Page 2

Chapter 2

The Proposal

Delilah

J ust an hour ago, a green-eyed god of a man dropped my favorite denomination into my little tin bucket, which changed everything. For the past hour, I’ve been singing less Miranda Lambert and more Kelsea Ballerini, knowing that, tonight, I won’t need to deliver someone else’s dinner just to pay for my own. Tonight, I’m bypassing the hustle and heading straight for the Moscato. I’ll choose a bottle that’s a bit pricier than usual, one that won’t bring a hangover or regret for spending money I don’t have.

“ Yeah, boy, I’m loving what you’re doing;

Yeah, boy, I’m trying to play it cool,

But you’re making it difficult;

I’m wishing your arms were holding me tight,

Yeah, boy .”

In the corner booth, a group of younger girls sings along, bringing a smile to my face as I reminisce about that last road trip with Mom and Harlan to Orange Beach on the Gulf Shore. It was our go-to family vacation spot when Mom had a good week with tips, and just one night created everlasting memories.

“Thank you,” I say with a gentle smile into the microphone before turning it off.

I exhale as the audience claps, more forks than hands, but applause is applause. With my throat parched from singing the last few songs, I take a sip from my water bottle.

The crowd begins to thin out. A middle-aged woman, who I suspect is the mother of one of the girls in the corner booth, drops a twenty into the tin bucket and mouths, “Beautiful,” as she heads to the bathroom.

With raw fingers from playing, I stretch them a bit before packing up my recently-new-to-me guitar in Mom’s worn-out case. That’s when the most adorable little girl with dark hair and eyes, wearing pink cowgirl boots and a matching tutu, along with a black and pink flannel shirt over a vintage Journey tee, comes over and drops a twenty into my can.

“Oh my goodness. Thank you, sweetheart.”

“I not sweetheart.” She points to her shirt. “I this.”

“You’re this?” I ask, trying to understand since I’m not fluent in kid-speak.

“I’s Journey.”

“Your name is Journey?” I say, sitting back on my heels to focus on her.

“I’s Journey, and brother is Lennon.”

“Wow, those are really great names.”

“We great, too.”

“I can see that.”

She peers into the can. “You gots lots of money.”

“I did well today.” I chuckle in agreement.

“You Delala. My mommy wants you to be ours.”

“Oh … yeah?”

“And my Daddy, too.”

I look up and glance around, and that’s when I spot Sutton and Patrick, aka Tricks Steele, who I have only ever seen on the internet. Let me just say, no Photoshop or any of those countless filters could improve on the work God did with them. Their children, too.

“If you got extra minutes when you’re all done, come to have a cup of milk with us?”

“Hmm, let me think about it. Is there chocolate milk?” I ask with a grin.

She nods in confirmation.

“In that case, I think I can spare some time.”

Beaming, she extends her hand. “Here’s my card. I’ll be waiting with thems.”

I’m genuinely surprised and pleased that they traveled all this way to meet me, even though I haven’t agreed to sign with them yet. I promised myself never to sign with anyone who gave me even the slightest bad vibe, and they certainly haven’t. In fact, they seem even better now.

Honestly, I respect what they represent so much that I don’t want to tarnish them with my past. I want to shield them from it.

Once I’ve packed up, I sling my guitar over my shoulder, pocket the cash from the tin can, and then Dotty, the manager of Strings hers was always to make a difference in a bigger way—my words, not hers. As I think about who is sitting in a corner booth, waiting for me at this moment, I feel optimistic that I can help her achieve her dream more easily than I’ve been able to achieve mine.

Me:

When I’m on the road, singing just sold-out stadiums, you’ll be going to Vandy Law and living in our house and pet sitting our fur family. Until then, get your nails done or splurge on copious amounts of takeout. I gotta run. I love you, Wynonna.

Harlan:

I can’t tell you how good it is to hear you—even in text—admit you are an amazing singer and you’re going to top charts, because that’s what you were meant to do. I love you all the way around the moon, Naomi.

The bathroom door clicks shut behind me, and I exhale as I head toward the sound of my replacement mangling Mom’s favorite band, Fleetwood Mac. I adjust my jacket, run a hand through my two-day-old blowout, and step into the restaurant. I pause for a moment to take in the scene.

Patrick, aka Tricks, is built like he spends just enough time at the gym to make you take notice—broad shoulders, effortless posture. He has dark, thick wavy hair that probably requires expensive shampoo and God’s personal blessing. His skin is sun-warmed olive, smile confident.

“Ayyy, there she is!” he calls out as if we’re long-time friends rather than complete strangers. As I approach, he lowers his outstretched arms, offering one hand for a handshake. “My wife told me you were amazing. She showed me your videos, and I agree, but you’re even better in person.”

Taken aback by the slight Jersey accent as I shake his hand, I blink hard. Once. Twice.

Sutton Steele slides out of the booth, all golden-bronze skin that shimmers even in this shitty lighting. Her cheekbones look hand-carved in marble. Full lips, painted in that crimson red that only someone as attractive as she could wear. Her eyes? Deep brown and bright, like warm espresso. Her thick, black hair is parted sharply down the middle, and her thick black hair hangs loose and dramatic over one shoulder. A single gold hoop through her nose shimmers. Stunning and strong, regardless of how small she looks next to her husband, she emanates power.

Sutton nods toward her husband. “He’s a lot.”

He throws his head back in laughter.

