Page 12 of Mack

She stood behind the counter, straightened a row of ornaments that didn’t need straightening, and told herself the only reason she felt the faintest lift at the thought of singing at Dewey’s this weekend was because she loved the music.

But if she was being honest, she hoped he’d stop in again. She shook her head at herself. He was a complication she didn’t need or want.

“Yeah, keep telling yourself that,” she muttered.

She tucked her purse into the filing cabinet in her office and made her way back to the front.

The shop got busy as the morning wore on, a steady stream of tourists making the most of the last warm weeks before the season turned. She moved through it all on autopilot, wrapping purchases, answering questions, restocking displays. She knew she needed to hire another person full-time, but with tourist season winding down it hardly made sense now. She had Ruth coming in three times a week and on weekends so she could be with T.J. Once the visitors thinned out the pace would slow, and she’d catch her breath. She always did.

She just had to get through the next few weeks first.

The crowd at Dewey’s was thick for a Friday, the kind of wall-to-wall that made the air heavy and warm despite the fans turning overhead. Mallory stood at the mic in her favorite dark jeans and a white eyelet top, her hair down, and let the opening notes of Patsy Cline’s Crazy curl out into the room. The crowd settled into it as they always did with a slow song, couples drifting toward each other, conversations dropping to a murmur.

She was three songs in and finding her rhythm when she caught movement at the bar. A familiar set of shoulders, a khaki shirt, and a Stetson. Her fingers tightened slightly on the microphone.

Dixie was already moving toward him, as he settled onto a stool and accepted a cup of coffee. Then he turned, and his eyes found her like he’d known exactly where she was.

She kept singing. She was proud of that.

He leaned against the bar with his coffee and watched her with that steady, unreadable expression, and she told herself to look at the rest of the room, at the dancers, at Shane grinning at her from behind his guitar. She told herself that several times over the next two songs.

When the band took a short break she handed the mic to Shane and stepped off the platform, accepting a glass of water from a passing waitress. She was not walking toward the bar. She was just getting some air.

He straightened when he saw her coming, and the corner of his mouth lifted.

“Mallory.”

“Mack.” She stopped beside him, close enough to talk over the noise. “On duty again.”

“Came in to check on a complaint from the parking lot.” He glanced toward the door, then back at her. “I handled it.”

“And yet you’re still here.”

He looked at her steadily. “And yet.”

She took a sip of her water and looked out at the crowd to give herself somewhere else to put her eyes.

“Different singer last weekend,” he said.

She looked at him. “You were here last weekend?”

“For about fifteen minutes.” He turned his coffee cup in his hands. “You weren’t.”

“No. That was Wendy. She’s been with the band for a while, but she quit this week. So now it’s me again until Shane finds someone.”

After talking for a few minutes, though there was no way she remembered any of the conversation, Shane’s voice came over the mic. “Mallory, we’re back.”

She set her water glass down, grateful for the interruption. “That’s me.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He didn’t move, just watched her with those gray eyes. “You sound better every time.”

She didn’t know what to do with that, so she did what she knew. She nodded once, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and turned back toward the stage without giving him an answer.

It was safer that way.

****

Mack watched her walk back to the stage and lifted his coffee cup slowly.