Whispered Southern Secrets (Magnolia Grove #11)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Honey

Everyone has a guilty pleasure. Mine is karaoke nights at this tiny honky-tonk on the outskirts of Birmingham, away from Magnolia Grove. Though I’m not from the small town of Magnolia Grove, everyone knows me because of my grandparents. “That’s Minnie and Millard’s girl,” is my unofficial name to most people. Or they know me as Honey, even though my name is Harper. My pepaw, Millard loathes the name Harper so as far as any of the good folks of Magnolia Grove are concerned, my name is Honey.

I’m not dressed appropriately for a bar atmosphere. But that’s okay, I know I’m rocking my bright blue “Knit Happens” shirt—with the font written in purple yarn—and favorite pair of ripped jeans that hug my ass like a glove. I give a confident smile to the bar patrons, not that I can see them with the stage lights glaring in my face. I close my eyes and allow the music to seep through my bones. The familiar chords of “Silver Wings,” by Merle Haggard begin. My lips part and the words flow freely.

Sweet memories of summers with my grandmother, Minnie, whom I call Mimi, filter through my mind. She’s the one who taught me to knit and got me this shirt. We’d sing this song every year at the end of the summer before I’d have to leave and return home. Right now, in my mind, I’m only singing to her on their wooden front porch swing as Pepaw sits across from us rocking back and forth in his chair. The memory is so vivid that I can even smell the flowers that surround the porch, sweet tea, and cinnamon from her hard candies she always likes to eat.

I’m leaving again. Instead of taking the flight I’m driving twelve hours. Honestly, I’m not even sure when I’ll be back. The ach in my chest has my tone turn slightly shaky from the painful thought. Which is why I made this was a last minute stop to clear my head and release some tension before the long drive. I knew this day was coming. Already my visits to Magnolia Grove were already getting to be fewer and father between. Becoming an official adult with an actual career means I won’t have summers off. You would if you became a teacher, my Mimi’s voice replays in my ear.

I end the song and give a bow to the generous applause. Before exiting the stage on the side, I put my name down for “Stand By Me,” and opt for the Florence + The Machine cover. A few hands pop out for me to give a high five as I pass by them on my way to the bar. A few with callouses. Some are sweaty. Gross. Some soft. I like the variety of patrons we have tonight. Peanut shells crunch beneath my feet. The air is a mix of wood, warmth, and liquid courage. It’s not a bad smell. This place isn’t anything fancy, but it has a homey and cozy charm about it.

The best part is nobody knows me as Millard and Minnie's granddaughter. I’m simply the young red head that comes in on occasion to sing a few songs, eat my weight in loaded cheese fries, and drink two girly cocktails, ending my night with a Shirly Temple. Then I vanish. All they know is my initial, H., which is what they call out when it’s my turn at karaoke. I wonder if anyone has given me a cool nickname? The mysterious red head? The lone red head? Maybe it has nothing to do with my hair color. Hopefully it’s not Shirly… The bartender does like to tease me about my ritual of getting a Shirly Temple in a martini glass.

It has sentimental value and it’s something I can’t stop doing. Mimi doesn’t drink any alcohol, but she liked the look of cocktails, so Pepaw would get her a Shirly Temple but ask them to put it in a fancy glass for her. I felt special when he’d do the same for me, but he’d always wink and in a firm voice say, “Now don’t go getting any ideas. This is the closest you need to come to drinking. The stiff ones don’t even taste half as good. You’re better off with this right here.”

Hopping up onto the barstool, I give the bartender my drink order, which is for a fruity cocktail. I do say the words, “a fruity cocktail.” We’ve done this dance before; he knows to surprise me with something that has alcohol but tastes sweet.

I barely register the body that sits next to the stool beside me. “Hello,” a deep voice asks. Inwardly I groan. Rule number one: this is my happy place, so no complications. I never give out my name or phone number. The way that man said hello, I know the tone. He’s interested. I’m not. It’s about to get awkward.

When I turn I find the man is very attractive, but not enough for me to sabotage what I have going here. He’s the traditionally handsome type. He’s older than me, early thirties perhaps. Clean appearance. Bonus points, he does have teeth. But this is my Zen. I’m not looking for romance, and I absolutely do not do hookups.

