The Closer You Get (24 page)

Just one more reason for the fans to get whipped into a frenzy,
and an expensive reason at that. But Cammie only cared about finding out where
Brett was leading her at the moment. They stopped behind the stage where Lacey
and his mother were waiting, both looking tremendously pleased.

Brett tugged her forward and rested his palms on her shoulders
for the official presentation. “Lacey, this is Cammie.”

“It’s great to meet you, Lacey,” she said. “And thanks for
assisting your dad.”

Taking Cammie by surprise, the girl gave her a hug. “Nice to
meet you, too.” When she stepped away, she rocked back and forth on her heels as
if she had a live wire attached to her purple flip-flops. “That was pretty cool,
huh? I can’t wait to tell my friends about it back home. Can I be in the
wedding? We could wear purple dresses. Oh, and I love my room at Daddy’s
house—”

“Simmer down, motormouth.” A woman stepped forward, her eyes
the same color as Brett’s, a shock of white running through one side of her
black hair. “I’m Linda, Cammie, Brett’s mother, and please excuse my son’s and
granddaughter’s lack of manners.”

“It’s so nice to finally meet you, too.”

Linda took Cammie’s offered hand and pulled her into a tight
embrace. “We’re huggers,” she said after she released her. “And welcome to the
family.”

She truly felt welcome. “Thank you.”

“And while we’re at it, let me say a few words regarding my
son—”

“Careful, Mother.”

Cammie glanced back to see Brett’s scowl before she gave her
full attention to Linda. “Please. I’m all ears.”

“Make him put up his own laundry because that’s what he’s been
taught to do. If he pouts, just ignore him because he’ll eventually come around.
He’s really ticklish right around the ribs, so that’s a good weapon. And if he
gives you any crap, call me and I’ll give him what-for.”

Cammie laughed. “Thanks so much for the info.”

“You forgot the part about me burping the alphabet when I was
in junior high,” Brett said, a hint of annoyance in his tone.

Linda reached up and patted his cheek. “I’m sure I’ll fill in
the blanks for Cammie when you bring her home to meet the relatives.”

“That’s our cue to leave,” Brett said. “Otherwise, she’ll start
listing them, including the cousins three times removed.”

“Can Cammie ride back to the house with us on the bus?” Lacey
asked.

“Actually,” Cammie began, “I have to head home because I’m in
the company truck.”

“It’s late so you should come back to the house,” Brett said.
“Besides, I plan to go back with you to Memphis in the morning to officially ask
your granddad for your hand.”

Cammie hoped Jed had put the shotgun away. “I’m sure he’d
appreciate that.” And she’d like nothing better than to spend the night with
Brett, but with an impressionable preteen in the house, not to mention a future
mother-in-law, the sleeping arrangements could get complicated. “I suppose I
could sleep on the sofa in the great room and head back in the morning.”

“Nonsense,” Linda said. “I’ll sleep with Lacey and you can have
the other guest room closest to the master bedroom. Of course, it doesn’t
actually have a bed, but I imagine the two of you can figure something out.” She
topped off the comment with a wink, flooding Cammie’s face with heat.

Rusty, Bull, Pat and Jeremy, who’d been waiting nearby, came up
and offered their congratulations where they joined together in a group hug.

“I just have one question for the two of you,” Rusty said.

Cammie worried over what that might be. “Ask away.”

“Who’s going to call Bud and tell him?”

Brett laughed and slipped his arms around Cammie’s waist. “I
think we’ll just wait and let him find out when he rejoins us on the next
tour.”

“Or sees it in some magazine,” Cammie said. “I’ll call him
after I call my grandparents.” She might as well get the fireworks over with all
at once.

After Brett sent Linda and Lacey back to the house on the bus,
he led Cammie to a secluded spot behind the tent while they waited for the last
of the fans to disperse.

“That was quite a proposal, Brett Taylor,” she said. “And I
love you for it.”

He gently touched her face. “I love you better. Not better than
you love me. Just better than I ever thought I could.”

If she’d had any doubts about that, they’d all been dispelled.
“You know, that sounds like a song.”

“You’re right, and we can write it together. Just so you know,
I’m going to kiss you and seal the deal.”

And he did kiss her, softly at first, then a little deeper
until Cammie began to feel weak in the knees and worried someone might see
them.

“You two need to get a room, or at least go in the woods.”

Somewhat embarrassed, Cammie broke the kiss and looked to her
right to see Pat standing nearby. “I thought you’d already left.”

He approached them, hat in hand. “Not without saying an
official goodbye, and not before I tell the two of you a few things.”

Brett groaned. “I don’t think I can handle any more advice
tonight.”

