Chapter 23
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The pigtailed hostess appeared at Brinton and Jamie’s table. “Can I get y’all a drink?” she screeched over Florida Georgia Line’s “Cruise.”
Jamie winced but smiled politely. “Some more water for her, and—”
“Actually, I’ll have what he’s having,” Brinton interjected, eyes lassoing him in. “It’s part of my cultural immersion.”
Jamie didn’t fancy himself an adrenaline junkie. He preferred calculated risks within his grasp. However, the possibility in Brinton’s smile flooded his head with endorphins. He was eager for the bungee cord’s euphoric jerk.
Intrigued, he leaned back into his seat. “Two Bulleits on the rocks, please.”
“Coming right up,” the hostess said before bouncing to the bar.
“I normally go for whiskey, but bourbon is sweeter,” he said.
Brinton waggled her eyebrows. “I like it sweet.”
“I bet you do,” he breathed. His tone sounded a little needier than intended.
But hell, he was. For anything she had to give.
Jamie traced feathery circles with his thumbs across the silky backs of her hands. “Is this…okay?”
It occurred to him that he may have moved too quickly, a Polaroid recklessly shaken before its beauty was revealed. “I know you’re here to work—”
She nodded and smiled, seemingly equally relieved. “I like spending time with you.”
He exhaled shakily at the unexpected intimacy, how it felt to lay himself bare without the fear of consequences. He’d never experienced that with his father or his team. Or even Kendall, because their relationship had a shelf life and an unspoken angle.
But with Brinton, it felt different. He was out of his depth but refused to get out of the pool.
“I like spending time with you too, Bee.”
The hostess dropped off their drinks. Brinton lifted hers, examining the icy glacier poking through a burnt-orange sea.
“Tell me how you like it,” she said.
Although he knew exactly what she meant, he could’ve cut the sexual tension between them with a knife.
Or, even better, his lips.
“First, two fingers of bourbon,” he started. He leaned closer and rested his pointer and middle fingers horizontally against her glass.
“Only two, huh?” Her eyes flashed, completely as surprised—and charmed—as he was. “I’m sorry, that was—”
“Hilarious,” he countered, laughing softly. “And, yeah, two fingers.”
When her teeth sank into her plush bottom lip, desire scalded his cheeks.
“Better to ease into it.” She laughed.
“Exactly,” he answered, volleying the mischief in her eyes. “Then, a fat cube of ice. Melts slow enough to cut the burn and make the flavors bloom. I like to taste everything.”
They clinked their glasses and each took a sip.
“Mmm,” she moaned, innocently enough. His mouth watered anyway.
“It’s smooth as caramel.”
He nodded, but not about the liquor. Jamie set down his glass, enchanted to watch Brinton continue. “Hey, you should slow down—”
She drained it in three gulps, then casually licked the lingering sweetness from her lips.
Lordy.
Did she want him to know how she’d like to be licked? Did she know he’d do it on command? The sheer fantasy of her tongue zigzagging across his sensitive, tingly skin made him shift in his seat.
The building pressure bit against his zippered fly.
“You should catch up,” she said, laughing. It was gratifying to see her so carefree and to know he brought it out of her.
“Big words from a woman who’s gonna feel that shot in about two seconds.”
“I can handle my liquor. Can you?”
He cocked his head, then drained his glass. Jamie unleashed a hoot as he slammed it down on the table. “Darlin’, you got no idea.”
Flirting was fun—albeit, an understatement—but he also wanted more. She was a labyrinth, and he wanted to learn every blind curve. “Can I ask you something? If it’s too personal, you don’t gotta answer.”
She nodded, expression so warm that his heart melted like butter in a hot skillet.
“Besides helping me, what do you wanna get out of this article?” he asked.
Her eyes dipped to her clasped hands. “I don’t want to be the girl who vomited on the internet anymore. So, this article is the first step.”
He understood the exhaustion she felt fighting a reputation she didn’t ask for. It was inescapable, like swimming upstream with fifty-pound ankle weights.
“When Mom passed away, my father decided that I needed a more disciplined path. I just rebelled, with the sneaking out and the girls. After I dropped out of college, I spent the next few years whiskey-bent and hell-bound, floating between writing songs that went nowhere and too many bad choices along the way. Eventually, I felt so behind in life that I finally took my father’s help.
