If she’d been told she’d be spending the evening stranded in a honky-tonk bar, karaoke-ing her heart out to a roomful of truckers, Annabeth Upton would have laughed. She didn’t go to bars and she’d never been a fan of karaoke. But today had been tough. Tough as in her job was on the line, the phone creditors were getting nasty and her car slid across an icy road into a ditch. Tough might be an understatement.

In the past three hours, she’d played a few rounds of dominoes and won a game of pool while waiting for news on her car. And since she had no way home and the storm outside was still pelting the tin roof with hail and sleet, the only options left were karaoke or getting drunk. She wasn’t a big fan of hard liquor, so she’d start with karaoke. After that, and her day from hell, she might need a drink.

Thankfully, her audience wasn’t too picky. People started calling out requests when she finished the first song. Four songs later, she was ready to pass the microphone. But since Etta James’s “At Last” was one of her all-time favorite songs, she wasn’t about to say no to the old guy who requested it. “Last one, for you,” she said.

She cleared her throat, spun the microphone in her hand and waited for the music to play.

She could worry about the car and the repair bill later. And the courtesy call from the school board informing her that the job she was temporarily filling was opening for interviews. Hopefully she’d proved herself during her emergency appointment. Hopefully the whole interview and vetting process was a formality, not something to give her ulcers. She’d wanted to be principal of Stonewall Crossing Elementary since she was a little girl and she couldn’t imagine giving it up. Or how they’d make it if she had to go back to a teacher’s salary. Not that there was a thing she could do about that right this second.

Grandma Flo would tell her worrying would get her wrinkles, a bad taste in her mouth and not much else. She took a deep breath.

“At last—” her voice rasped out, steady and on-key. So far so good. She closed her eyes and let the music carry her.

She kept singing, her nerves easing. She should be grateful. Her accident hadn’t been too bad, and Cody was safe with her in-laws instead of with her. If he’d been in the car when she’d slid into the ditch... Nope, not going there. He was safe and sound and, other than the car, she’d walked away with only a bump on the head.

Her voice grew raw and thick as she continued.

Someone whistled, making her smile.

She fumbled the words as the door opened, blowing in cold air and sheets of ice before it slammed shut. A few people yelled, irritated by her singing or the interruption, she didn’t know which.

She sucked in a deep breath, hoping for a big finish. She held the last note, soaking up the applause from the inhabitants of Ol’ Ned’s BBQ & Bar. She held her long crushed-velvet skirt in her hands, crossed her boot-clad ankles and curtseyed. Then she headed straight for the bar.

Ol’ Ned was a mountain of a man, covered in a mask of long, thick facial hair. Other than his full lips—which were curved into a smile—he was fairly indistinguishable. He slid a shot glass across the bar to her. “That one’s from Mikey here.” Ned nodded at the older man sitting to her left.

She stared at the amber-colored liquid. Why not? She winced, swallowing the liquid before she could second-guess herself. It burned all the way down her throat. “Thank you,” she croaked to Mikey.

Mikey laughed.

“And the other’s on the house,” Ned rumbled, sliding another shot her way. “Voice like an angel.”

“Ain’t that the truth?” Mikey agreed.

She smiled, flattered in spite of herself. Her all-state choir days were long behind her, but she still loved to sing.

“Looks like one, too,” Mikey added.

Ned spoke up. “She’s too young and too pretty for you, Mikey.”

“Ah, Ned, come on now.” Mikey laughed. “A man’s never too old to appreciate a fine-looking woman. Besides, the missus would skin me alive if I tried to trade her in for a younger model.”

Annabeth’s smile grew. “I’ll try to remember you’re spoken for.” She saluted them both with her second shot and emptied the little glass, welcoming its warmth.

Mikey winked at her.

“Well, hell, darlin’, I’m not spoken for.” Another new voice had her spinning her stool around. This guy hadn’t been here earlier, because she would have noticed him. For one thing, he was under fifty. For another, he was easy on the eyes. But he was staring at her as if she was a prize elk and he was a big-game hunter. “Play?” He held a pool cue out to her.

Yes, she could play. But this cocky guy hadn’t been here earlier to know that. Greg had taught her to play. She was good—good enough to win a little money when she was in college. And right now, with two shots warming her belly, she was beginning to feel a little cocky herself. “Sure.” She took the cue, ready to wipe the confidence off Mr. Ego’s face.

“How about a bet?” he asked, stepping closer. “I’m feeling...lucky.”

You need a breath mint. She glanced at the floor, trying not to giggle. She was going to teach this joker a lesson, and enjoy it. “That’s nice.” She arched an eyebrow. “You’ll need it.”

Mr. Ego laughed, invading her personal space. “And the bet?”

She put her hand on her hip, thinking. “I win, you sing a song.” She winked at Ned, her tequila-infused courage goading her on.

“What do I get if I win?” he asked, looking at her boobs.

She poked his chest with her pool cue. “Eyes up here, buddy.”

“Troy,” he said. “I’m guessing your name is Angel?”

Oh, please. “No. Well, Troy, what were you hoping to get? And we’ll go from there.”

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