Nashville Boxed Set #1-3

by Bethany Michaels

  Dillon whistled, feeling lighter and cheerier than he had in quite a while.

  Becca tiptoed into the room just then and he flashed her a smile. She didn’t return it.

  “Hey,” she said, not quite meeting his eyes.

  “Hey. Prepare yourself for the best pot roast you’ve ever tasted. It’s a Phillips family tradition.”

  She gave him a weak smile. “I’m not feeling so well, Dillon. I think I might be coming down with something.” She sniffled slightly but he could tell it was fake. “You know, all the rain and cold.” She shook her head. “I think I’m just going to head to bed and try to get a good night’s sleep to kick this thing.” She eyed the pot roast with regret. “Rain check?”

  Disappointment doused any desire he had felt moments before. For the first time in their friendship, she was ditching him. And fibbing about the reason. But Dillon knew pressing her would only make her more skittish. Clearly, she was as affected by the bathroom thing as he was, but instead of considering the possibility of their relationship moving to a deeper level, she was slamming the door before it even really opened.

  Dillon put on a sympathetic smile anyway. “Sure. No problem. Hope you feel better.”

  “Thanks,” she said, still not meeting his eyes. She shuffled out of the kitchen like a woman with the weight of the world on her shoulders and Dillon heard her bedroom door close softly.

  He sat down at the table and looked at the empty chair across from him as he ate. At least Becca wasn’t indifferent to what had happened. Her strong reaction proved that. So he’d just have to wait and see what she did next. Prove to her in small ways that this thing might work if she’d just give it a chance.

  Becca was strong-willed and stubborn. But Dillon was even more so when it was something he really, really wanted. And he wanted Becca.

  Chapter Five

  Since the night of the bathroom incident, I had managed to avoid Dillon. I knew it was an immature and shitty thing to do especially since I knew he was dying to talk about it. But I couldn’t help it. It was weird. He was my roommate and a hook-up with someone you live with was out of the question.

  What if we had sex and it sucked? How would we go on from that? I’d lose a friend and those were pretty rare in this town. No, we were better off staying just friends and I hoped if we got a little distance between us, maybe things would magically get back to normal.

  I was wrong. No matter how many late nights I spent at the studio, or things I came up with to keep me out of the house on nights I knew Dillon was home, it didn’t help. The times we did see each other in passing were just that more awkward. The tension was crazy high and I wondered from time to time how this would eventually all blow up in my face. It was inevitable. Only a matter of time.

  I wanted to ditch on the charity ball, too, but I knew Syd would have a fit. Besides, she’d bought the gown for me and I had a sneaking suspicion that the fancy little boutique it came from didn’t do returns.

  I was stuck.

  Dillon mentioned it one morning in passing, with a look in his eye that said he wouldn’t be at all surprised if I came up with some lame excuse as to why I couldn’t go and I felt guilty. But I assured him I was still in and the look of happiness and relief written across his handsome features was enough to send my stomach into more cramps.

  Despite my efforts to hold back time, the night of the party arrived. I got dressed and did my hair in a simple upsweep with curling tendrils hanging down to caress my cheeks. I’d found the perfect shade of red lipstick and borrowed a pair of diamond studs from Sydney. I found my shoes on clearance at Macy’s, because I really didn’t see how anyone could tell a pair of fifty-dollar silver slingbacks from a department store from a five-thousand-dollar pair of slingbacks from a designer boutique. Especially since my gown covered all but the tips.

  Dillon had to work late and I didn’t have a car, so I grabbed a cab to the shindig, all nerves and trepidation about the evening. Dillon was going to meet me there once he grabbed a shower and changed into his tux. That was fine by me. I didn’t want to chance an awkward conversation in the car on the way over.

  I planned to not find myself alone with him at the ball. Syd would be there, and Dex, and as juvenile as it sounded, there were always the group trips to the bathroom that mystified and intimidated any man. Plenty of distractions. Denial and avoidance had been my friends for almost thirty years and I was counting on them to get me through one more evening.