The boy slides out. “I only like Uncle Brand’s country,” he pauses before adding, “before now.”

The boy—Lennon—is a mini version of his dad, down to the high-top black Chucks and intensity. But he is the quiet kind. I’m not sure if he’s about to produce an indie album or throw a tantrum. Hard to say. He nods at me once before sliding back into the booth and going back to his pasta.

“Means he likes you, too.” Journey grins and pushes up on her knees.

“Hope you don’t mind us showing up unannounced with our little chaos gremlins, but Sutton and I want you to get a real feel for who we are.”

“You might as well scream, pick me .” Sutton elbows him.

“If that’s what it takes to stand out from the others.” He winks at her.

I should probably mention I only just started singing again after Sutton reached out to me on social media a month ago.

Instead, I just say, “Okay.”

Patrick waves his hand out for me to sit.

“No, Daddy, by meeeee,” Journey insists.

“All right, crew”—Sutton shakes her head—“we’ll have her running for the hills if we don’t find some chill.”

Patrick laughs again. “This is chill compared to what she’s gonna get with Dad.”

Journey and Lennon both giggle, and Journey gives me two thumbs-up. “Poppa X is awesome.”

Sutton leans back, shaking her head, then leans forward and smiles. “You know things get a little crazy—hectic at times—but you won’t be alone in this at all.”

“Let’s eat before we get too deep into it, yeah?” Patrick motions for me to sit beside Journey, and I do just that.

“Daddy said you’s gonna big as Taylor.” Journey stretches her arms out just wide enough, so she doesn’t hit her mother or me.

Lennon mumbles around a bite of his burger, “Gonna sing at the game.”

I look at him, a bit confused, because—I repeat—I’m not fluent in kid talk.

Laughing, Patrick tickles him. “Should have left you in Jersey.”

“Then I’d see the Jags. They’re way better.”

Sutton looks at me. “So, you busy Monday?”

I blink. “Um … I have to work my day job. Why?”

“You off by five?” Patrick asks.

I manage to crock out, “Three.”

“Good, because, at seven, you’re gonna be standing at home base at Revolutionary Park for the Jags first home game against the Terrors, holding a mic and singing the national anthem in front of”—he pauses and looks around—“a few more people than you sang for here today.”

I laugh. Actually, laugh. Like, for real , head thrown back, knowing he has to be joking.

When I realize he’s not, I ask, “Wait— what? ”

He smiles as he reaches in his pocket and pulls out a laminated pass, the kind with holographic sparkles, the kind that reads “ PERFORMER .”

“This isn’t contingent on signing with us, but we will be there, supporting and cheering you?—”

“I’m in,” I force out, going against the grain, so to speak. “But you have to know people don’t really like me?—”

Journey takes my hand, stopping me, and sweetly says, “People sometimes assholes. We not?—”

“Patrick,” Sutton gasps as he sits there, shoulders shaking, looking down, palm to face.

“Can’t say ass, only hole till you get big like Dad,” Lennon tells his sister, but he does it with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Heathens, every one of you.” Sutton points at them individually as she slides out of the booth. “Come take a walk with me?”

It’s pretty chilly outside during early spring in Nashville, so the outdoor seating area is empty except for a few people taking a smoke break. Sutton sits at a corner table, the one farthest away from everyone, and pats the seat beside her … just like Journey did.

“How overwhelmed are you?” she asks sincerely.

“Honestly?” I ask, and she nods. “I’ve just accepted an offer to sing in front of a packed stadium, and a lot of them probably still don’t like me all that much.” She starts to open her mouth, but I interrupt. “I should be asking you that question. Those two are adorable, but oh boy, you’re going to have your hands full.”

“Thankfully, Patrick and my father-in-law”—she laughs softly—“well, the entire family—is high energy. They took two, two-hour naps and slept a solid nine hours until they hit three. Now we do whatever we can to keep them awake in the car so they go to bed on time, so we can, too.”

My father died in combat when I was three. Sadly, there is little I remember about my time with him, except the way he loved Mom and me. I am sure it’s because of pictures and not an actual memory, but it’s undeniable.

My stepfather was a druggie piece of shit. The only thing he was good for was getting Mom pregnant. I don’t know what I would do without Harlan.

Mom became everything—provider, protector, the one who stood between me and a world that was too loud, too hard, and too unfair for a little kid who didn’t understand why she didn’t have a dad. She worked too many hours for not enough money, always too tired, always trying. And God, she tried.

Sutton clears her throat, and I swing my gaze back to her. “You still with me?”

I nod.

“Good, because this part is a little unexpected, but it will take all those worries about what people think of you and drop a match on it.”

I laugh. “What kind of magic are you wielding?”

“Damien Donovan.”

The name sounds familiar, but … I shake my head.

She looks a little shocked that I don’t recognize the name.

“He’s a friend’s client and has some endorsement deals that want him to be less”—she pauses for a few seconds, maybe thinking of how to word whatever she wants to say—“single.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being single until you find the right person.” I laugh and nod toward the window where her kids have their noses stuck to the glass. They are not alone—so is her husband, and he’s crossing his eyes.

“ Three kids, Delilah.” She sighs exaggeratedly. “Not two—three.” She stands. “If I can handle this crew, I know you can handle a few fake dates with a tall, dark, and handsome pro athlete, yeah?”

Without thought, I answer, “Yeah.”