Once I was on the road, I sent a speech-to-text message to Anna so she’d see it first thing in the morning.
Me: Hey, sweet girl. Heard you had a rough night. I’m so sorry. I’m going on a little trip but I’ll have my cell at all times if you need me. Get ready for souvenirs because they’re definitely headed your way. Love you so much.
The studio parking lot was pitch black, as it should’ve been at that time of night. The only light was the neon lettering on the sign. But as soon as I stepped out of the truck, blaring country music hit my ears. It sounded like it was coming from inside. Maybe Knox and the guys had forgotten to turn the speaker off? I quickly punched in the code and the door unlatched. One step inside and I realized it wasn’t from my studio. Someone on the other side of the warehouse was jamming out though.
I scowled. And then winced. I liked country music as much as any other resident of this small southern town. Growing up on a farm, working cows, picking acres of corn, manure stains ruining every piece of clothing it ever touched…it was in my blood. But this…song…if you could call it that, was awful. Twangy, sappy, depressing. Whoever was listening must’ve been really low—drowning their tears in a trough full of beer, dog dead on the side of the road, fishing boat sunk at the bottom of a lake, wife run off with their best friend and she ain’t never coming back. It was that bad. Only the most yee-hawin’ of cowboys would enjoy this.
I flipped the computer on, trying to focus over the assault of the cacophony. But then some high-powered saw turned on, amping the discord level even higher. What in the world? The saw turned off. Turned back on. Turned back off. But another horrible song was on now, equally bad with an accent even worse than the one before. I widened my eyes and let myself shiver my nerves out.
But then—and this was the final straw—whoever was on the other side of the building started singing. Loud, off-key, and so, so drawly. I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. Admittedly, the edge-tipper was probably the fact that my body was already overloaded with pre-trip jitters. I had to stop this sound pollution nonetheless. Hopefully the wannabe country star would cease their one man karaoke night—at least until I was gone.
I walked down the hall, past the room with the inversion table, and up to the door that separated the two sides of the building. I hardly ever went in there since it didn’t belong to me—so it took a second of fumbling on my tiptoes to find the key on top of the doorjamb. But I finally retrieved it and opened the door.
The barrage of noise was twenty times louder now that there was no wall muting the sound.
I covered my ears to prevent future hearing damage and looked around the huge, open warehouse. This was not the way I remembered it. Before, it had been full of junk—old machines that did who knew what, a couple of half-built classic cars, rusty scrap metal, and VHS tapes, of all things.
But this was a completely different room. Talk about a transformation. All the junk was gone—completely cleaned out. The oil-splotched concrete floor was covered up witha fresh layer of padded gray rubber. Gone were the rusty off-white walls. The entire inside, floor to ceiling, was painted a nice matte black, giving it a modern feel. There were snacks littered against the far wall and a sleeping bag.
The culprit of the terrible voice—a tall man in jeans and a cowboy hat, of course—was still belting out the song, his back to me, on the other side of the vast room. I strode across the floor, determined to talk some sense into him. He was standing on a short ladder, nailing a two by four over a brand new entrance. It looked like he was about to install a massive all-glass sliding door, which was leaning against a nearby wall. Like a new business was being opened in here.
I stopped dead in my tracks. Had Mr. Greerly sold the building out from under me? It hadn’t been that long ago that we’d discussed my possibly buying it. And he’d seemed fine with letting me take my time deciding.
Just then, the off key voice belted a line so loud and so bad—and he knewwwww, if he couuuld, do it all over again, he’d love her the saaaame as he did back thennnnn—that a snort-laugh erupted from the bottom of my lungs. I was unable to contain it. I flat out guffawed—nostrils flaring, belly shaking, not even trying to be nice.
The man whirled on the ladder so fast it toppled over. Cowboy hat sailing through the air.
I screamed. Not simply because his feet flew above his head and he landed smack on his back on the newly padded floor—though it was scream-worthy. And hilarious.
No.
Because the person plummeting to the ground, The Off-Key Cowboy, was none other than Silas Dean Dupree.
Here.
In Seddledowne, Virginia. Not Laramie, Wyoming.
He was righthere.
Turning this warehouse into a gym.
“Oh my gosh.” I sprinted the rest of the way across the huge room. “Are you okay?” I slid to a stop on my knees, next to him.
He stared up at me, his beautiful gray eyes dazed and apprehensive. I should say eye. His wavy, chestnut hair covered the other one.
“Hi,” was all he said, never breaking eye contact, looking like he was afraid to even gulp.
I pushed his bangs back so I could see his entire, dashingly handsome face. My eyes drank him in. “I can’t believe you’re here. I thought you went back to Wyoming. I looked on that stupid app and it said that’s where you were.”
He blinked a few times, still flat on his back, looking as surprised to see me as I was to see him.
“No. Nope. Definitely not in Wyoming.” He pushed up on his elbows and I leaned back, letting him sit up. “I mean, I was for a few days.”
My head gave a little shake, still in shock. “I don’t understand. What are you doing in here?” I waved at the room.
He leaned against the wall, scrubbed a hand through his hair, wearing a sheepish expression. “Building you a gym.” His shoulders slumped, and he glanced away, at the new door, the ceiling, anywhere but me. “As soon as I’m done, I’ll sign it over. But it’s yours, bought and paid for. The equipment is coming next week. It should bring in plenty of money, give you a nice life.” He dared to look back at me. “I thought you could call it The Upward Dog. Get it?”
That was actually…perfect.