He swears I’d be twice as successful by now had I listened sooner. ”
Jamie spun his ring around his finger. “So, yeah…there’s a lot on the line for me too.”
Brinton took a deep breath, brushing her fingertips against his on the table and blanketing him in calmness.
“It must be a lot of pressure to live up to your father’s legacy. But why do you feel like you can’t say no to him? I’m sorry if that’s out of line, but I guess, this is your life. He doesn’t…own you, you know?”
Jamie sighed, then bowed his head.
“It’s a fair question. It’s sad to say, but before I met you, I couldn’t recognize it as him controlling me.
Where I come from, fathers create this lore about their families, and then that lore becomes law.
It’s about respecting them, and what they pass onto you.
Loyalty…It’s ingrained in Southern culture.
“My father, and his father before him, and so on, set the tone,” Jamie continued. “Out of respect, or maybe humility, I listened. I’m sure that’s hard for you to understand, but it’s the truth. That’s why I’m so taken by what you’ve accomplished on your own. It’s a big deal to be where you are.”
“I’m checking a box.” She laughed bitterly.
“My editor only hired me so that he and his bosses felt better about the bullshit Landmark perpetuates daily. In a year, only one Black artist covered the print issue. The story was written by a white writer with the audacity to debate the merits of Blackface with me, so I’ll let you guess how that went.
And I’m never surprised when, year after year, I’m the sole writer on-call during Juneteenth weekend.
You know, in case some Black-ass news happens. ”
Brinton blew out a breath. “But it’s a legacy publication anyone would kill to write for. I’m living The American Dream.”
“God, Brinton, that is awful—I am so sorry,” he said.
His heart splintered for her, and he was mortified spilling his petty problems when hers were so systemic they felt impossible to solve. He wanted to calm her fears and right every wrong in one fell swoop.
Ultimately, all he could do was tell her that he believed in her. It’s what he’d want if he were in her situation.
He rose, then slid into her side of the booth. He sighed, grateful when she didn’t push him away.
“They don’t deserve you because you’re not a box to be checked. You’re not a Company Man. I mean that figuratively, of course.”
When she faced him, her smile was steeped in sadness. It pained him to see it.
“What am I then?” she asked.
That look of vulnerability on her face gave him courage to show some of his own. He smiled.
“You’re an artist, like me. It’s in how you talk and the way you genuinely want to connect with people. I do it on stage, but you—you do it on the page. And it’s beautiful. So much that I think you’re destined for more than Landmark. You could leave and do your own thing.”
She slid her hands into her lap. “That’s nice of you to say, but things move differently for us non-famous people. It can be really hard to start over.”
When she looked back at him, the sparkle in her eyes had dimmed. He desperately wanted to get it back.
It was a bold move, but he gently clasped one of his hands over hers, testing the waters. She let him.
Breath shaky, he exhaled. “What if we’re not so different?”
And bingo.
Slowly, she smiled. “I’m starting to believe that.”
At the Skylight, everyone knew him, and people were respectful about not recording him on their phones. But it was still a risk, considering Brinton wasn’t one of his team’s hand-selected women whose social currency would boost his own.
Brinton didn’t deserve to be used like that. He wouldn’t kiss her so openly, despite the nagging urge that’d sparked when she slid into Michael’s SUV.
But he needed to be closer.
“You wanna dance?” he asked.
That would be easier to pull off. He nodded to the much smaller VIP dance floor tucked into a darkened corner about ten feet away.
“It’s a little more private than the main floor. People are generally cool here, but I don’t want…”
He didn’t want to scare Brinton off with another PR fiasco.
“You don’t want me to school you on the dance floor? I’ve gotten very good in the last hour.”
As Jamie slid out from the booth, relief rushed from his head to the soles of his boots. Brinton followed after him. Hands on her hips, and in those cut-offs, she was the sexiest little instigator he’d ever seen.
“I’ll hold you to it,” he said.
The winding, opening licks of “That Don’t Impress Me Much” filled the room.
Brinton’s face glowed, and her glossy lips formed into a perfect O.
“Oh my God.” She laughed. “It’s a sign.”
Heaven help him.