Free The Chance: A Novel by Karen Kingsbury Page B

eyes met, and at first even Lena thought it was nothing more than harmless fun. Flirty interactions between an entertainer and a fan. The sort of thing a guy like Peyton probably did every night.
    Caroline figured the exchange was something she and Lena would laugh about when they were old someday. The night the famous Peyton Anders had singled Caroline Tucker out of the whole audience and made her head spin.
    But after a few songs, the brief looks became an occasional wink, and as the concert played on Caroline allowed herself to believe that she and Peyton were the only ones in the auditorium. Near the end of his set, he motioned for her to go to the side stage. At the same time, two guys from his crew appeared near the steps. They waved her over as Peyton took a brief break. He drank back half a bottle of water and then smiled at the audience. “They say Savannah has the prettiest ladies in the South.”
    Caroline remembered how she felt, her heart in her throat, as she waited near the side stage. Peyton was going on. “All night I’ve been noticing one very pretty little lady.” He shrugged, his boyish grin beyond charming. Somehow hemanaged to look like a middle-school kid crushing on his friend’s older sister. “What can I say? I can’t sing this next song without her.”
    The crowd cheered, the sound deafening. By then the two men had led Caroline up onto the stage. She could still see herself waiting in the wings, dressed in a white blouse, her best jeans, and cowboy boots, her knees shaking.
    “Come on, sweetheart, come on out here.”
    Caroline felt like she’d fallen into a dream. This can’t be happening, she told herself. He was famous and eight years younger. She was a member of the PTSA, not the Peyton Anders Fan Club. But what could she do now? She came tentatively to him, the applause and howls rattling her nerves. When she reached him, he took her hand. “What’s your name, darling?” He held the microphone out to her.
    “Caroline.” She blinked, blinded by the glare of the spotlight. “Caroline Tucker.”
    Peyton chuckled and looked at the audience. “Caroline Tucker, ladies and gentlemen. Is she beautiful or what?”
    More cheers and applause. Caroline tried to exhale. She had to be dreaming. That was the only way to explain it. By then the kind words Alan once lavished on her had long since given way to functional conversation. How was Ellie doing in school? Why hadn’t the laundry been done? When was she going to call the plumber about the broken drain in the bathroom sink? That sort of thing. Alan came home tired and distracted. Some days he barely glanced at her as he walked through the door, so it wasn’t a surprise that she hadn’t felt pretty in months. Old and weary, lonely and uncertain. Tired and used up. All of those.
    But not beautiful.
    One of Peyton’s guys brought over a bar stool, and Peyton held her hand while she climbed onto it. Then he sang her the title song of his newest album. The song that had inspired the tour: “Whatever You’re Feeling.” The lights and crowd and applause faded away as Peyton sang and Caroline held her breath. Every line, every lyric, every word seemed written for her and this strange connection between them, a connection that had happened in as much time as it took her to breathe. Even now the lyrics were as familiar as her name.
    Now that we’re both here
    Nothing left to fear
    We could have it all
    So let your heart fall
    Here in this moment that we’re stealing
    Baby, I am feeling
    The same thing you are feeling
    Whatever you are feeling.
    When he finished the song, he hugged her, and in a way no one could’ve detected, he whispered, “Give your number to my guys.” Then he smiled at the audience. “Caroline Tucker, ladies and gentlemen.”
    She walked off the stage, dizzy and excited and sick to her stomach. Two thoughts consumed her. First, she’d committed what had to be an unforgivable sin: She had been attracted to another