Limelight (Vino and Veritas)

by E. Davies

  Limelight

  E. Davies

  Copyright © 2021 by E. Davies

  All rights reserved.

  This book was inspired by the True North Series written by Sarina Bowen. It is an original work that is published by Heart Eyes Press LLC.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  1. Tag

  2. Caleb

  3. Caleb

  4. Tag

  5. Caleb

  6. Tag

  7. Caleb

  8. Caleb

  9. Tag

  10. Caleb

  11. Tag

  12. Caleb

  13. Caleb

  14. Tag

  15. Caleb

  16. Tag

  17. Caleb

  18. Tag

  19. Caleb

  20. Tag

  21. Caleb

  22. Tag

  23. Caleb

  24. Tag

  25. Caleb

  26. Tag

  27. Caleb

  28. Tag

  29. Caleb

  30. Caleb

  You Will Also Enjoy…

  1

  Tag

  “Who’s a thirsty little guy? Yeah… me too. That’s life, buddy.”

  I hang up my clipboard and pat the side of the stainless steel fermenter that holds sixty gallons of my newest batch of mead.

  Everyone warned me about moving to the woods of Vermont to start my own business. Well, not so much warned as looked at me like I had six heads. Maybe they were right. Out here on my own, I’m finally going crazy.

  At least the job suits me, though it’s a far cry from my former life. I traded the limelight for a beard and a bunch of beehives, and I make mead from my honey. Running a business is a full-time job and a half, but it’s all my own. Nobody can throw me out or keep me down.

  What I didn’t consider before my wilderness move is the number of eligible men who want to be swept off their feet and carted away in my white pickup truck for a happy-ever-after farming life.

  To be precise, so far that number is zero. I’ll keep hoping for a miracle.

  The skitter of claws and a soft whine from outside make me smile. I’m not completely alone. Queenie, my chocolate Lab, has enough energy for both of us. Great when I’m out hiking, but I feel guilty when she’s ready to hop in the truck and I can’t bring her along.

  “Sorry, girl,” I call out, hoisting a case of mead on each shoulder. “Not tonight.”

  I carefully do the one-two step it requires to keep a huge, curious, overgrown puppy out of the food production area she really shouldn’t be in.

  Today, I manage it. Queenie takes one look at what I’m carrying and spins in a circle, wagging her tail furiously like she hopes that will convince me. Sometimes her cute act works. If it’s gonna be a quick drop-and-go, I’ll bring her and let her sit in the truck.

  But with the nights getting chilly, I don’t want her stuck out there waiting for me… not that I can enjoy a late night. I have to feed the mead again at midnight.

  No point in getting dressed up for an evening off, then. This red plaid shirt and jeans will do fine for a quick delivery. I’m bringing these cases to Vino and Veritas, the local bookstore and wine bar. Here in Burlington, people aren’t pretentious. I won’t have to sneak in the back door… so to speak.

  I drop off the cases in my truck, and then close the door before Queenie can jump in. She puts on her best dejected face as I lead her to the house.

  “I can’t smuggle you in tonight,” I tell her, scratching the top of her head before I push open the door and wait for her to scamper inside first. “You wouldn’t fit in my handbag. Should have thought about that before you grew so much, huh?”

  Queenie’s big even for a Lab. It means I can’t keep food on the counters. She can pretty much barge into any room she chooses, and often does, even when I’m showering. But it takes a forceful personality to be around me. I love her to death. She’s my best girl.

  And right now, butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth as she gazes at me expectantly.

  “Okay, okay,” I laugh, my willpower lasting about two seconds. I open the cupboard, and before I can even grab the jar of dog treats inside, she does her happy dance around my ankles.

  “Sit,” I tell her firmly, biting back my smile and waiting. When she gets her excitement under control enough to put her butt on the ground, I toss her two treats, both of which she snatches out of the air like a champ. “Attagirl. Go take a nap.”

  Queenie can be obedient when she chooses. She skitters across the hardwood floor of the old farmhouse to curl up in her giant, fluffy dog bed in front of the fireplace.

  It’s getting cold enough at night to light the wood stove in the evenings. There’s nothing I love more than sitting in front of it with Queenie sprawled across my lap. Together, we watch the flames and daydream.

  In the last four years, I’ve settled into a seasonal rhythm, and this time of year is the best. I’ve just finished the hard work of prepping the beehives for winter. My only stress is starting new batches. Once the mead is aging, I’ve got a lot more time to myself.

  Not gonna lie, though. The evenings are long when the only soul around speaks in woofs and barks, not English. Once upon a time, in the bright lights of the city, I could have found a friendly face and warm bed any time I chose.

  I don’t miss the attention, but now and then I wonder how my life could have played out differently.

  “Oh, stop moping,” I grumble. I’m no longer Titus Taylor, rock star and media darling set firmly on a rising trajectory to superstardom. It feels so long ago that it might as well have been another life.

  I’m not exactly in hiding, but I haven’t told anyone here who I used to be. I’d rather blend in than step into another spotlight, or worse yet, make people think I’m some big-headed star. That’s not me. Not anymore.

