Free A Better Reason to Fall in Love by Marcia Lynn McClure Page B

creating. She shook her head again as she studied his silver-tipped cowboy boots, the way his shirt hung untucked and so deceptively casual. Even his hair was different—a little mussed, as if he’d just run his fingers through it, careless of the tousled result.
    Absolute elation mingled with a weird sort of disappointment in Tabby’s stomach. Part of her was entirely wowed at the fact Jagger Brodie was a singer-slash-musician—a blues and jazz singer-slash-musician. Yet another part of her was disappointed to find he was even more handsome, cool, and desirable than he’d already been. She glanced around the room, studying the faces of the women who sat in awed silence watching Jagger perform. Yep, she wasn’t the only one salivating and fighting off goose bumps.
    The song ended, and the crowd of restaurant patrons erupted into whistles and applauding.
    “Thank you,” Jagger mumbled into the mike. “Thank you very much. You’re too good to me, I promise you…and I’ll thank Mr. Aaron Neville for that. Aaron Neville’s ‘Yellow Moon,’ ladies and gentleman.”
    “Un-stinking-believable,” Emmy mumbled.
    “You know,” Jagger began, adjusting the microphone stand, “when I was kid, I was playing in this little garage band with my friends.” Tabby watched as Jagger hit one guitar string and tuned it a bit by twisting a tuning peg. “I mean,” he continued, “we were literally playing in a garage—my friend’s garage, my friend Corey’s garage. Corey’s dad built that garage himself,” Jagger said, grinning. “Corey’s dad did everything in that garage, including the electrical…and apparently there were some problems. I plugged into my amp one day and frizzzz—electrocution.”
    Someone from the audience called, “Dude! Are you serious?”
    Jagger’s smile broadened, and he nodded. “Yep. The outlet I was using…it wasn’t properly grounded. I ended up in the hospital.” Jagger held up his right hand. “Burned the skin off three of my fingers…clear down to the muscle in places.”
    The audience moaned with expressed sympathy, and Tabby winced.
    “It’s okay, though,” Jagger said, tuning another string. “The doctors stripped a little skin off my butt, grafted it to my fingers, and it was all good.” He strummed—picked a few notes. “Of course, ever since then…I’ve always been a little behind in my playing.”
    The audience laughed—including Naomi, Emmy, and Jocelyn—and Jagger smiled.
    He chuckled into the microphone and said, “So I appreciate your listening. And here’s one you might know. It’s called ‘Pretty Baby Sister.’”
    The audience applauded and whistled as Jagger Brodie began a smooth blues riff.
    “Unbelievable!” Emmy breathed. “Seriously…can you believe it?” she asked, looking to Tabby.
    All at once, Tabby could believe it! After all, Jagger Brodie was so entirely surreal in every respect—so much more something a woman’s imagination would concoct as the subject of unconscious fantasy—that it actually made sense. So she could believe he was a blues singer and guitarist. Why was she surprised?
    “Actually…yeah,” she answered. “I kind of can believe it.”
    Tabby watched as Jagger Brodie performed, studied his absolutely too cool appearance, listened to his raspy, extraordinarily Jonny Lang–type voice.
    “ Stop and talk awhile, baby…give me the time of day ,” Jagger sang, his gravelly voice causing every face in the room to smile, every head to nod with approval. “ I ain’t no playin’ Casanova…my heart won’t never stray. Your big sister messed me…she sure gave me a spill. But you’re so pretty, baby sister…you give me a kickin’ thrill. So, stop and talk awhile, baby…baby sister, say you will. Mm…mmmm…mm…mm .”
    The goose bumps covering Tabby’s arms and legs were so thick—the fascinating shiver traveling through her body was so thorough—she couldn’t help but sigh.
    “Seriously…he wasn’t