.

She was still his Belle. He could still see her there, all the very best parts of her on display for everyone else to see too.

“You’re not eating,” she said, and he jolted a little bit because he’d once again lost himself in his thoughts—his worrisome thoughts about losing Belle before he’d really had a chance to have her—because he loved laying on the couch with her.

And since they’d been in Jackson, he got to hold her in a bed, and he could admit that he’d spoiled himself, and he’d started thinking of them as husband and wife laying in their own bed in his house in Coral Canyon. It was quiet and slow, and everything that Harry needed in his life after eight years in the country music industry.

But Belle had had that quiet and slow life during those eight years. As he dipped his head and gave her the best smile he could, which wasn’t a smile at all, he prayed, Please, dear Lord, please don’t let me lose her. Please don’t take her from me. Please, please, please .

“Yeah, just admiring my steak,” he said. “They got a perfect sear on this thing.”

“It’s incredible,” Jordy, his bassist, said from down the table. “Man, Wyoming’s the place to come if you want a good steak.”

Harry grinned at him and cut off one of the perfectly browned, crispy corners of his steak. “You want some, sweetheart?”

Belle was a food sharer, which Harry didn’t mind at all, and she did take a couple of pieces of his steak and sample two of the steak sauces that had been brought out.

“I don’t like that raspberry one,” she said. “Too sweet.” She wiped her mouth with her napkin, and Harry grinned at her.

“I think that beet soup got you all confused,” he said. “This sauce is not sweet.” He swiped his steak through it because the saltiness and richness of the meat cut through the sweetness of the raspberry steak sauce perfectly. “It’s incredible.” He put the bite in his mouth and groaned in an over-exaggerated way.

Belle laughed, and some of Harry’s fears faded into the night.

He always took Belle back to her room at the end of the night, and they stayed there for a little while together, shrinking the world, calming the noise, and talking intimately. It was his favorite part of Jackson Hole, and one he wanted permanently in his life. Tonight, as he kicked his boots off and climbed on her bed, he said, “I love listening to you laugh, sweetheart. ”

She grinned at him and flopped down on the bed next to him, her arm sliding across his waist to his back. “This tour has been way more fun than I thought it would be.”

“Yeah?” He brushed her hair back, enjoying the silky, soft quality of it. “You thought you wouldn’t like it?”

“I thought I’d hate it,” she admitted.

“Your opinion of country music has changed,” he said, and it wasn’t a question.

“Yeah, you could say that.”

Oh, he’d said it all right. “How many emails did you get today?” he asked.

“Just two,” she said with a sigh.

“Phone calls?”

“Only one of those.”

Frustration frothed in Harry’s veins. She told him about the emails and calls, and she’d even gotten some direct messages on social media as hers had blown up with every additional concert where she performed.

She didn’t have a professional account for her songwriting or her music, but simply a personal username that people had tracked down. And she’d never, ever told him what she was going to do with all the emails, the solicitations, the phone calls.

And he had to know.

“Can we talk about something serious?” he asked.

“We can talk about anything you want.”

“I need to know what you’re thinking about….” He paused for a minute, because he wasn’t sure what to put in the blank. Country music? Nashville? Songwriting ?

“—about the emails and phone calls,” he said. “Are you…going to answer any of them? And what are you going to say?

“I suppose I should answer them, shouldn’t I?” she asked in a quiet, serious voice.

The Belle he’d first met, the one who had called concerned when she’d seen the video of him falling on the baggage carousel, the one who took a few minutes to warm up on their video dates, the one who told him she was going to go undercover, emerged in his mind. She was the same—she was still her, despite the interest from Nashville.

“I mean, you should probably answer them, yes,” he said. “And that’s what I want to know too. I want to know what the answer is to their questions, their interest.”

Belle threaded her fingers through one of his belt loops on his side. “I know what the answer is.” She cleared her throat and settled further into his arms. “Sort of.”

“Sort of?”

“I don’t want to be what you are, Harry.”

Relief like he’d never know flowed through him, but he sensed a really big “but” in there.

“I can’t command a stage for two hours,” she said. “I do okay for seven minutes, and I love singing and playing with you.”

“I really like it too,” he said.

“Do you know how many songs I’ve written since I moved to Coral Canyon?” she asked.

“Oh,” he said with a slight chuckle. “Someone’s been holding out on me.”

She giggled into his chest and said, “I’ve told you. ”

“No, Miss Belle, you have not told me that you’ve been writing songs,” he said. “Not a single word of that has met my ears.”

Belle giggled again, the sound sweet and pure and tapering quickly. “Four,” she said. “I’ve written four songs in less than two months. I didn’t even do that when I was in Nashville. It’s just like the words are there, the inspiration is there. It’s like Coral Canyon has this magic conduit that my creativity has tapped into.”

“It’s a pretty special place,” he said, pushing her hair back and running his fingers along the top of her ear and down her neck.

“So I want to tell all the music producers that, no, I’m not going to come to Nashville and be a country music artist, but I want their connections,” she said. “They’re the people that we’re going to be selling songs to, and I don’t want to rely on you to sell my songs.”

“You’re not using me, baby,” he said, something she’d been very concerned about.

“So I’ve been toying with emailing them back,” she said. “And letting them know that I write all my own music, and I’m happy to talk to them about that music and maybe suggesting artists that would be good fit for it, but that I don’t actually want to be an artist myself.” She lifted her head, and Harry met her eyes. “Is that a good idea?”

“I think it’s a brilliant idea,” he said. “There’s nothing wrong with networking, and they’re coming to you .”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” She smiled at him, but it didn’t stay long and it didn’t reach her eyes .

Those held nothing but worry and anxiety, and he cradled her face in his hand and said, “Tell me what else is bothering you.”

“I think it’s just the enormity of this,” she said. “You’ve been living it for a while, so I think you’re more used to it. But every day I feel like I wake up in a dream. It’s not my life; it’s someone else’s.”

“All that matters,” Harry said. “Is that it’s a life you want to live. So I guess that’s the question that you have to answer: Is the life you’re living right now the one you want to keep living?”

Harry really wanted her to say yes or something like, Only if we get married, Harry , and then kiss him. She didn’t do either, but her eyes stayed round as moons, wide and worried, and she didn’t say anything, which only sent Harry’s round of anxiety and adrenaline to that deep, dark place where all of his hidden fears lived.