Free That Girl's the One I Love by Alana Lorens

Leyla Brand leaned against the rough bark of the tree trunk, her eyes squinted against the over-bright light of the midday Saturday sun, soaking in the rock-and-roll notes of the Copper Moon band. Feeling the sizzle of summer on her skin, she sipped her frozen strawberry margarita, then held the tall, cold, plastic cup against her forehead. Ooooh, yes. Blessed relief.
    Out of the sea of humanity all around her, an overweight guy in a red tank top two sizes too small and shorts that showed way too much of his chunky legs stumbled close enough to nearly step on Leyla’s outstretched foot. She pulled it back just in time.
    “Hey, watch it!” he yelled at a young kid who ran past, but he said nothing to Leyla, just lurched on, drink in hand, shoving his way through the crowd at the corner of Battery Park and Heywood. And it was a crowd, this July Saturday in downtown Asheville, North Carolina: the Bele Chere festival, 2005. The TV news had estimated there’d be 250,000 people in attendance. Leyla had eyes for only one.
    She’d been a fan, almost a groupie, of the Copper Moon band for the past several months, after she’d heard them play in a local bar. Their covers of other artists’ tunes were all right, but their originals, written by lead singer Arran Lake, spoke directly to Leyla’s heart. He was easy on the eyes, too. He stood about five feet ten, with Scandinavian-blond hair that curled around his ears, soft blue eyes that seemed to caress Leyla when they made contact with hers, and a casual vibe in his choice of clothing that let her know he was perfectly comfortable in his own skin.
    I’d be pretty comfortable next to his skin, too.
    They’d look good together. She was sure of it. She, too, was tall and slender, with baby-soft blonde hair and gray eyes. She, too, preferred a laid-back relaxed look. Now all she needed was a real introduction.
    Arran finished the song to a smattering of polite applause and a couple of wolf whistles. Almost time. Leyla drained her margarita for courage.
    “We’re gonna take a break, y’all! Stay thirsty!” He raised a tall glass of something brown, and the crowd cheered. It could have been bourbon or scotch, but Leyla bet it was sweet iced tea, otherwise known as the house wine of the South. Arran wasn’t a big drinker, even in bars, as far as she’d been able to see. She’d made it her business to notice everything she could about him in the two dozen times she’d seen him perform. She’d interrogated waitresses, managers, anyone she could see had meaningful contact with him, gathering bits and snips of information. Most importantly, that he wasn’t dating anyone at the moment.
    Since she’d also been single for the last year, she felt safe to ask him out. All through the last month, she’d rehearsed different approaches, what she might say to gain his personal attention.
    She got to her feet, on the move toward the low stage. The group would take fifteen minutes to duck out of the sun, get something cold to drink, and mingle with fans. Well, she was a fan. She intended to mingle—or maybe a little more. If she could arrange it.
    She shoved her way through the crowd, drawling polite apologies. Two other women, their hair inartfully bleached and their apparel almost as slutty as streetwalkers, had cornered Arran against the storefront behind the stage, gold hoop earrings flashing in the sun as their lips flapped in an incessant flood of words. Leyla slowed her approach, disappointed they’d beaten her to the objective.
    But, to her surprise, Arran looked right in her face and broke into a great big smile. “There you are, honey,” he said, pushing past the women to take her arm. Dragging her with him, he walked away toward the street vendors. “Want some fried veggies?”
    Leyla thought she’d dropped her breath behind her on the sidewalk. She really didn’t want any. But she’d be damned if she’d turn him down. “Sure.”
    Arran let his arm slip down around