“Too bad, because you’re going to get it.” Pat’s expression
turned somber. “Don’t ever forget the way you’re lookin’ at each other tonight,
and when you fight, remember that makin’ up is truly the best part. Most
important, real love doesn’t come along often, so don’t go squandering it like I
did.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “Now I’m heading home to my lady and,
if I’m lucky, I’ll get some of what you two have been gettin’ only I’ll make
sure we’re not putting on a show out in the open.”

“One more thing,” Brett said. “I want you to be the best
man.”

Pat sent him a cynical look. “I am the best man so I expect
nothing less. But, son, you’re well on your way, too. That means I did something
right when I raised you.” With that, he turned around and laughed as he walked
away.

Brett faced Cammie again and studied her eyes. “You know, four
months ago if you’d told me this day would come, I would’ve said you’re crazy.
But then, a lot of people are going to call us crazy for getting engaged after
such a short time.”

She kissed him softly and smiled. “Did Pat tell you the story
about his grandparents?”

“Not that I recall.”

“Then I’ll tell it to you on the way home. And by the way,
someday I will get you back for that whole video-screen proposal....”

As they walked, arms around waists, toward the truck, Cammie
agreed they were definitely crazy. Crazy in love. Still, she had no illusions
about their future. She expected their life to be filled with as many peaks and
valleys as a Smoky Mountain road, along with an abiding love and a passion that
knew no bounds. She did have high hopes of how it would end—making beautiful
music together for at least sixty-five years.

EPILOGUE

B
RETT
T
AYLOR
STOOD
at
the open door, remaining partially concealed while mentally plotting his course
from the tour bus to the rear entrance of the coliseum. As usual, it was near to
impossible to sneak past a crowd during a stock show, particularly when parked
in wide-open spaces in broad daylight—in the same place where it had all begun
two years ago.

After he slipped the new photo into his pocket, he descended
the stairs and stepped out onto the lot where the shouting and shoving
commenced, sending his security team into action, their beefy arms attempting to
hold the crowd at bay.

Fans were good, though. Fans helped pay for college funds and
dance lessons and, someday, diapers. But these fans would have to wait until
after the show. He was already late and impatient to get to the stage to see his
lady for the first time in two weeks.

Brett strode into the back entrance of the arena, past the
catch pens and the same cowboys seated on the rails. This time he didn’t have
the urge to borrow a horse and ride away like an Old West hero. And he still
wasn’t a hero, except maybe to his little girl, who wasn’t so little
anymore.

The guards pushed open the heavy metal door, led him down a
corridor and then up the stairs to the backstage jungle. After he took his
guitar from the roadie, he scanned the area in an attempt to locate the woman
behind his reason for hurrying.

He finally spotted her standing near the curtain, wearing her
hair piled into a ponytail and a T-shirt that read I Know Joe—the same words
that had been painted beneath the Just Married sign plastered to the rear of the
bus some eighteen months ago. She still looked as beautiful as she had the day
they’d exchanged vows with a song.

After fitting the guitar strap over his shoulder, he bypassed
the outskirts of the stage. He no longer needed to see the eager faces to
prepare for a performance, only Cammie’s face. He didn’t have to draw energy
from the spirited roar or the passionate applause because he had the love of a
good woman to sustain him. He still knew all his songs by heart, but better
still, he now knew his own heart. And he’d learned to accept life’s crazy turns
and unexpected changes, because sometimes changes were good. Damn good.

Without regard to the backstage chaos, he walked right up to
Cammie and laid a long kiss on her. Once he was done—for now—he stepped back and
frowned. “Are you going to wear that onstage?”

She grinned, pulled the shirt over her head and tossed it
behind her, revealing a sleeveless shiny purple blouse. “Lacey picked it
out.”

He let go a tuneless whistle. “Yeah, I like it.”

Cammie took his hand into hers. “Are you ready?”

“Question is, are you? That flu hung on a long time.”

“I promise I’m fine, and I’m more than ready.”

As the lights went down, darkening the stage, Brett led Cammie
to the microphone and waited to be announced.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please give a big
Houston welcome to two-time Performer of the Year and multiplatinum
country-music superstar Brett Taylor, performing his brand-new number-one
hit, ‘Better Than I Ever Thought I Could,’ with his wife and cowriter,
Camille Carson-Taylor!”

Brett waited for the shouts to subside, the applause to die
down and for the band to start playing, but none of that happened. In fact, the
applause just got louder.

He looked at Cammie to find she was giving him an ear-to-ear
grin. “What’s going on?”

She stepped behind him, took him by the shoulders and turned
him around. “Look up.”

