Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Ben
I f there existed a person more exquisitely beautiful in this world, I couldn’t tell you who it is. The woman walking next to me with one delicate hand on my arm was so gorgeous, she was hard to look at.
I’d had the same response to her weeks ago when we first met, and yet, somehow, I’d let the memory of my response to her dull. I’d had to, because if I let myself remember just how astoundingly pretty she was, I never would have agreed to attend the event at her side.
And even now as Colton Danes, one of Country’s biggest young stars, propositioned her in front of his date and me, I couldn’t think about anything other than how much I wanted to just look at this woman.
Whit Grantham.
If Colton Danes was one of Country’s hottest stars, then she was the hottest. In every sense of the word. I knew she was big, but she’d landed on my radar after she’d released her latest album last spring titled After Today . It had been a bit of a throwback, but with a fresh feeling about it.
New music hadn’t filled my ears in years—I’d always liked classic Country, and the new stuff just wasn’t my thing. Waylon, Willie, Johnny, and Merle had kept me company in Afghanistan and in the long months after as I’d climbed out of the pit.
But someone had recommended Whit Grantham’s album to me, said it was thoughtful and lovely, and so, I’d sampled it. And liked it. And bought it. And I’d listened.
Something about it… affected me. It had felt familiar, like she’d looked at me and knew me, though we’d never met. There were several songs about soldiers, which made a lot more sense now knowing that Major Reese Flint, my mentor and effectively my boss, was her cousin.
So when I met her at Flint’s house a few weeks ago, then saw her perform from back stage, then escorted her around Fort Campbell for a few hours after the concert for a publicity tour of the post… well, I’d acted normal.
What I’d expected of myself, who knew, but I’d kept my cool. Other than when first seeing her and stuttering over her and my own name, I think I kept it together.
But after spending that time with her, I’d wanted more. After all, that time really hadn’t proven to be all that great an opportunity to get to know her since we just went from place to place in a car with the publicity officer for the post and a photographer her PR person had hired. Naturally, I’d wanted more.
Thanks to social media, I got it.
Not really. But following her on Instagram allowed me to see pictures of her without being too creepy. And then, yeah, I searched the Internet for her and read some of the stories which recapped what some part of my mind remembered from before I deployed—she’d won a contest on TV and got a record contract, then had blown up from there. She was a crazy accomplished musician, so bands and other musicians loved working with her, and she was stubborn, so record companies didn’t, except for the fact that whatever she touched turned platinum.
No one knew much about where she’d come from, and Reese wouldn’t tell me anything. He’d been preoccupied lately, though, so I hadn’t asked him outright.
I planned to.
When she’d sent me a direct message, I’d never felt such a stupid jolt of adrenaline over a line of words as in that moment.
Nothing had been the same since tapping that little notification to respond to her.
Okay , that might be a little far-fetched, but what do you want from me? I’d been chatting it up with Whit Grantham, Grammy-winning Country artist, whose lyrics and voice made me feel like my bones were melting in the best possible way. I’d progressed beyond the point of playing it cool.
Except now, her world surrounded me, something completely foreign, and yet, I instinctually resisted being impressed by it.
One thing was certain—I was less than impressed with Colton Danes’ hitting on my date and ignoring his own.
“See ya, man.” I gave him a chin nod. “Nice to meet you, Kaylee.”
I could see Whit duck her head out of the corner of my eye, so I looked over at her—well, down and over, despite the lift her shoes gave her, which had to be at least three inches. She was tiny, and even though she’d worn cowboy boots the last time we were together, I still dwarfed her.
I wasn’t even that big of a dude, but compared to her, I felt gigantic. But at the risk of sounding cliché, her presence more than made up for her stature.
“Are you laughing at me?” I asked her upon hearing her snicker.
“No, I’m laughing at Danes and how confused he was by your total lack of response to him in all his glory,” she said, her face lighting up in a way that looked completely genuine.
“Should I have done something different?”
She shook her head, her perfectly white front teeth biting into her glossed lower lip. “No. Not at all. You handled him perfectly.”
Her hand squeezed my bicep where she held my arm.
I could admit—I liked that. Not like some barbarian wanting to flex my muscles and crow, but because any man would enjoy Whit Grantham’s hand on his arm, squeezing his bicep as she complimented him, even if it came at the expense of another guy. Perhaps all the more if that guy was the tool box known as Colton Danes.
“You two have a history?”
A waiter approached, and I took a champagne flute from his tray and handed it to Whit.
“Thank you. No, we don’t have a personal history, if that’s what you mean. We’ve never even worked together, for that matter. But we see each other constantly, and he almost always says something exactly like what he said just now.” She took a sip of champagne. “You didn’t want a drink? ”
“I’m good for now.”
We continued into a reception area that vibrated with the energy coming from the little pockets of people talking and laughing.
“Something like, he calls you baby and doll face?”
“Yes. But don’t be confused by that—he’s not giving me a nickname because we know each other well. I suspect he calls all women something in that range so he doesn’t have to work so hard to remember their names.” She quirked an eyebrow and squeezed my arm again. “Ready for some introductions?”
“Sure.”
