Kimberly Stuart by Act Two: A Novel in Perfect Pitch

Author:Act Two: A Novel in Perfect Pitch [Pitch, Act Two: A Novel in Perfect]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Romance, New York (State), Iowa, Sadie, Humorous, midwest, diva, Fiction, Women Singers, classical music, New York, Love Stories, Veterinarians, Women Music Teachers, Country Life - Iowa, Country Life, General, Religious, Women Singers - New York (State) - New York, Veterinarians - Iowa, Christian
ISBN: 1434700119
Publisher: David C Cook
Published: 2008-05-01T05:00:00+00:00

The Roadhouse sat at the bottom of a hill on the edge of a neighboring town named Clayton. Mac pulled up to the rambling building sided with brown shingles and trimmed in a horrible orange-red. A blinking neon sign crowned the roof and featured a cowboy on a rearing bull.

Mac turned his truck into an empty space in the gravel parking lot and cut the engine. He turned to me, his face blinking red and blue in time to the sign. “Ready for some music education?”

I sighed. “Country dancing.”

He grinned, lips pushed out in a gesture of cocky victory.

“I’d hoped you were whisking me away to a little known hole-in-the-wall French restaurant, owned and run by a family known only to the discerning few and cherished for their world-class coq au vin.”

Mac let a puff of air escape his mouth in a gesture of disbelief or impatience, I couldn’t tell which. “You sure seem to have an active inner life, as Oprah would say.”

I raised my eyebrows. “You watch Oprah.”

“Nah,” he said, hand on the door handle. “But sounding like I do impresses the ladies.” He winked and unfolded out of the cab.

I waited for him as he strode in front of the truck toward my door. When he opened it, I stood on the running board, happy to have a small moment where I could tower over him. I pointed my finger at his nose. “I’ll participate in your uncouth form of dancing to music that demeans women and glorifies alcohol, cowboys, and trucks.”

Mac cocked his head and smiled. “Sounds perfect.”

“But.” I wagged my finger in his face. “I forbid you to make fun of my footwork, get me intoxicated, or otherwise humiliate me.” I lifted my chin and looked down on him. “And I might have to be taken somewhere else to use the restroom if the one here is as revolting as I suspect it to be.”

Mac lifted me up and set me down gently on the ground. He kept his arms around me, letting the warmth from his hands linger on my sweatshirt. He looked into my eyes, which were wide and much like a deer’s in that moment.

“What’s Eastman?” he asked softly, nodding at the lettering on my sweatshirt.

“A music school. Very prestigious,” I said quietly, lightheaded at being this close to him.

“Never heard of it,” he said, pulling away and turning me toward the neon. “Let’s dance,” he said, and slapped me on the rear. Hard.

I walked slightly behind him, not sure whether I’d just been rebuffed or seduced. My rump hurt, in either case, and I hobbled along behind him, wincing at the sting.

Mac held the door for me. I stepped past him and into another realm of neon, this time a pantheon to cheap beer draped in signage above the bar. Mac stood next to me and hollered a greeting to the bartender, a hefty woman in a denim shirt with Roadhouse embroidered on the pocket. I expected it to blink if I stared long enough.

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