Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Whit
“ T his seems like overkill. I don’t need stage makeup for this event.” I relaxed my eyes as Amanda, my makeup artist, readied my fake eyelashes.
“False.”
“How is that false? I’m not going to be on stage!”
This was an age-old discussion. I loved makeup, but the stage-level goop quickly became tiresome. And some part of me wanted to be a little closer to me when I saw Ben tonight. People tended to gush over the public me, but he’d seen me for the first time as pretty close to myself—minimal makeup, no big hair, and normal clothes in the comfort of a relative’s home.
“You and I both know you’re going to end up on stage tonight, so don’t even try with me today, Whit. You pay me for this, and if I don’t do it right, Nikki will kill me. I’ll choose your attitude over death any day, sorry.” She didn’t look at all apologetic as she gently tapped the edge of the lashes to my lid, then blew on the glue to dry.
Amanda had begged me to get lash extensions, and I’d tried them but hated them, so we were stuck with this.
“Fine. But note my protest.” I lifted my chin and parted my lips, knowing she’d need this angle for finishing them, then it’d be back to the eyes.
“So noted. And can I just say, you seem particularly grumpy today.”
I cracked one eye open, just barely, and took in her short platinum hair artfully messy with a magical pomade that kept the locks in place, but still made it look soft. Her lids were mermaid colors today—shimmering blues and greens, and they brought out her teal eyes. Of course they did—this was her thing. But still. Her makeup always amazed me.
“No, I’m not.”
“You are. So tell me why.”
I waited as she brushed color over my lips—I’d be going with an au naturel look far from natural considering I had more makeup on now than I wore on any normal day. But the look was one I’d become known for working fairly often at events, and I did like it. My dark hair and fair skin lent itself to this kind of “spare” look on my face—nude lips, dewy skin, dark, smoky eyes for evening, but only in grays.
I waited ’til she’d finished. “The guy who’s coming. He’s sweet. He’s a normal . I don’t want him to be freaked out.”
A shimmer of nerves slithered in my belly, but I ignored it—something I’d become an expert at in the last decade.
“You like him?” Amanda asked, surprise clear in her voice.
She’d been with me through all the mess after Jamie, at which point I’d sworn off men altogether.
“No—nothing like that. He’s just… sweet. I don’t want him to feel uncomfortable, and I feel like this thing is becoming a bigger deal than it should. It’s supposed to be about this little school for the arts, not me.”
I took a deep breath and let it out slowly, rolling my shoulders back while staying as still as I could as Amanda worked her magic on my eyes.
Nobody should know my response to Ben Holder was nothing familiar. He made me… stop. It felt odd, and I hadn’t figured out how to describe it to myself yet, but I was eager to see if it would happen when we met again.
“Well, it’s not like he’s going to be surprised by who you are, right? He’s knows you’re… you?” She sprayed my whole face with what amounted to hairspray for my makeup—setting spray, she’d told me and giving me a side-eye like you’ve never seen—then leaned back to look me over. “My goodness, I’m good.”
“It’s the raw material, I’m pretty sure.” My words came with a grin.
I loved how she loved her job. Despite giving her a hard time, I was incredibly thankful for my team. It seemed odd to have an entire team that traveled with me, was employed by me, essentially, and who’d become a kind of family to me. They were, and I cared for them; that made some of the road-weariness, the incessant ambition, and the long days far easier.
“Raw material ain’t bad. But I’m a genius.” She spun me around to look in the mirror.
I did look good in what I called my Country singer hair thanks to Damon, my hair stylist. It was just shy of a big bouffant like the old Country ladies used to wear on top with lift at the crown, sides pulled and artfully pinned half-up at the back into some kind of design I hadn’t taken time to appreciate, and the rest long all the way to my ribs. It fell straight, and the combination of the hair, the nude lips, and heavy eyes gave me a seventies feel we’d been using a lot lately.
“All right, go get dressed. You’ve got ten minutes ’til Ru comes to get you.” Amanda shooed me from the seat and began tidying up the makeup.
I did appearances here in Nashville often enough that we had the whole set up for her in my bathroom, complete with bright lights and a chair I could lean back in.
I wandered to my closet and scooched a few things around to find what Damon had suggested. The dusty pink chiffon dress had drapey pearlescent fabric on top that shaped into a halter, though it was full and fairly modest thanks to the more classic Country era look. The bottom fell straight from my waist down in pleats giving it a seventies flair, and only a light pink painted toe nail would peek out as I walked in my platform sandals.
I always wore high heels to events because I was naturally quite short—five-foot-two— finding it tiresome to always be craning my neck up to all the people wanting to talk with me.
That sounded so arrogant, but no point demurring—I was one big reason why they were coming, why the parents and guests were paying a thousand dollars a head. I’d join the kindergarten class for a short song, and that was it. There were two or three other Country stars coming, and someone from the Nashville football team—we were all the willing ponies for the show.
I didn’t mind this kind of dog and pony, though, because it was helping a school I liked a lot. If I live in Nashville when I have kids, should such an event occur a long time from now, I would consider sending them to this school .
“Ready, Whit?” Ru asked from the entryway.
Ru worked as my driver when I was in town and often on tour, as well. He was a dad of four and only liked old Country, so we got into it when he felt chatty. But mostly, he left me to myself. Yet another part of this big family I’d cobbled together.
“Yes.” The word came between two crunches of the last few nuts still in my mouth. A swig of water and a swish later, a stick of gum then went in. “Let’s go.”
Damon had left earlier, and Amanda waved me off from where she sat on my couch. If this had been an awards show, she might have come with me, but since it was a smaller event, I didn’t need her touching up—I’d learned that, at least, in the time I’d been doing this. A small powder, lip gloss, and my ID and credit card always accompanied me, today in my small, sparkling pink clutch. We were going for very feminine tonight, apparently, though it was just what I’d been in the mood for.