  At my direction, the cabbie dropped me off at a side entrance to the Opryland’s Convention Center. I was way out of my element already and not at all steady on my new heels. There was no way I was going to walk the red carpet leading to the main entrance, trip, and find myself going head over ass in some photographer’s shot of the gala.

  The convention center is kind of a maze inside, but I eventually found my way to the ballroom, presented my engraved invitation, and stepped inside.

  The room seemed to stretch forever. Half the room was studded with hundreds of round tables draped in white linen, crystal and silver. Tiny topiaries decorated with miniature white lights and silver bells stood at the center of each table, simple but elegant. The other half of the room was laid with a highly polished wood floor for dancing.

  At the far end of the room, the stage had been decorated with elaborate Christmas greenery and red velvet ribbon. An orchestra warmed up on stage and I swear the acoustics of the room rivaled any of the studios I’d recorded in. Sparkling chandeliers hung at regular intervals throughout the room, radiating amber light that gave the whole room a soft, intimate glow.

  I looked around but didn’t see Sydney and Dex, so I decided to hang out by the door and wait for Dillon. After a few minutes, people began to arrive. I was glad I hadn’t gone the unwanted prom dress route because the gowns that walked through the arching doorway would have made anything less than what I wore look like dust rags.

  Some of the faces I recognized from CMT and People magazine. Other guests whom I didn’t recognize sparkled just as brightly and I guessed they must be the executives and label presidents. I wondered idly if any of my demos had ever reached their desks.

  Soon the room was full and waiters in crisp white shirts and black bowties circulated with silver trays bearing gifts in the form of fancy cheese and hors d'oeuvres. I looked around but there were so many people, I really had no hope of finding Sydney and Dex unless I let out a wolf whistle. Conversation filled the room with a low murmur and the orchestra began to play soft background music.

  I was getting warm and the more I looked around at all the opulence, the money, the class of the people around me, the more I started to freak out. Why had I agreed to come? I didn’t belong here. If I ducked out, would Syd ever know? Doubtful. Too many people.

  At the rear of the room I noticed a bank of French doors leading to the outside. I headed that way, thinking I would get a little air, then if I still felt like ditching the party, I’d head out the way I came in and take a cab home.

  I walked towards the doors and slipped onto a beautiful little balcony decked out with greenery and more of the white twinkling lights. In the distance, the lights of the city glittered in red, yellow, and white. The air was chilly, but not too cold. It felt good after the heat of the ballroom and my near panic attack.

  “There’s my Cinderella,”

  Recognizing Dillon’s voice, I turned, a smart-ass reply dying on my lips when I saw him.

  He wore a tux like just about every other man in the room, but none of them took my breath away like Dillon did. The cut of the tux fit his long, lean form perfectly. His snowy white shirt and black bowtie capped off the look. His hair was combed neatly and it looked like he’d found time to squeeze in a trim, too.

  “Wow, you look great,” I managed to get out after the initial shock passed. Of course, as good as he looked in a tux, I knew firsthand that he looked even better out of it.

  Dillon was eyeing me like the last shrimp roll in Vegas, too
. “And you…you’re…wow.” He took my hands and held them out away from my body to get a better look at my gown. “Nice dress.”

  “This old thing?” I said and laughed nervously.

  “Seriously, Becca. You look fabulous.” He looked around the deserted balcony. “What are you doing out here? The free alcohol is inside.” The corners of his mouth turned up.

  “It got a little stuffy in there,” I said, still unable to take my eyes off Dillon. I never really got why some girls thought guys in formal wear were so hot. My idea of hot was a cowboy with cut abs and a few interesting scars, wearing a beat-up pair of Wranglers and a black Stetson. But seeing Dillon decked out, yeah. I suddenly got it. Hot. Very hot.

  “Well, do you want to go back in? Maybe snag some champagne and a bite to eat? I’m starved.”

  “Sure.”

  Dillon extended his elbow and I looped my arm through his with a snort.

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” I said as we reentered the glittering ballroom. “Just having a Disney moment.”