“Hello,” I force out.

“You have a lovely voice. Nice to see a young person singing one of the classics. Surprised you didn’t sing Taylor Swift.”

Before, it was polite disinterest but now I hate him. I give him a tight closed mouth smile and nod. I may not be a full-blown Swiftie, but I resent everything he just said. In fact, I’m putting myself down for one of hers after my next turn.

His voice lowers. “How’s someone as pretty as you sitting here alone?”

“Genital warts.”

He stares like a deer in the headlights. The bartender places my drink in front of me, and I thank him. I hold my drink in my hand and turn back to the guy next to me.

“I’m as baffled as you are.” The man rolls his shoulders and I can tell he is trying to convince himself he didn’t hear me correctly. So I continue sweetly, “It always goes the same for me. A nice man, like yourself, comes to sit next to me. He usually ends up buying me a drink. We chat. But every single time we get to leaving together, they run.”

He scoffs. “Nah. I doubt that.”

I take a sip and then nod as I swallow. “It’s true. I warn them that they have to use a condom because of my STDs and it’s like that’s a deal breaker.”

Hiding my smile behind my drink, I watch as all color drains from his face and his eyes become wide. He loudly clears his throat and slowly stands. As he walks away, I call out. “Come back!”

I take a sip of my drink but almost choke when the bartender begins humming, “Another One Bites the Dust,” by Queen.

“It’s been a while since you’ve told the STD bit. Still not as creative as you being an alien. Or you pretending to be excited that they can see you.” The bartender snickers.

“I need to come up a new one.” I say thoughtfully. “Do you have any suggestions?”

He shakes his head and walks down the bar to check on a customer. I’m bringing my drink to my lips when I hear the beginning of “Stand by Me.”

I didn’t even hear them call my initial. What the heck? When I turn around there’s someone on the stage. A very large someone. He has a nice tan and even from here I can see he’s solid. Tall. Muscular. The man is built like a mountain. His dark hair is short, military style. His face has sharp masculine features. This guy is the epitome of masculinity.

And he’s taking my turn.

Except maybe not. As the music continues I hear that he’s definitely performing the classic Ben E. King version. Solid choice. His voice is low, strong, and warm. There’s an intensity to him. It’s not fair that a man who looks like he does should also be able to sound so smooth. I find myself being drawn to the stage. I’m sipping my drink as I weave through the tables and bar patrons. The son-of-a-bitch even sings “darling” as “darlin’” with a sexy as hell southern accent. Of course, we are in the South. But he doesn’t have a twang. His darlin’ doesn’t sound cheesy but comes out as a caress. He’s so darn handsome. Am I struggling to breathe right now? Oh. My. Gosh. I’m breathless. He’s so gorgeous he leaves me breathless.

Right as the music stops I down the rest of my drink. I’m one step away from climbing that mountain when they call for me to approach the stage. What a horrible twist of fate. Actually, no. This is an intervention. Thank goodness. I bite my lip as I hurry to the stage. Not going to make eye contact with the gorgeous man with tan skin, hard muscles, and who is extremely talented. Nope. Not looking that way.

As I walk across the stage, the intro to the song begins. I release a humorless chuckle, because come on, of course I’m going to sing the same song as the best performance of the night. I bring the mic up to my lips and I’m only half joking when I say, “Guess this is a popular song tonight. Not sure how I’m going to follow that.”

Inhaling a deep breath, I allow the music to take over. I close my eyes and feel every word in the lyrics—begging for someone to stand by me, that I can be brave as long as someone is by my side, and I’ll be there for them in return. My voice feels raw carrying the weight of my longing, but also it’s filled with hope. By the time the song ends I’m breathless. This time I don’t add my name for another song as I exit the stage. It's time for my second cocktail so I head straight for my spot at the bar.

The bartender is already ready for me. He hands me my cocktail with a single nod and goes back to tending to his customers.

“That was a great song choice, ma’am.” The smooth voice comes from my right. I turn my head and am practically knocked off my stool by his piercing blue eyes. Why is he talking to me? I’m hallucinating. No worries.

