“An original?” another voice emerges.
“Not yet,” says Blake. “This is a cover of a song from one of my favorite artists right now. This is ‘Chance Worth Taking’by Mitchell Tenpenny.”
He clears his throat again, nervously this time, and fishes out a pick beneath the strings at the neck of his guitar. He bows his head over his guitar, positions his fingers on the fretboard, and begins to sing in a rich, melodious tone, with an opening strum that sends goosebumps rocketing over every inch of my skin.
With each word he sings, the soft southern lilt in Blake’s voice reverberates around the silent clearing. His voice deepens, thick with passion for the lyrics. He sings with his head held high, but his eyes closed, his fingers gliding effortlessly along the fretboard, the strum of each string perfectly aligned. The song he’s chosen to cover is slow, and the lyrics are nothing short of captivating.
No one breathes a word. We all watch in awe as Blake loses himself in his performance, like there’s no one else here but him, singing to the darkness with the heat of the fire on the back of his neck. It’s so truly mesmerizing that when his voice trails off on the final word I don’t even realize it’s all over until his peers hoot with applause.
Right now, he is so far from being the mayor’s son. He’s Blake Avery, the guy who loves music, who has a talent that makes a crowd of his friends fall silent in genuine admiration.
I wish I knew what truly being Mila Harding might be – someone with dreams and passions of her own.
Barney rushes over, pounding Blake hard on the back with a celebratory thump, and a couple others come over to join with fist bumps and handshakes. One of those people, I notice with a sickening lurch of jealousy, has red-streaked hair.
Lacey nudges Barney out of her way and throws her arms around Blake, drawing him in for a hug while she bounces enthusiastically on the balls of her feet. My jaw clenches.
But whatever that murky feeling is, it lasts a mere two seconds until I notice Blake hastily unwrap himself from her. He excuses himself from the group and turns. . . straight toward me.
My heartbeat picks up all over again as he approaches, guitar swung behind him, and his hand clasping the strap over his chest. Over his shoulder, I notice a younger girl stepping in front of the fire with her own guitar balancing in her anxious hands, ready to follow in Blake’s footsteps.
“So,” he says breathlessly, wiping a film of sweat from his temple, “what’s the verdict, Miss Mila?”
I part my lips, searching for the right words that will do his performance justice, but I’m still so stunned by howamazinghe really is that I’m close to speechless. “It was. . .” I try, but I shake my head, gaping at him as I struggle to sum up exactly how his voice made me feel. Finally, I swallow and say, “You’re born to be a musician.”
Blake’s expression lights up. The apprehension in his eyes transforms into relief, and the tentative smile on his face widens into a grin so joyful that his dimples are the deepest – and cutest – I’ve ever seen them.
“Seriously,” I say, jumping up, proper speech now thankfully returning. “That was – amazing. Your playing, your singing. Everything. You are amazing.”
Blake’s cheeks burn red at my compliments, and he grabs his guitar case and gently slots his guitar back inside, nestling it into the soft velvet contours. As he clicks the latches shut, a new voice begins to sing behind him.
“That’s Kelsey,” Blake says, sinking down into a chair and placing his guitar case on the ground beneath him. “Loves Keith Urban. Always performs in local open-mic nights.”
I sit back down next to him, and although his gaze is locked on Kelsey as her husky tone fills the air around the fire, mine is fixated solely on him. “No open-mic nights for you, I guess?”
“Please,” Blake retorts. “The mayor’s kid busking at some Fairview coffee shop? That’s way too humble.” He rolls his eyes. “Mom would rather I ran for student body president and spent my time protesting for better democracy within Fairview High, but that’s Lacey Dixon’s job.”
The girl with the red streaks in her hair. . .
“Well, small-town bonfires are probably a bit too normal for a Harding,” I joke. I slump back in my chair and glance around the circle of people around the growing fire. The glow of firelight flickers across faces, there’s nods of appreciation as Kelsey builds into chorus, and friends huddle in close to one another with smiles and friendly laughter. “But I really like it.”
“So, you like honky tonks and bonfires,” Blake says, settling his gaze on me, “but maybe not tailgate parties.”
I laugh, but I’m instantly silenced when Blake reaches over to take my hand in his. He interlocks his fingers with mine and, our palms pressed close together, he rests our hands on the armrest of my chair. I stare silently at our hands in surprise, but the warmth of his skin sets off those pesky butterflies in my stomachagain.
“Am I not allowed to hold your hand?” Blake asks in response to my stunned expression.
“No. I mean, yes. You can. I’m just—”
“Nervous,” he finishes with a teasing wink.
We sit together, hands entwined, and listen in appreciation to a few more people perform. Savannah and Tori never return, and no one bothers us, but I do wonder if anyone has glanced over and noticed that Blake and I are a little too cozy. After a while, Blake swings his case over his shoulder and stands. He settles his gaze on me.
“Come back to the truck with me,” he says in a low voice. He begins to walk, pulling me with him.
My mind races with thoughts of Blake and me alone together, and the butterflies somersault in my stomach as we walk away from the bonfire and the party, heading back to his truck. . .
He leads me across the rocky, uneven ground back up toward the parking lot. There are more cars here now, but their occupants are all by the lake enjoying the bonfire and the girl guitarist’s sweet voice. I look over my shoulder and can still see the fire and the bodies huddled around it, spread out over the mass of chairs. Although slightly distant, we can also still hear the crackle of the fire and the musing of voices and the folksy sound of a Taylor Swift cover. But here, in the parking lot, we are entirely alone.
