“Charles,” he said, in his stateliest, you’ll-never-guess-what-I’m-thinking manner.
“Mr. Koenig,” Charlie replied, unable to bring himself to use the other man’s first name.
“It is an act of bravery to put your heart on the line.” Mr. Koenig raised his beer. “I commend you.”
Charlie saw his father approaching, expression shifting when he overheard Mr. Koenig.
“Didn’t know you had it in you.” Mr. Pike playfully punched Charlie’s arm. “That was fire, as the kids say.”
“I wasn’t talking about Mugsy,” Charlie hastened to inform him, in case both of his parents were confused on that score.
“I should hope not,” Mr. Koenig said. “Emma would be so disappointed.”
“Who knows which way the wind is blowing with these crazy kids?” Mr. Pike shook his head. “I’m sure we both played the field in our day. Make hay while the sun shines, am I right, Phil?”
The answering smile was enigmatic.
“Young love.” Mr. Pike raised his glass. “Shall we toast to that, Phil?”
“I’ll drink to love at any age,” the other man replied.
“I have to go,” Charlie said, because he couldn’t drink to love without Jean.
And Jean, he was forced to conclude after finishing another circuit of the crowd—including the apple pie station, bathroom line, coat check, sound board, backstage area, and an awkward hug from Sergeant Cowboy—was gone.
The last dregs of adrenaline ebbed away. He’d gone all in, making a desperate bid to impress someone who’d already left. Once again, his best wasn’t good enough.
Too little and too late, Charlie thought. The story of his life.
Chapter 29
“Quaint alert! Who gave this place the right?”
“Socozy. Did I tell you I stayed in one of these at Joshua Tree?”
The voices trickled through the fog of sleep until they pricked the edge of Jean’s consciousness. Her eyes flew open.
People were in her wagon.
“That one had a hot tub though,” the second voice continued.
“Nice.”
“I know.”
“Too much to expect around here. It’s like we’re playing Prairie Dog Village.”
Snorting and cackling ensued. The intruders didn’t sound dangerous. Rude, maybe, but if Jean held very still, they might leave, and she could go back to sleep.
“You’re so funny. Are you using something different on your skin?”
Jean frowned, failing to see the connection.
“Yes! Thank you for noticing. It’s a clean beauty company my cousin started. Very niche. I could probably get you on the list—”
“Excuse me,” Jean interrupted, sitting up. She was tired of playing dead while a multilevel skincare marketing scheme unfolded next to her bed.
Two lithe young noncowboys stared back at her. One had a cascading black ponytail and the other’s hair was short and acid yellow. Judging by the not-from-around-here outfits, they had also been expecting a different kind of festival, with fewer chuckwagon suppers.
