She sat in thoughtful silence for quite some time. She pulled her sketch pad into her lap, and stared down at that empty white page.
And then her pencil began to fly.
She reveled in creating in the arch of a neck, expressive angled ears, the curve of a haunch, the length of the spine, the flow of a mane and a tail.
And because it was standing on its hind legs, she dressed the horse in jeans.
And cowboy boots.
And then, as a coup de grâce, she drew a black T-shirt on him. It was snug at the top and a little loose at the waist.
She laughed at herself.
But with that one final touch, John Tennessee McCord was officially a horse.
The one she intended to get back up on.
CHAPTER7
J. T. had his truck back at around three o’clock the next day. He immediately took it for an almost giddy drive around town, as if he’d just been sprung from the pokey. He stopped in at the grocery store for some real food, including sandwiches and a few packaged salads, startling all the clerks into wide-eyed speechlessness. He drove past the fountain in the town square, past the town hall, past a few Victorians that straight-up qualified as mansions, and through, on a whim, a pretty little trailer park called Heavenly Shores even though no body of water was in sight. It was apparently a retirement community. He waved at two senior ladies hanging out on their porches, chatting and knitting. They waved gaily back.
All roads, alas, eventually of course led right back to the Angel’s Nest.
J. T. took a long hot shower and rubbed his own sandalwood soap in his armpits lest he besmirch the angel soap. He ate his grocery store sandwich and salad and tried to write his damn wedding toast for Felix, but he couldn’t hear his own thoughts over Kevin and Cherisse. The headboard bamming next door had yielded to loud arguing.
“You never listen to anything I say!” poor Cherisse was sobbing.
“You never stop talking! How am I supposed to listen toallof it?”
Kevin, the poor schmuck, sounded genuinely tormented.
J. T. sighed, made a fist and gave the wall a couple of good hard thumps.
They clammed up.
“Don’t go carving your initials in the Eternity Oak, now, ya hear?” he muttered dryly.
He was just reaching for his Kindle again when another text chimed in. He glanced at his phone.
It was Missy Van Cleve.
Tensnesseee I’m drunk and homey.
He frowned. “Homey” was the last thing Missy Van Cleve was. He’d heard the word “flawless” used to describe her, but an allegedly perfect waist-to-hip-to-bust ratio (which she’d once pointed out in an interview) did not, in his book, add up to flawless. She was famous for being famous, and she was most guys’ definition of hot, but she was also so vapid it entered the realm of surreal and wasalmostfunny. He’d gone out with her once, and decided life was too short, which is how he knew he was getting older.
But apparently he’d made quite an impression on her. Because she kept in touch. Usually when she was drunk.
A few seconds later:
I mean drunk homey.
A few seconds later.
Homey! I’m drunk and homey!
Where are you Tesnnsesse I’m drunk and homey! I’m coming right over
He could ignore her and hope she got tired of sending drunk texts and eventually passed out.