He did as she asked and had to blink twice to make sure he’d
correctly read the words spread across the video screen.

We’re Going to Have a Baby.

After the initial shock wore off, he turned back to Cammie.
“Seriously?”

She nodded. “I told you I’d get you back, didn’t I?”

He kissed her then, not caring if the whole world witnessed how
much he loved his wife. After he let her go to sing the song that summed up
their relationship, he counted down the beat as he counted his blessings. All
the accolades, sold-out crowds and numerous hits couldn’t compare to the gifts
she’d given him.

Thanks to one former feisty bus driver, with the face of an
angel and a voice to match, Brett Taylor—the better man—had finally arrived.

* * * * *

Keep reading for an excerpt from
The Spirit of
Christmas
by Liz Talley!

We hope you enjoyed this Harlequin Superromance.

You want more than just romance! Harlequin Superromance stories
are filled with intense relationships, real-life drama and the kinds of
unexpected events that change women’s lives—for the better—forever.

Visit
Harlequin.com
to find your next great
read.

We like you—why not like us on Facebook:
Facebook.com/HarlequinBooks

Follow us on Twitter:
Twitter.com/HarlequinBooks

Read our blog for all the latest news on our authors and books:
HarlequinBlog.com

Subscribe to our newsletter for special offers, new releases,
and more!

Harlequin.com/newsletters

CHAPTER ONE

M
ARY
P
AIGE
G
ENTRY
stepped into an icy
puddle of water as she exited the taxi with not only one high-heeled shoe, but
both of them.

“Darn, darn, darn!” she said, trying to turn back to the driver
without stepping into the cold water again. The cabbie raised bushy eyebrows and
she tossed him a glare. “I assume you didn’t see that puddle when you pulled
up?”

He shrugged.

“Yeah, right,” Mary Paige muttered, blowing out a breath that
ruffled her bangs. “Just wait for me, okay?”

She didn’t hang around for his response because, after the day
she’d had, something had to go in her favor. She slammed the door and leaped to
the curb, managing to clear the puddle she’d previously waded through. Having
the cab wait for her would cost a small fortune, but she was way late to her
uncle’s infamous Christmas kickoff bash, thanks to her boss, Ivan the
Terrible.

The frigid water seeped into the toes of her shoes as she
walked toward the iron-barred glass door of the convenience store anchoring a
corner in Fat City. Stupid, stupid! If she hadn’t let vanity rule, she’d be
plodding around in her cute fleur-de-lis rubber boots with warm tootsies. But
because the strappy high-heel, pseudo–Mary Janes had called her name that
morning, she would risk frostbite for the remainder of the evening.

Flashing neon signs hung garishly on the front of the store,
bright cousins to the various cigarette ads, and from somewhere to her left,
music bled onto the street. The door to the convenience store swooshed open, and
she moved aside to avoid a woman who burst out, clutching a paper bag containing
a fifth of something potent. Her elbow caught Mary Paige’s arm, but the woman
didn’t even acknowledge the offense. She merely growled something about skinny
blonde bitches and waddled down the block.

“Really?” Mary Paige called after her, even as part of her
relished the backhanded compliment since she’d spent the past two months doing
Zumba and eating foam chips in an effort to fit into a size eight again. As she
reached for the closing door handle, she heard a low moan to her right. Her hand
paused in midair, hovering above the cold metal.

Pulling her jacket closer to her chin and nuzzling into the
cashmere scarf her ex-boyfriend had given her last Christmas, Mary Paige peered
into the darkness beyond the blinking lights lining the eaves. At first, she saw
nothing in the shadows, but then spied movement.

She stepped toward the noise, her feet squishing in her wet
shoes, her teeth starting to chatter. The light plink of sleet on her shoulders
made her wonder if she was somewhere other than New Orleans. They rarely saw
anything frozen—except daiquiris—so it had been quite the sensation when they’d
gotten a blast of winter the day after Thanksgiving.

Newspapers stirred and she made out the form of an elderly man
wrapped in a thin blanket, moving among discarded boxes and newspapers quickly
becoming sodden with the sleet.

“Sir? You need some help?”

The man stopped his rustling and flipped her the finger.

“Guess that answers that question.”

She turned around, ignoring the tug at her heart. Why didn’t he
go to a shelter, anyway? Too cold out for someone to be sitting around with
nothing more than a thin blanket. She glanced to the corner and found the cab
still waiting. Good. A man who listened. An early Christmas miracle.

She entered the warmth of the store, blew on her hands and
scanned the cramped aisle. Nope, none of it would do. Bottled water, sanitary
products and condoms. The necessities of life, sure, but nothing that would help
her tonight.

