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have a Jag or a Porsche by now,” Jess said lightly. “Something fast and dreadfully expensive.”
    Jimmy threw open the driver’s side door, and with his hands at her waist he lifted Jess onto the seat. She scooted over quickly, to escape both the cold and the warm touch of his hands. He followed, slamming the door forcefully behind him.
    She leaned against the passenger door, placing as much distance between her and Jimmy as possible. Not that it did any good. He kept coming, until he was leaning over her. She’d spent so much time and energy avoiding this... his wide shoulders dwarfing her, his body heat wrapping around her, his very closeness making her heart pound hard and fast. His hand slipped to her side, into the pocket of his jacket, the jacket she now wore, and came up with the two paper cups.
    He retrieved a pint of Jack Daniels from the glove compartment, and then retreated to a position similar to her own against the opposite door.
    She took the paper cups and held them while he opened the whiskey and poured the amber liquid slowly until the little cups were half-full.
    Jimmy removed his hat and tossed it carelessly to the dashboard, where it landed with part of the brim resting on the steering wheel. The light from a street lamp lit his grim face, accentuated the lines and the weariness Jess couldn’t get accustomed to. He lifted his paper cup in a mock salute. “Happy freakin’ holidays.”
    She refused to drink to that bitter toast, but he tipped his cup back and drained his cup.
    She’d known from the beginning that success would change him. It changed everyone, even the nicest, most stable guys. She’d seen it happen too many times, and the possibilities had scared her. Because in spite of all her denials, all her reservations, she didn’t want to lose the Jimmy Blue she knew. In her worst imaginings, she’d never expected anything as drastic and disturbing as this.
    “You want to know why I still drive this truck?” he asked as he refilled his cup.
    “Sure,” she whispered.
    He lifted his eyes to her. “Erica hates it. Only rednecks drive pickup trucks, according to my lovely, social-climbing wife. It embarrasses the hell out of her when I insist we take the truck instead of her Mercedes.”
    It was petty, unlike the Jimmy Blue she remembered, and Jess saw, in a flicker of his gray eyes, that he agreed with her unspoken assessment.
    She didn’t want to talk about his wife. “What’s the big news?”
    Jimmy looked into his cup, but didn’t drain it again. For that, Jess was grateful. “I quit.”
    He mumbled, so she wasn’t sure she heard him correctly.
    “What?”
    He lifted his head and stared straight at her once again. “I quit,” he said more clearly. “I’m going home, back to Texas and Dad’s ranch. I never should’ve come to Nashville, and I sure as hell shouldn’t have stayed here.”
    “But... but you love it,” Jess protested. “You love the music.”
    He smiled, crookedly and sadly. “I used to. Sometimes I can almost remember what it was like to close my eyes and let the music take over. I could get lost in it, in the peace and the wonder. Sometimes the music came from nowhere, from everywhere. It was always just there, a gift I never understood until it was gone.”
    “It’s not gone.”
    Jimmy waved away her objection. “Oh, hell, yes, it’s gone. I know it. The fans know it. They can hear it in my music. That’s why “Over the Edge” isn’t selling.” He turned his face away from her. “If I’d stayed in Texas and worked Dad’s ranch and rodeoed when I felt like it and played in the Armadillo Ballroom with the guys on the weekends, maybe I’d still have it. Maybe I’d still love it. Right now I don’t care if I never touch another guitar as long as I live.”
    She would have expected anger in such a statement, but Jimmy was perfectly calm—and perfectly serious.
    “I’m so sorry.”
    Jimmy actually smiled, and it was very close to a real