“You too.” My voice is an octave too high and hitches. I want to smack myself.

“You have an incredible voice,” says one of God’s chosen angels. Or is this man Lucifer himself? He has the voice of an angel but looks like a night of sin. He leans forward and whispers in a way that sends shivers and goosebumps along my skin. “Wasn’t very nice of you showing me up that way.”

“Thank you. But you set the bar pretty high. That was a tough act to follow.”

I check my phone and see it’s beginning to get late. I’m going to need to get going soon. I should leave anyway before I do something stupid like shamelessly throw myself at this man. A beautiful face and, damn him and his sexy voice. This guy only has to speak and I’m putty in his gigantic hands.

“Got somewhere to be?” I look up from my phone and shake my head. He holds a hand up in apology. “Sorry, ma’am. It’s none of my business. I was worried you might have a fella waiting for ya or on his way, and I didn’t want to get into any trouble.”

I arch a brow. “A little trouble never hurt anyone.”

“Oh.” He chuckles, the sound deep and rich. “I can see that you’re trouble.”

I give him a playful smirk. “And I never hurt anyone.”

“Doubt that.” He seems genuine when he says, “I bet there’s a trail of broken hearts.”

That’s where he’s wrong. I’m the one with the broken heart. Hopefully this time it’s broken completely so I never have to fall in love again.

I swallow down that little lump at the back of my throat. “A little trouble. Little is the key word.”

He raises his glass, which looks to be water, and I raise mine. “To getting into a little trouble.” We clink our glasses in cheers.

“So, what’s your name?”

I shake my head. “Nope. I don’t do names here.”

“Fair enough.” I’m taken by surprise because most guys are annoyed. This one just nods. “So, Trouble, can I ask where you learned to sing?”

I huff at his nickname for me. I was just wondering if anyone had given me one, now I know. One person does have a name for me. “My grandmother. You?”

“Father and Mama. Both of my parents have a passion for music.”

“Evidently that passion was passed down. Apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree.”

A solemn expression passes over his face, but there’s still a faint smile. “I guess even the bad apples.”

“You’re a bad apple and I’m trouble.” We both smile at one another.

“Grandmother, huh?”

“Yeah. She’s great. She still always has to have music playing. When she’s cooking, working, cleaning, knitting…”

He smiles and my voice trails off. His gorgeous eyes zero in on my chest. “Yeah, I like your shirt.”

Of course I’m wearing my dorkiest shirt when I meet the most beautiful man in existence. They call out “JD” and he stands up. “Don’t go anywhere,” he tells me.

But I do go somewhere. I follow him up to the stage and take a seat at one of the tables in the front. Clearly this man has every intention of taking someone home tonight because he begins singing “Tennessee Whiskey.” That’s one of the sexiest country songs, and his voice is perfect for it. Pure seduction. The timbre in his tone and smoothness, the way he sways to the beat has more than likely gotten two hysterectomies reversed, five women pregnant, several men are now bi-curious, and the sound of ovaries exploding is all around me. And I was just talking about my grandmother to him.

They called out JD when he went up there. Is that his name? His initials? I want to ask, but my rules. I’m already breaking them by being so invested. I need to leave. It’s time for my Shirly Temple. The song finishes, but my feet are rooted. He walks down from the stage. I should run for the door, yet I remain. My heart is pounding against my chest as his feet come toe to toe with mine.

“I need to tell you something,” his raspy voice whispers. I lick my lips as I wait for him to continue. “Nothing’s going to become of this. I’m leaving in the morning to go back to the Air Force. And lots of women have tried to romanticize the idea of being in a relationship with me. There won’t be any love letters. Calls. Nothing.”

“You vanish?” I ask, intrigued.

He mistakes my question as a deal breaker. His eyebrows pull together. “Yeah. I do. I have a lot goin’ on. I don’t need any more complications.”

“That’s perfect.” His eyebrows rise up to his hairline. “I don’t want any complications. Or to ever see you, again.”

“Ouch.” He gives a slightly pinched expression.

I shrug and continue. “I don’t even want to know who you are.”

The slow smile that spreads across his face has my knees weak. “Well, I already know who you are, darlin’.”

“Who am I?”

“Trouble.”