The second aisle proved as fruitless. Nothing but potato chips,
cartons of cookies and packages of those powdery little doughnuts. Mary Paige’s
stomach betrayed her with a growl as she eyed the pink snowballs. She shook her
head and rounded the end cap, where she scanned the new offerings, methodically
sweeping her gaze along the aisle, mentally discarding everything until…
Bingo!

Hanging innocently at the end of the aisle was the most
repugnant pair of Christmas socks she’d ever seen. They were bright green with
sparkly silver-tinsel trees around the ankles, adorned with bright cherry-red
pom-poms. The tops had garish silver lace that matched the flashy trees and
small jingly bells. They were hideous and absolutely perfect for the
white-elephant gift required for Uncle Fred’s crazy pre-Christmas party. Mary
Paige snatched them as if they were the Holy Grail. Finally, something had gone
right.

She hurried toward the register, hating that she’d already
taken too much time in this little stop, hating that the homeless curmudgeon
outside the door weighed on her conscience. Yeah, he was a miserable old goat,
but it
was
the beginning of the Christmas season,
and it
was
colder than normal outside.

Perhaps she should get him a little something to warm him
up?

A coffee bar sat to her right, featuring a self-service,
instant cappuccino machine. Not the best, but certainly good enough. Mary Paige
glanced at the register. Only one person in line. Surely five more minutes
wouldn’t hurt. She spun toward the bar, snatched a medium-size cup, centered it
beneath the spout and pushed the button. It filled quickly. She plopped a lid on
and grabbed two sugar packs along with a stir stick.

Darn.
Two more people had joined
the queue behind the woman paying.

She got in line, shifting back and forth on her frozen feet
trying to restore the circulation and wondering why she even bothered with an
old bum outside a convenience store in the middle of Metairie. He’d probably
hurl the cup at her and ruin her only decent jacket. Par for the course
considering the day she’d had. A run in her stockings, a nervous stomach that
had sent her to the bathroom twice, a coffee stain on her pristine white blouse
and a tongue-lashing from Ivan the Terrible when the towering pile of receipts
on her desk didn’t add up for their biggest client. She really wanted to go home
and curl up in her ratty chenille robe with a glass of wine. Instead, fierce
love for Uncle Fred sent her scurrying across the city in a cab she couldn’t
afford, wearing shoes now frozen stiff.

Mary Paige finally reached the register, where the cashier
snatched the socks from her, scanned them and dropped them into a plastic
sack.

“Ten thirty-seven,” the cashier said, not even bothering to
make eye contact with her.

Mary Paige rooted in her purse for her wallet. Ugh. She’d left
it in her desk after doing some online Christmas shopping. But, luckily she
always kept some cash in the side pocket along with her ATM card. Her fingers
crisscrossed in a desperate search. No cash.

No way.

Thankfully a second swipe netted her the ATM card. She glanced
at the cashier, who glared knowingly in return.

“Uh, do y’all have an ATM?”

The cashier pointed to a machine sitting below a glowing sign
as a man behind her in line growled, “Jeez, get your cash before you get in
line, lady.”

Something inside Mary Paige snapped. “Listen, buddy. I have had
a hell of a day and my ex-boyfriend stole all my cash. Give me an effing break
here!”

The man stepped back, throwing up his hands before giving her a
smart-ass gesture toward the ATM.

“Thanks.”

She prayed as she entered her PIN that her account wasn’t
overdrawn. Things had been so hectic lately she couldn’t remember the last time
she balanced her bank statement.
Please, please let the
stupid machine spit out the money.

The machine whirred and coughed out the amount she’d
requested—thirty bucks.

Whew.
Hibernia Bank had just earned
itself a place on her Christmas-card list.

Mary Paige popped back in line as the rude construction worker
rolled his eyes and blew garlicky breath on her neck with theatrical
exaggeration. Mary Paige shrugged at the cashier. “Happens to the best of us,
right?”

The cashier held out a palm and gave no response, making Mary
Paige feel like even more of an idiot. She placed a ten-dollar bill in the
outstretched hand of the cashier along with three dimes and a nickel, the sum of
all the change she could scrape up from the bottom of her purse. The cashier
cleared her throat and looked pointedly at the money.

“Oh, sorry.” Mary Paige scooped two pennies from the
take-a-penny, leave-a-penny container on the counter. “There you go.”

She grabbed the coffee and the plastic bag, swerved around Big
and Beefy, desperately wanting to give him the finger—much as the old bum had
given her earlier—and stalked out the door.

“Ow.” Hot coffee splashed on her fingers through the open
drinking spout. “Double darn it.”

