Rebel
I turned in my seat, and my heart stumbled before racing double-time. Reagan sat on a stool at the center of the small stage, looking sexier than any man had a right to. Black jeans. A thin black T-shirt stretched tight across his chest. His face was somber, all sharp angles and dark, slashing brows. He shifted, stretching out the injured leg, adjusted the microphone, then settled the guitar against him.
“Good evening,” he said, and his voice slid over me like warm velvet. “Tonight we are here to celebrate the return of Eva Bradford. Eva, this first song is for you.”
He began to play. His fingers moved over the strings as if he were touching a lover. I barely heard the words—something about finding your way home, about faith that everything would be alright.
When the last note fa
