think I’m a goner over some chick, like you are with Abbie.”
Rhett’s aw–shucks shoulder shrug seemed like the only fitting response. His friend was still getting used to seeing him in love.
“Everything is set up for you,” he told him, although Rye probably had run through everything since the hotel had brought him in the discreet entrance before the party had started, used for more famous guests. Rye’s part in the festivities was so secret that he was staying at Rhett’s house and not the hotel.
“I’m going to introduce you.”
And damn, if his hands weren’t sweating at the thought. A private declaration was one thing; a public declaration was another. But if they were going to have a future, their relationship had to come into the light. Abbie had wanted to keep it secret before, and to his mind, nothing good ever came from that. It was time to show her there was no turning back. By declaring his feelings for her in public, he was telling the world he was different. The old Rhett with the poker babes, and the other babes, was totally gone.
“You sure you want to do this?” Rye asked him, looking every inch a country music legend in the making in his black jeans, white T–shirt, and black cowboy hat. “You do realize it’ll change your free–wheeling rep.”
“That’s what I’m hoping for. Let’s do this.” And then he clapped Rye on the back and opened the door to the ballroom again.
The buzz of conversation punctuated by raucous laughter blended in with the classical music the hotel had selected. They had done an incredible job all around.
“Folks,” he said into the microphone after he stepped onto the stage. “Thanks for coming out tonight. Merry early Christmas,” he said, straightening his tie, trying to find Abbie in the crowd. “I’m glad to be in one of my best friend’s hotels. Mac Maven, where in the heck are you?”
Hearing his friend’s shout, he looked to the right, blinking against the lights. Seeing Mac’s wave, he gave one in return. His strategy had worked. He now knew where Abbie was. She was standing with Dustin, Peggy, and the Hales.
“Since moving here in July,” he continued, “I have grown to appreciate this fine town of ours. Thanks for your warm welcome. I came here because of the love of a good woman, and tonight, I’m going to have a friend sing the song I wrote for her. Abbie Maven, Merry Christmas.”
When he gave the signal, Rye came through the cracked door and took the stage just as Rhett left it. The crowd went wild, even though there were only fifty guests. Rhett’s ears picked up only white noise as he tried to locate Abbie again. He skirted the edges of the ballroom until he was directly across the room from where she was standing. He leaned against one of the ridiculously cute nutcracker statues that had cost him an arm and a leg, a few nerves kicking up when he thought about his surprise, and how Abbie would react.
“How are y’all doing?” Rye called out to the cheering crowd. “It’s my honor to be here in Dare Valley tonight, and I have to say I’m glad I can finally tell the world that my friend, Rhett Butler Blaylock, wrote the Christmas love song I recorded and released that everyone’s been hearing on the radio. “The Holiday Serenade.” Ladies, let me set the record straight. I am not taken. But my friend, Rhett, is. Abbie, darlin’, give him another chance. I can promise you no one loves you more. Just listen to what he wrote for ya.”
And then Rye took a seat at the shining grand piano and played the opening melody, the white Christmas lights reflecting off the black veneer. Rhett had gotten Rye to agree to a piano ballad—as opposed to his usual, the guitar—and then his friend had worked his magic, keeping it simple and letting the words shape the music. His instincts were gold. The song had already hit number one on the charts.
Abbie’s eyes met Rhett’s, and in them he could see the usual struggle
Rhett’s aw–shucks shoulder shrug seemed like the only fitting response. His friend was still getting used to seeing him in love.
“Everything is set up for you,” he told him, although Rye probably had run through everything since the hotel had brought him in the discreet entrance before the party had started, used for more famous guests. Rye’s part in the festivities was so secret that he was staying at Rhett’s house and not the hotel.
“I’m going to introduce you.”
And damn, if his hands weren’t sweating at the thought. A private declaration was one thing; a public declaration was another. But if they were going to have a future, their relationship had to come into the light. Abbie had wanted to keep it secret before, and to his mind, nothing good ever came from that. It was time to show her there was no turning back. By declaring his feelings for her in public, he was telling the world he was different. The old Rhett with the poker babes, and the other babes, was totally gone.
“You sure you want to do this?” Rye asked him, looking every inch a country music legend in the making in his black jeans, white T–shirt, and black cowboy hat. “You do realize it’ll change your free–wheeling rep.”
“That’s what I’m hoping for. Let’s do this.” And then he clapped Rye on the back and opened the door to the ballroom again.
The buzz of conversation punctuated by raucous laughter blended in with the classical music the hotel had selected. They had done an incredible job all around.
“Folks,” he said into the microphone after he stepped onto the stage. “Thanks for coming out tonight. Merry early Christmas,” he said, straightening his tie, trying to find Abbie in the crowd. “I’m glad to be in one of my best friend’s hotels. Mac Maven, where in the heck are you?”
Hearing his friend’s shout, he looked to the right, blinking against the lights. Seeing Mac’s wave, he gave one in return. His strategy had worked. He now knew where Abbie was. She was standing with Dustin, Peggy, and the Hales.
“Since moving here in July,” he continued, “I have grown to appreciate this fine town of ours. Thanks for your warm welcome. I came here because of the love of a good woman, and tonight, I’m going to have a friend sing the song I wrote for her. Abbie Maven, Merry Christmas.”
When he gave the signal, Rye came through the cracked door and took the stage just as Rhett left it. The crowd went wild, even though there were only fifty guests. Rhett’s ears picked up only white noise as he tried to locate Abbie again. He skirted the edges of the ballroom until he was directly across the room from where she was standing. He leaned against one of the ridiculously cute nutcracker statues that had cost him an arm and a leg, a few nerves kicking up when he thought about his surprise, and how Abbie would react.
“How are y’all doing?” Rye called out to the cheering crowd. “It’s my honor to be here in Dare Valley tonight, and I have to say I’m glad I can finally tell the world that my friend, Rhett Butler Blaylock, wrote the Christmas love song I recorded and released that everyone’s been hearing on the radio. “The Holiday Serenade.” Ladies, let me set the record straight. I am not taken. But my friend, Rhett, is. Abbie, darlin’, give him another chance. I can promise you no one loves you more. Just listen to what he wrote for ya.”
And then Rye took a seat at the shining grand piano and played the opening melody, the white Christmas lights reflecting off the black veneer. Rhett had gotten Rye to agree to a piano ballad—as opposed to his usual, the guitar—and then his friend had worked his magic, keeping it simple and letting the words shape the music. His instincts were gold. The song had already hit number one on the charts.
Abbie’s eyes met Rhett’s, and in them he could see the usual struggle
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