  I’m just Tag now. A guy with a delivery to make and a dog to cuddle later.

  After shrugging on my insulated flannel jacket, I hop in my truck for the quick drive to the town center.

  Parking is easy to find in the side street near Vino and Veritas. After shoving the truck door closed, I hoist both cases of mead bottles into my arms and head for the front door.

  Live music greets me, stopping me in my tracks for a moment. Did I miss a concert? No, wait. Duh. It’s Sunday: open mic night.

  There’s a spotlight on the stage, where a young guy is just finishing a song on his guitar to a round of applause. I duck my head and steer around the crowd. Once I get to the bar, I jerk my chin up in a greeting to the bartender, Murph.

  “Evening, Tag,” he greets me. He’s wearing a black shirt with pink writing and a sparkly necklace, and a charming grin as usual.

  “Going well?” I jerk my head toward the stage.

  “Can’t beat the talent here in Burlington. You still living under a rock?” His teasing is always kind, like he wants to encourage me to get out more, and it makes me smile.

  “Business keeps me busy,” I say, but heat creeps up my cheeks. Guilty as charged. To hide my blush, I quickly look across the room again.

  I might stay for a few minutes. God knows I’ve heard some off-key singing in my life. Done some off-key singing, in the early days. I don’t mind that.

  As long as nobody ropes me into going up to the mic. Thankfully, Vino and Veritas plays more jazz than pop rock music, but someone with a keen ear could recognize me in a flash.

 
I’ve avoided any kind of publicity and moved here under a new name. For the last few years, I’ve stuck to myself and let everyone assume I’m a shy wallflower. Okay, I guess what I’m doing here in Vermont could technically be called hiding out.

  My gaze lands on one particular face in the crowd, and then I can’t look away.

  A guy around my age is standing by the wall, shuffling papers in his hands. He looks like he expects a tiger to jump out of the crowd and swallow him whole.

  He’s cute, though. Really cute. A head full of defined gold curls, thin eyebrows, full lips, a scruffy jawline that could kill a man. He’s dressed up nicely too, in dark slacks and a white shirt that clings to his shoulders, hinting at biceps and pecs that I wouldn’t mind getting up close and personal with.

  My heart skips a beat or three.

  “Who’s up next? Him?”

  Murph follows my gaze. “Yeah. He’s reading poetry, I think.”

  Then someone comes up to the bar and Murph excuses himself, so I nod absently. My gaze is fixed on the poet.

  Is he…?

  No, there’s no point in even wondering if the guy is single and interested in reclusive hermits. He’s gorgeous. He’ll be mobbed by fans.

  I lean on the bar and watch, trying to behave myself and not mentally undress the poor stranger. Apparently it’s been way longer than I realized.

  Tap tap. The guy taps the microphone to make sure it’s live. I wince, but mercifully there’s no feedback. He leans in, his eyes skittering across the room like he doesn’t know where to look. “H-Hi,” he stutters. “I’m Caleb. Uh, I’ll just… um…”

  Caleb almost drops his papers as he fumbles to take the mic out of the stand. I shove my hands in my pockets and fix a supportive smile on my face in case he happens to look my way.

  I know what a difference it makes, seeing smiles instead of folded arms.

  When Caleb has the microphone gripped deathly tight in one hand, he looks at his papers and comes to the same conclusion I already did—he can’t hold it and turn pages.

  “Sorry.” He gulps and shoves the mic back into the stand, raising the papers until they form a shield in front of his chest. At least he doesn’t go totally amateur and raise them so high we can’t see his face.

  Yeah, textbook stage fright. Poor guy.

  “Oh, uh, I should say, I’m reading poetry. My poems. Hope you like them.” His voice is light, musical, and warm despite the taut, breathy stress in it. There’s a faint, stereotypical lisp to his words, too, but he hardly seems conscious of it.

  Just relax. You’ve got this, I urge like I’m coaching Super Bowl players on TV.

  “Okay, um. Here goes…”

  Caleb stares at the paper like he hopes it will save him, and then launches into a poem.

  “Your sheets, a cold rip—rippling mountain…” He gulps for breath, sneaks a panicked look over the page, and his voice turns strangled. “Range,” he continues with determination, like he’s trying to murder someone with his syllables. “Brushed by dawn.”

  Then he stops again, gripping both sides of the stack of paper so tightly I’m afraid he’s going to rip them in two.

  I can’t watch any longer. Caleb looks like he might cry. It’s been years since I’ve felt the dizzying panic of stage fright myself, but seeing his face makes me feel like it was yesterday.

  I’d tear down the stage barehanded to rescue him.

  I step away from the bar and stride through the room, picking my way to the little table at the front of the room. Then I sit and smile up at him.

  Caleb’s eyes go wide as he looks at me like he’s praying for the stage to open up and swallow him whole.

  When I have his gaze, my heart skips another beat, and my fingertips suddenly go all tingly. Like I’m the one in the spotlight, not him. From up here, I can see each gold strand of his curls and the taut line of his mouth.