She shook the liquid from her fingers and caught sight of the
cab out of the corner of her eye. Thank God he’d waited, and thank God the ATM
had delivered the money she needed to pay for the cab. Shoving the bag with the
socks under her arm, she held up a finger indicating she would be a minute
longer, then headed around the corner to the old man.

As she approached the alley, she was swamped by a feeling of
déjà vu. How many other times had she done this kind of thing? Ten? Twenty?
More? As much as she would like to be a hard-ass career gal, she knew her heart
was of the Stay Puft variety. Not even rudeness would deter her from doing what
was right.

“Yoo-hoo? Mister? I have a little something here to warm you.”
She stood in front of a Dumpster bookended by two large cardboard boxes. Flaps
hung over, providing little shelter, and the man seemed to be curled into a pile
of wet newspapers. A broken cyclone fence stretched behind him, leading the way
to an abandoned bakery showcasing yawning windows.
Dismal
wasn’t the word for the small corner of the world this man
occupied in the frozen rain. “Sir?”

He said nothing.

“I’ve brought you some coffee.”

The papers moved. “What the hell ya want?”

“Just thought you might like something to warm you.”

“Coffee?” The papers shifted as the man unfurled like a gray
troll from beneath a bridge, his grizzled face parting sodden sales flyers,
pinning her with sleepy blue eyes. “Coffee, did you say?”

Mary Paige thrust the cup toward the man.

His eyes swept Mary Paige from head to foot, causing a flash of
alarm within her, but then he looked away before extending a thin arm toward the
steaming cup. As he leaned forward, the papers parted, revealing a body woefully
unprepared for the frigid weather. His pants were thin and patched, his flannel
shirt threadbare in a few spots, but most frightening of all were his bare
feet.

Aw, heck, no. Not bare feet. Anything but
bare feet.

The plastic bag holding the socks grew heavier.

Pretend like you didn’t see his bare feet,
Mary Paige. Just hand him the coffee and go.

But she knew she would not. Could not.

Triple darn.

No time to get another pair. Plus, the only other socks inside
were a pair of plain blue ones. There had been only one pair of perfectly
horrendous Christmas socks, and she knew they hadn’t been intended for anyone at
Uncle Fred’s house. Not Aunt Betty with her giant mole, or Cousin Trav with his
ugly comb-over, or Mr. Dan the eccentric butcher, who showed up to Uncle Fred’s
party every year uninvited. Nope, these Christmas socks were for the bum who had
flipped her the finger.

She sighed and bent down, meeting his gnarled fingers with the
cup. “You don’t have any socks. It’s awfully cold out here for bare feet.”

The man took slurping sips of the scalding liquid as if it were
nothing more than lukewarm tea. “Yes, socks t’would help, I imagine.”

“Yes, well, I happen to have a pair right here. How about we
put these on so you don’t freeze your toes off? And then, I can take you to a
shelter where you can get some hot food and a warm place to sleep.”

The man peered at her over the rim, his disarming blue eyes
measuring her. She ripped her gaze from his and dug the ugly socks from the
plastic bag, eyeing his dirty but, oddly enough, well-manicured toes. She tore
the tag from the socks and bent toward the man, uncertain as to whether she
should actually lift his foot. “Should I help you put these on?”

The old man clasped her hands, stilling them as she picked at
the sticker stubbornly gunking up a sparkly silver tree.

“You ever read
A Christmas
Carol?
”

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“You know…old Ebenezer Scrooge?”

“Oh, yeah, of course.” She nodded and the blunt ends of her bob
swung into her eyes. She tucked the wayward strands behind her chilled ears.
“The socks. Let’s get them on you.”

“Yes,” he said staring at the gaudy socks in her hand. “What I
meant was the Spirit of Christmas.”

“What?” Mary Paige said biting her lip and scrunching each sock
so she could jab them onto his almost-blue feet. “You mean the ghosts, like the
ghosts of Christmas past?”

“They were all part of the Spirit of Christmas, right?” His
voice was low, intense and raspy…and also quite refined. Odd for a street
person. She slid the first sock on his right foot.

“Mmm-hmm.” She shifted her weight so she wouldn’t fall on her
butt onto the slick concrete. She wasn’t the most graceful of gals.

“Well, you’re the Spirit of Christmas,” he said, jabbing a
finger at her.

“Maybe so,” she said, hoping to pacify the old man, as she put
the other sock on his deathly cold foot. She prayed she had hand sanitizer in
her purse. No telling where the man’s feet had been even if he had trimmed his
toenails.

“There. Nice and toasty. Let’s get you out of this weather.”
She prepared to rise, but the man clasped her wrist. She pulled away but he held
firm.