  “What?”

  “You know, feeling like a princess in a beautiful gown on the arm of Prince Charming or something.”

  Dillon smiled and led us to an empty space at the edge of the crowd. He grabbed a couple of glasses of pink champagne from the tray of a passing waiter and handed me one.

  “To magical nights,” he said, holding his glass up in a toast.

  “And not stepping on anyone’s dress,” I replied, clinking glasses with Dillon.

  I sipped from the glass. It was bubbly and sweet and went down easy. I would need a few more to get through the night. I still felt out of place but Dillon looked like he’d done this kind of thing a million times and was perfectly at ease.

  “This sort of reminds me of a giant prom,” Dillon said, twisting the delicate stem of his flute so that it caught the light. “Everybody dressed to the nines, the girls all trying to outdo each other with their dresses and fancy shoes.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” I said. “I didn’t do the prom.”

  “You didn’t go to your senior prom? A hundred male hearts must have been broken to bits.”

  “Yeah, well, I thought the prom was for stuck-up preppie kids and I wanted no part of it.”

  “What did you do instead?”

  “Got drunk and got lucky in the back of a brand-new 1993 Cavalier.”

  Dillon smiled. “So you did have the typical prom night experience.”

  “Without the fancy dress. Or a band.” I finished off my drink and licked the sweetness off my lips. “How about you? Get lucky on prom night?”

  Just then, Sydney took the stage, to welcome everybody to the gala.

  “Saved by the bell,” Dillon whispered and I elbowed him lightly in the ribs.

  Sydney looked so regal up on stage, so right. With Dex standing beside her, looking at her like she was the only woman on the face of the Earth, she glowed. For about half a second, I was a little jealous of what she’d found: love, romance, and a guy who would do anything for her. Then I remembered the singular talent of the women in my family to fall in love with the asshole out of any crowd and I wasn’t jealous anymore.

  It was time for dinner, so Dillon and I made our way to the front of the room, where Sydney had saved us a spot at their table.

  Dillon pulled out my chair for me, and I barely kept from laughing at the old-fashioned gesture. He winked and scooted me in once I was seated.

  Dillon settled in beside me and Sydney introduced the other three couples at the table. I didn’t know any of them, but was impressed anyway: The president of Dillon’s label and his much younger wife; Lieutenant Governor Millbury and his wife, who wore a diamond as big as some of the dust bunnies behind my fridge; and the head of the Nashville homeless shelter the proceeds from the evening were going to, and her husband.

  There was a lot of small talk throughout the meal, mostly directed towards Dex about his new album. Dillon was charming and funny and seemed to be having a good time. I, on the other hand, could barely force a bite down, so afraid something would fly off my fork or out of my mouth when I began to choke or laugh or be sick. I mostly stuck to one-word answers and a lot of nodding and smiling.

  Having Dillon beside me was comforting, though. He slid me an extra napkin when I needed it and explained in discreet whispers what I was eating and which fork to use. About halfway through the meal, when my anxiety was in full force, he rested a warm hand on my thigh and squeezed gently. It wasn’t a come-on thing, just a little squeeze to let me know he was there and knew I was freaking out.

  I turned to him and smiled my thanks. I really couldn’t ask for a better friend or a person more in tune with my moods and needs. I was glad we’d decided to do this thing together.

  He returned my smile and winked at me and warmth spread through me. I told myself it had to be the champagne.

  Finally, dessert was served and I breathed a sigh of relief. But then the lieutenant governor’s wife, who was seated across from me, looked at Dillon and me with the hint of a smile on her surgically enhanced lips.

  “How long have you two young people been together?” she asked.

  I looked at Dillon and grinned. That was funny. Us. A couple.

  “Oh, we’re just friends,” I said, still looking at Dillon out of the corner of my eye. We’d no doubt have a good laugh about this one later.

  Mrs. Millbury looked confused, her gray brows drawing together. She looked from Dillon to me and back again. “I’ve been watching you two all evening, thinking what a nice couple you make. So attentive to one another, so affectionate in small ways. I was sure you were newlyweds or at least engaged.”