Whit
“This is my friend Ben Holder,” I said as John Smith Johnson—I know, right? John Johnson? Hence the Smith, I suppose—extended his hand to Ben.
“Pleased to meet you, Ben. How do you know Whit?” Johnson asked, looking fully at Ben in a way that said he expected him to answer.
This was the one introduction I’d anticipated, but I’d planned on being the one doing the talking.
“We met at one of Whit’s concerts,” Ben said with a quick glance at me.
I smiled encouragingly, happy he hadn’t mentioned Reese.
My family was a private matter. I had a multitude of reasons for it, but mostly, it was because I didn’t want press in their business and didn’t want anyone thinking about them when they thought about me. We had less of an issue with Reese than with my parents, but still. It comforted me that Ben hadn’t mentioned the mutual friend we shared.
“Is that right? On her tour?” Johnson asked.
He smiled pleasantly enough, but every interaction with him was an audition—one reason why my gown, though halter-necked, looked extremely modest other than my shoulder blades showing.
“No, sir. She did a concert at Fort Campbell Army Base up in Clarksville—we met there. I was honored to give her a tour of the base and show her a bit of my world, and she was kind enough to invite me tonight.”
Ben stood straight and tall next to me, not touching me or making any attempt to put a physical claim on me as we stood there with Johnson. It was almost confusing, except that I’d made it clear we were there as friends.
Johnson smiled broadly. “You’re in the military, then?”
“Yes, sir. Army.”
“Lieutenant Holder! Good to see you and finally put a face to a name. I’m Nikki Gatlin.”
Nikki, my publicist, peeked around my shoulder and smiled at Ben, then turned to Johnson. “Good to see you, Mr. Johnson, Mrs. Johnson.”
Nikki was always good at being formal, and she knew Johnson would value that. She was, after all, paid to brown nose, essentially.
“Ah, Ms. Gatlin. Good to see you, too,” Johnson said, and his wife murmured the same.
John Smith Johnson was a conservative industry magnate; someone you wanted on your side if you ever wanted anything, basically. My brush with rumors a few months ago had reportedly displeased him. Nikki was all over it, always looking for things for me to do to look angelic rather than, say, human .
“Well, I hate to barge in here, but they need Whit up front. Lieutenant Holder, would you mind escorting?”
Nikki’s midnight bob shone under the lights. She wore a simple black sheath that flattered but didn’t draw attention to her very fit body—she practiced yoga religiously and was the reason I’d asked Kendra to add it to my Sunday mornings despite the fact that it drove me into madness to be so still and calm. An expert at being present but invisible, Nikki always worked to put me in the spotlight, and always at the best angle.
Ben held out his arm. “Excuse us, sir. Ma’am. Have a lovely evening.”
I took Ben’s arm and said my goodbyes to the Johnsons, and he steered me in Nikki’s wake at her usual New-York-at-rush-hour walking pace.
“Are you running late?” he asked in a hushed voice, leaning down a bit to say it closer to my ear.
“She’s not late yet, but we will be, plus I didn’t want you chatting too long with Johnson.”
Ben raised his eyebrows at me as if to say how did she hear that? I shook my head with a grin. Nikki hadn’t even bothered to turn around.
Not surprisingly, she’d heard him. She had a cat’s hearing. In fact, she was ultimately quite feline—sleek, intelligent, moody, and prone to occasional outbursts of affection that resulted in overstimulation and hiding.
Nikki stopped just in front of a stage door. “This is where you’ll come when they start singing the group number—it’ll be the kindergarteners. Then, you’ll likely just exit unless they ask you to say a few words, etcetera, etcetera.”
“Yes, I’m ready.”
Nikki awarded me with a curt nod. “For now, please go sit. You’re at a table with a few nice parents and board members from the school. I made sure you weren’t near Danes. Or Johnson, for that matter.”
Her fingers fluttered over the face of her phone as she did five things at once—I assumed, since that was so often how she functioned. But something had been bothering me.
“Shouldn’t I be spending more time with Johnson, not less? Doesn’t he need to get to know me so he’ll want me to work with him?”
Ben stood by me, sturdy, great-smelling, warm, quiet.
“No.” She didn’t pause whatever she was doing, or even look up.
“Why not?”
“Exhibit A.” She flashed me a look I knew too well—the See, I told you so look, and I had no idea why she was giving it to me.
“What am I supposed to be seeing?”
“You. You’re pushy. Stubborn. I guarantee a man who talks about traditional values isn’t going to appreciate you bossing him around. I’ve heard things. I know things. You trust me, right?”
She looked me full in the eyes now, and I could see her concern.
“Of course.”
“Then believe me. Some men, evidently like Ben here, do like being pushed around, but Johnson won’t. He wants meek. I’ll see you after.”
I turned to Ben, releasing his arm. “I’m sorry. She knows we’re not?—”
“I’m not worried.”
His easy smile helped me relax immediately, and it calmed my frustration a bit to see he hadn’t been embarrassed by Nikki’s comment .
“And if you need to boss me around a bit, that’s all right. I take orders pretty well.”
A shocked little laugh escaped my lips. “Oh. Good to know, Lieutenant.”