We pulled up to the conference center—the Gaylord Opryland, one of the strangest, most Nashville places you can think of. Upon my exit from the car, only a camera or two snapped, much to my delight. I waved Ru off and smiled at the photographers, chatting mildly while inching my way toward the door. Being kind and unrushed was important, but so was staying in motion. If you stopped, it would be hard to get moving again—learned that the hard way.
Once I reached the building, someone opened a door, allowing me to walk through without looking. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” came a familiar voice.
I’d only heard it a handful of times, but I’d know it anywhere. I whipped around to find Ben smiling at me.
“Oh! Hi.” My voice was breathy as I took him in. He was as good-looking as in my memories.
Which was maybe a problem.
“You look beautiful.” He smiled softly.
His gaze, notably, stayed on my face, which I found alternately charming and irritating. The dress did nice things for me, after all.
“Thank you. You look very nice, too.”
And he did. He really did.
I’d told him he could wear his dress blues, if he wanted, because most soldiers had them, but he’d said he preferred to rent a tux. That couldn’t have been cheap, based on the clean lines and close fit—no boxy shoulders or worn sleeves to indicate a rental. It was an effort for him to be here with me, and seeing him all dressed up, his hair just barely long and styled on top, making him look particularly dapper, brought that home. “Thank you for doing this.”
“It’s not a hardship.” He quirked an eyebrow and offered me his arm.
I took it, and we started walking.
Even through his jacket, his warmth radiated under my touch. Strange how for formal events, women ended up in very little clothing, and men always wore long pants and long sleeves. I’d worn some heavy dresses, but almost never felt overheated due to my clothing. Impossible to imagine being layered up in a dress shirt and full jacket, even on a cool evening.
“How have your last few weeks been?” It dawned on me that we’d never shared casual conversation in person.
“Good. Busy, but good.”
A little thrill shot through me when our eyes met. He looked like he should be an Abercrombie and Fitch model, all golden hair and bright blue eyes. He certainly filled out his suit perfectly—his broad shoulders and narrow waist tucking into slim, perfectly fitted black tux pants.
Normally, unless they were also in the spotlight, I’d detect a hint of nerves from a date. It had been a few years since I’d tried going out with anyone like Ben—anyone whose life and job were, well… normal.
Shoulders squared, back straight, I could detect no hint of unease about him.
Then again, facing down cameras wouldn’t be all that stressful compared to being in a war zone.
“Whit Grantham, come here, baby!” Colton Danes said from the entryway.
Great .
“Hi there, Colton. How’re you doin’?”
I tended to lay on the accent a little thick in these situations, particularly considering I didn’t have much twang at all when speaking naturally. But something about Colton Danes, notorious playboy and self-proclaimed good ol’ Country boy , made me want to fling out all my bless your hearts and drop all my g’s.
“Aw, baby, I’m just so glad to see you here. Getting out already after your tour—good for you.” The slimebucket sidled up to me as he ran a hand through his shaggy sandy brown hair, his date trailing just behind him.
“Colton Danes,” he said, and shot out a manicured hand to Ben.
“Ben Holder. Nice to meet you,” Ben returned, and shook Danes’ hand like it was no big deal.
I glanced at him from the corner of my eye while keeping my show smile pinned to Danes—Ben looked entirely unperturbed by Country’s favorite bad boy shaking his hand .
Okay. Bonus points for being absolutely unimpressed by celebrity thus far.
Colton Danes had a backlist of Country number ones just shorter than mine. He sang the kind of Country that strongly featured what I’d refer to as spoken word set to a Country twanged background that was so ragingly popular these days. In my opinion, his musical ability amounted to three out of ten, but he had the looks, could get along decently with a guitar, and he’d managed to charm the audience of some other competing television show the year following my win on SouthernStar .
Say what you would about the TV show-to-musical-stardom machine, but it worked.
Though, apparently, none too well on Ben Holder.
“So, doll face, when am I gonna see you?” Danes ducked his head and wrinkled his brow in false concern.
I looked side to side, no doubt failing to hide my disdain. “Well, you’re seein’ me now, right?”
“Oh, sure, but I mean just you and me.” He dropped his voice just a bit, like we were in an intimate setting instead of him saying all this in front of both my date and his.
His date, petite and blond and looking entirely out of place in the conversation, making me wonder where he’d found her since he usually went out with fellow celebs, glanced at me when I extended my hand. “Whit Grantham.”
“Kaylee. Nice to m-meet you.”
Her hesitation told me what I could see written all over her face—incredible discomfort hung over her, and she hadn’t been expecting me to introduce myself. I suspected Danes hadn’t bothered to introduce her to anyone yet.
“Ben Holder,” he said, offering Kaylee his hand.
She took it and gave him a huge smile. I could admit it— he merited that response. Yes, Kaylee was with one of Country music’s hottest young stars, but Ben Holder had him beat by a mile, even before you factored in anything beyond the cover.
Ben was a full-sized man, where Danes seemed miniature next to him. He was shorter, maybe five-foot-nine, but he also just seemed… small. And manicured—his hair expertly disheveled and sun-streaked by a pro, his face suspiciously free of any shine or color variation that only a makeup artist could elicit, and his fingers covered in rings, despite his wearing a Countryfied tux.
In comparison, Ben looked positively refined.
“I’ll see you on stage, right?” Danes said, putting a hand on my arm, which made me jerk back.
People touched and pulled at me often, but this guy seemed to think he had been invited to touch me, or that his flirty attempts at getting me alone in front of my date would do anything other than annoy me.
Just no.