  I glanced over at Dillon, sure he was about to bust a gut, too. But to my amazement, he was perfectly serious. There was a flush to his cheeks and a set to his jaw I hadn’t seen before.

  “No, ma’am. Just friends.”

  He turned to me and smiled, but it was an awkward smile and he slid his hand off my thigh.

  “Oh,” she said, clearly disappointed. “You really do make a striking couple.”

  Sydney, bless her heart, steered the conversation to the charity’s chairperson, asking what services they offered the homeless.

  I was left to wonder what the hell had just happened. Dillon looked pissed. Was he angry that someone assumed we were together? I mean, I knew I wasn’t his type, but I thought I cleaned up pretty good and so far I hadn’t done or said anything to make an ass out of myself. I didn’t know why he should be offended by someone thinking we were together.

  * * * *

  “You okay?” Becca asked Dillon, leaning in close.

  “Fine,” he said, even though he really wasn’t. The way Becca had laughed off the question about their being a couple had him seriously disgruntled. But she had been truthful. They weren’t a couple. They were friends. Maybe it was just the fact that she found the idea so ridiculous that bothered him.

  “We can get out of here if you want,” Becca whispered and he caught a whiff of her perfume. Fruity and sweet, but with an edge of something naughty, just like her. With the soft hairstyle and the way her eyes revealed her concern for him, it was hard not to stare at her.

  Dillon felt like he’d been run over by a bus when he’d seen her on the balcony. The sexy, feminine dress that hugged her curves, the way her pale skin contrasted with her dark hair, her red lips, the rare expression of something less than pure confidence that had made her eyes large and round…she had never looked more beautiful and he had struggled to remember that they were supposed to just be friends. Especially since the image of her bare flesh had occupied all his waking moments, and most of his unconscious ones, for weeks.

  Just friends.

  It had been easy when he first moved in. They got along great, as different as they were. Becca’s exterior was a little prickly, but he liked her no-nonsense way of looking at things. You always knew where you stood with her. There were no mind games. And once you go
t past those thorns, she was actually kinda sweet—patient, funny, and totally supportive. He loved that she came to listen to the band at whatever dive bar they played. It was great to look out and see her sitting at the front table, watching them, cheering them on.

  Now Dillon couldn’t imagine his daily life without her. They ate together, laughed together, talked about stuff that mattered. He’d never felt so comfortable with another person, male or female. But Becca only thought of Dillon as her buddy: boring, bad dresser, but one who gave good massages.

  Dillon treasured their friendship, but he knew it wasn’t enough anymore. Especially when she leaned in and whispered in his ear. He wondered how surprised she would be if he just grabbed her and kissed that sweet, sassy mouth like he wanted to. He wondered if the natural chemistry between them would ignite into something more than friendship in her eyes.

  Dillon didn’t want the evening to be over. “We can’t leave yet.” He got up from table and took Becca’s hand. “Come on.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Completing your Disney moment.”

  He led her to the dance floor, sure every male eye in the room was flowing over the sway of her hips and the teasing bit of cleavage her gown revealed. He felt like the luckiest guy in the room.

  Dillon wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her close enough to feel the heat of her body. “Put your hand on my shoulder,” he said, mentally thanking his parents for all the years of forcing him to attend ballroom dance lessons.

  “I really can’t dance. Not this fancy stuff, anyway,” she said, biting her lip. “Electric Slide, Boot-Scoot Boogie, no problem. But this polka or whatever it is, no.”

  “It’s a waltz,” Dillon said, taking her hand. “You’ve got a good sense of rhythm. Just be quiet and follow my lead. Ready?”

  He hadn’t waltzed since the Thomas’ fiftieth wedding anniversary at the Sugar Loaf Country Club when he was a sophomore in college. He knew the steps, but he’d never had a partner who made it so difficult to concentrate. Becca had a little crease of concentration between her eyebrows that he wanted to lean in and kiss. But of course he didn’t.