  I gesture with two fingers to my eyes, then point at myself. Then I wave my finger in a circle and mouth, Start again.

  If he can just look at me and only me, he can get through this.

  My first time in an arena of two thousand people, I played the whole show to a woman who looked kind of like my mom and was obviously there with her daughter. They probably never even knew they got a private concert.

  Caleb blinks several times, but he fixes his gaze on me, nods, and then looks down at the page again. Then he lowers the papers and speaks from memory.

  His voice flows, and the words suddenly spark to life.

  Your sheets, a cold rippling mountain

  range brushed by dawn. Plucked

  from the bed, the peaks overshadow

  your body far below, a winding river,

  still and clear. From the summit

  I look down upon the view again,

  again, nursing parched fingertips.

  One step to water’s edge, but

  how far could I bear to fall?

  Caleb never looks away from me. His eyes sparkle with suddenly lively, even playful energy. Holy shit, I feel like I’m the center of his universe, and I love it.

  Like we’re the only two people in the room, the rest of the world falls away. My smile fades into intense focus. I don’t want to miss a word. I wish I could replay these few seconds over and over later for, uh, reasons.

  I’m not being serenaded, I try to remind myself. For god’s sake, Tag. He’s just looking at me. He’s not talking to me.

  I wish he were. Like a punch in the gut, I feel the yearning in his words. It floats from his voice to my ears and burrows deep into my belly where it’s suddenly mine, too.

  I can barely breathe with it. My throat is tight with loneliness and a bittersweet tang of memory. He caught me on a lonely night, that’s all.

  I swallow down the feelings and bring my palms together. The others watching join in for a few moments in a soft ripple of applause. The murmurs of conversation behind me are low and respectful.

  For the first time, Caleb smiles in a flash of white teeth, youthful exuberance and relief shining from his face. I might as well have been turned to stone. I’m transfixed, completely under his spell.

  One at a time, from memory, he reads the other four poems he brought tonight. They’re pretty, too. Lots of nature references. One quirky poem about numbers. I like the one about an old house, too.

  But they don’t stick in my mind and gut and make a home in me like that first one. My heart is still fluttering at a mile a minute.

  Then it hits me: after he’s done, this guy is probably going to talk to me. He’s going to want to know who I am and how I knew how to deal with stage fright.

  Eventually he might ask questions, and then I’ll have to answer them, and those piercing eyes will stick me to the spot and carve my standoffish mask to pieces.

  And… I don’t hate that idea.

  Oh, no.

  I haven’t felt these butterflies in my stomach about anyone for a good couple of years. Haven’t tried to date anyone in even longer. I usually keep my distance and let the feelings pass.

  But it’s too late for that. Caleb’s on his last sheet of paper, while all rational thought is quickly slipping out of my grasp. Instead, a shimmer of pleasure dances over my skin when he smiles at me.

  I can’t run this time. But I’m going to try—I just know it. Because at the end of the day, that’s who I am.

  2

  Caleb

  My quarter-life crisis showed up a year late.

  Nothing else could explain me coming to Vino and Veritas on open mic night, let alone voluntarily stepping into the spotlight.

  Get me one-on-one and I’m bubbly, but in front of a crowd? Nope. I’m not that guy. I never have been, and now I’m even more sure I never will be. I’m the timid wallflower at yoga class, an office party, or—most of all—a stage.

  The hell was I thinking?

  Thank God for Angel. I don’t know his name, so that’s what I’m calling him in my head—the guy who swooped in fr
om nowhere to save me.

  When I practiced reading my poetry in front of the mirror, there was nobody watching me. But up here, the wave of paralyzing dread just floored me. I was about half a second from running off the stage and never showing my face in Vino and Veritas again.

  But then Angel showed up. With a few simple gestures, he coached me through the fear like it was nothing. I didn’t think it would work, focusing on one person alone, but I was desperate.

  And then… the rest of the room disappeared, and for the past fifteen minutes, nothing has existed except Angel and me. He watches me attentively, his head tilted slightly.

  I can talk to him like an old friend. I just let the words engraved in my head from weeks of lunch break rehearsals flow from my lips.

  But I’m drawing a blank right now, instinctively reaching for more words in my brain and shuffling the papers in my hands.

  I come up blank. That was it. The five I’ve prepared are all over. Time just… vanished. I’m coming to, like waking after a strange accidental nap. The world is watching again.

  I’ve already done my thing. I don’t need to panic now. It’s over. I did it. And I’m still alive!

  Without the words to focus on, I can’t help staring at Angel. He’s gorgeous. I noticed as he walked up to the stage that he’s a little broader and taller than me. His clothes aren’t meant to be form-fitting, yet muscles fill out his plaid shirt sleeves and trouser legs.

  Angel has a close-trimmed beard that obscures his jaw, but his lips are full and pink, and his dark eyes sparkle.

  This is the kind of guy I’ve always fantasized about. Usually while standing against the wall of the bar, torn asunder between two hopes. On the one hand, hoping he doesn’t look—or worse yet, talk to me. On the other, desperately needing him to and inevitably being disappointed when he doesn’t.