Now I was heading to worship to sit beside her and pretend my thoughts were appropriate for the Lord's house.
The irony wasn't lost on me.
WE DROVE TO FIRST BAPTISTin careful silence, both aware the congregation would be watching. Speculating. Judging whether we looked real.
The parking lot was packed when we arrived at nine forty-five. Families everywhere—kids in Sunday clothes, mothers smoothing down hair and straightening ties. Everyone heading toward the white church building with its tall steeple cutting into the clear Texas sky.
I came around to Presley's door. We walked toward the entrance together and she reached for my hand, interlacing her fingers through mine as she smiled at the usher who greeted us.
We settled into a pew halfway back. Her shoulder tucked against my arm, close enough to feel the warmth of her beside me. She reached for a hymnal, and I caught that vanilla-citrus scent again, had to fight the urge to bury my face in her neck.
The service began. We stood for hymns I'd known since childhood, sat for prayers I'd stopped believing in. The pastor talked about grace and redemption—and something in my chest loosened. Maybe I wasn’t such a lost cause after all. I glanced at Presley beside me, her voice raised in song like an angel’s, and she caught my eye and smiled. I didn't know what middle ground looked like between blind faith and total isolation. But just then, I wanted to find out.
After the service ended, weathered ranchers and older couples nodded in our direction as we left.
By the time we reached my truck, it was past noon.
We grabbed a quick lunch back at Presley’s house—sandwiches and chips, nothing that required actual cooking.
By two o'clock, we'd arrived at Crown & Grace. Ruth-Ellen from Garden Gate Florals—who had a key since her shop was next door—was putting finishing touches on the centerpieces. Pink and cream roses and peonies on every table. The caterer from Sweet Sage Bakery was arranging final platters of finger sandwiches and pastries. The tables and linens had been set up yesterday.
For the next hour and a half, we helped finish setup. I moved chairs at Presley's direction, carried trays, positioned serving dishes. She adjusted flowers, rearranged pastries, made sure every detail was perfect for her students' celebration before Saturday's competition—just six days away now.
By three-thirty, Ruth-Ellen had gone back to her shop and the caterer had left. The studio looked transformed.
The first mother and daughter arrived at four sharp.
Lisa Lindsey swept in with twelve-year-old Harper, who immediately found Presley and hugged her with a squeal.
"Miss Presley! Everything looks so pretty!"
"You think so? I'm so glad you're here, sweetheart." Presley smoothed Harper's hair back. "Are you excited about next weekend?"
"Nervous. But mostly excited." Harper grinned. "I've been practicing my interview answers like you taught me."
"I know you have. You're going to be wonderful."
I stayed near the serving table, watching Presley work her magic. Lisa came over, introduced herself properly, asked about how long we'd been dating and what I did for work. I gave her the cover story—business consulting, travel frequently, old friend of Dalton's from A&M. She seemed satisfied, moved on to fill a plate with cucumber sandwiches.
Over the next thirty minutes, the other families arrived—Rebecca Morrison with ten-year-old Mary-Kate, who made a beeline for the pastries. Dawn Sutherland and fourteen-year-old Brynlee, who waved at me from across the room. Maria Torres with shy eight-year-old Gabriela, Christine Chambers with fifteen-year-old Crystal, Shelly Hawkins with thirteen-year-old Sierra.
Six mother-daughter pairs so far.
I helped serve. Carried trays. Refilled drinks. The mothers were curious about the new boyfriend but mostly wanted to talk about their daughters' performances. Lisa mentioned Harper's piano piece. Rebecca worried that Mary-Kate was too nervous about her dance routine. Dawn asked if I thought Brynlee's vocal performance was strong enough.
I reassured them. Kept my answers general but confident. Let them see that Presley had someone supporting her.
This was what she'd built—not just pageant coaching, but genuine mentorship relationships. These families trusted her with their daughters.
At four-thirty, the energy shifted.
Vanessa Clarke walked in with Addison.
The temperature dropped. Conversation didn't stop exactly, but it got quieter. Careful. The other mothers exchanged glances.
Vanessa made a beeline for a cluster of women near the serving table. Her voice carried just loud enough.
"Must be nice to have a cowboy doing your heavy lifting."
