She had gotten his messages, of course. But she didn’t want to tell him she’d been at her ex-husband’s wedding when he called.

“My phone is kinda messed up,” Annajane said. “What message did you leave?”

“I said I love you, and I miss you,” Shane said. That was how he’d been right from the start. So open and loving.

That first night, at the bar, she kept thinking it was late and she needed to leave, but she couldn’t. At the break, the rest of the band went to the bar, where the women mobbed them, buying them drinks, laughing and flirting. Annajane, bored, was scrolling through e-mails on her phone when she heard the scrape of a chair. She looked up and it was the Dobro player.

He had a glass of white wine in his hand. “The bartender thought this was what you’re drinking,” he said.

She took the wine and asked him to sit down, and the smile that spread across his face was liquid and sweet, and his dimples deepened. And for a moment, the insane thought occurred to her—Wouldn’t this man make beautiful babies?

He glanced toward the bar, where his bandmates were engaged in slamming back shooters and flirting with the women flocked around them. She looked, too, and saw a couple of the women staring daggers at her. He started to say something, stopped, started again, and then just grinned.

“What is it?” she asked.

“I can’t think of a single thing to say to you that doesn’t sound like a pickup line.”

“Oh.” She thought about it.

“You’ve probably heard every pickup line in the book, I bet,” he said.

“Not really.” She wasn’t being coy. She’d never been much for the bar scene, even in college. And she honestly couldn’t ever remember anybody even approaching her with a pickup line in a bar. She was pretty enough, she thought, but she just didn’t attract that kind of attention.

“I find that hard to believe,” he said. “My name’s Shane, by the way.”

“So I gathered, from your fan club,” she said with a laugh. “I’m Annajane.”

“That’s a pretty name, Annajane,” he said. “Kind of quaint, a little old-fashioned. Are you an old-fashioned girl?”

“I was named for my grandmothers,” she said. “But no, I’m probably not all that old-fashioned.”

“Are you a bluegrass fan?”

“Not really,” she said. “But I like your music. You’ve got a beautiful voice.”

“Thanks.” When he smiled, the dimples were so deep she was tempted to see if she could poke a finger in one.

“I really do like your name,” he said thoughtfully. “I guess I’m a sucker for double names. Good for songwriting.”

“Do you write music?”

He shrugged. “I tinker with it. Bars like this, though, the audience wants the familiar. You know, ‘Rocky Top’ and crap like that. How about you, what do you do for a living?”

She sipped her wine. “I work in marketing for a soft drink company.”

“Coke?”

She laughed. “I wish. Nope. Quixie—you know it?”

“The quicker quencher, sure, practically mother’s milk,” he said. “Don’t they make that somewhere around here?”

“Our headquarters are in Passcoe,” she said. “So … if you know Quixie, you must be from the Carolinas, right?

“Gastonia,” he said. “Went to Middle Tennessee, got an English degree, but decided I liked music better.”

They heard chords of music coming from the stage, and when they looked up, saw that the band was getting ready to start playing again.

“Gotta go,” he said, pushing his chair back. “Any chance you might stay for the next set?”

She looked at her watch, but it was a pretense. She knew she intended to stay.

Shane kept his eyes riveted to hers throughout the night. After the last song, as the last stragglers drifted out of the lounge, he came bounding up to her table, his Dobro case in hand, clearly delighted to still find her sitting there.

“How ’bout I buy us something to eat?” he asked.

They took her car and found a Waffle House out by the interchange, and Shane wolfed down a steak and eggs, with hashbrowns, covered and smothered. She nibbled at a grilled cheese sandwich. At three o’clock, they were the only customers in the place. He’d told her his story; she’d given him a brief version of hers.

Annajane drove him back to the Holiday Inn. She parked by the door of the lounge. He made small talk, clearly not wanting to get out of the car. “It’s late,” she said finally. “If my mama wakes up, she’ll think I’ve been kidnapped by aliens.”

“I know.” He had the Dobro case across his knees. He leaned in and brushed his lips across hers. “Will it sound like the worst pickup line in the world if I tell you I don’t want you to go?”

“Try it,” she suggested.

He took her face in his hands and kissed her, this time, a long, slow, deep kiss. He rested his forehead against hers. “I don’t want you to go.”

She felt her toes curl. “Hmm. Maybe try it again?”

He kissed her again. Even better. She gave into temptation and lightly touched one of the dimples with her fingertip. He caught it and kissed her hand, and drew him to her.

The next time she looked up, she giggled.

“What?” Shane was distracted.

She gestured at the Acura’s windows. “We’ve fogged ’em up,” she said happily. She hadn’t been with a man since her divorce. She hadn’t realized how long it had been until just that moment. And she hadn’t realized how much she missed being touched, either.

He pulled her toward him again. “You know, we don’t have to stay down here in this car. I’ve got a room here. Deluxe king, nonsmoking. Free Internet. Free cable. Free coffee. And there are a lot of windows there that we could be fogging up…”

Annajane sighed. “That sounds … nice. But remember how you asked me if I were an old-fashioned girl?”

“Yeah?”

“I guess I kinda am. I guess I’m not the kind of girl who picks up a musician at the Holiday Inn lounge and then goes to bed with him later that same night.”

“Oh.” He didn’t bother to hide the disappointment in his voice. “You probably think I do this all the time. I swear, I don’t. Maybe I did the first year the band was out on the road … but not anymore.”

“I believe you,” she said. She let her fingertips trail down her arm. “Tomorrow’s Saturday. Well, okay, I guess today is Saturday. I go home to Passcoe on Sunday.”

“We’re only here one more night before we head up to Roanoke for a gig,” Shane said. “Can you come back tomorrow, I mean, tonight?”

“Probably,” she said lightly. “Maybe I could bring a toothbrush.”

He grinned, and his dimples were deep enough to dive into. “I’ll buy you one my ownself.”

The weekend after that, she’d driven up to Roanoke, and two weeks after that, they’d met in Nashville, and then, when the band had a week off right after Christmas, she met him down in Jupiter Beach at his cousin’s condo. At some point, she was startled to realize how different he was from any other man she’d known. Being with him was so easy, so effortless. He was the exact opposite of the driven, intense Mason Bayless. And that was a good thing, she was sure. On their last morning at the beach condo, she woke up and found Shane, his head propped on an elbow, gazing down at her.

“What’s up?” she asked sleepily.

“I’m just thinking about how cool it’s gonna be years and years from now when we tell our kids the story of how we met when I picked you up in a bar and I spent the next night at the Holden Beach Holiday Inn rollin’ in my sweet baby’s arms.”

Kids? She’d deliberately told herself she was not getting that serious about Shane, that they were just two adults enjoying getting to know each other. But all along she knew she was falling for him.

“When and if we have kids, as far as they will be concerned, we met at a church picnic,” she informed him.

Two weeks later, the band was playing at a tiny club in Durham. She was sitting in the audience, sipping the glass of wine he’d sent over to her table, when the band swung into “Could I Have This Dance?” She’d been a little surprised, because it wasn’t on their usual set list, but mild surprise had turned to shock and numbness when Shane stepped off the bandstand, made his way to her table, and slipped the sterling silver band on her left ring finger.