CHAPTER 15
JAMIE
T he smell of bacon dragged Jamie out of sleep. She cracked one eye open, scanning the foot of the bed—empty. Poppy was gone. She flopped onto her back with a groan, the ache in her muscles a sharp reminder of where she was. Then she heard it: the clatter of a pan. And a low, unmistakable voice.
Her stomach clenched.
Clayton’s here.
Of course he was. Like a bad habit, impossible to shake.
She stepped into the hall, following the scent of grease, and froze at the kitchen threshold. Clayton stood at the stove, flipping bacon with an easy confidence, his hair a tousled mess, his jeans slung low on his hips. He glanced over his shoulder, eyes locking onto hers, and smirked.
“Morning, sunshine.” His voice was thick with amusement. “Figured you’d wake up.”
Jamie walked into the kitchen. “What’s all this?” A tray of bacon, eggs, and a stack of pancakes sat on the island counter while both dogs lay at Clayton’s feet. It was the opposite of what Derrick ate for breakfast: power bars and protein shakes.
“Breakfast is the most important meal of the day,” Clayton said, wearing a kiss the chef apron over his plaid button-down shirt.
“Nobody believes that, Clayton. It’s something parents say to their kids.” She snatched a slice of bacon from the plate and stuffed it into her mouth. “This is delicious!”
“Poppy likes it too.” Clayton fed the dogs from a cast-iron pan.
“Don’t give her that!” Jamie reached over the counter and grabbed his hand. “I put her on a diet. She’s getting fat.”
“That’s just plain ridiculous.” He gestured toward her guitar. “You get any writing done last night?”
“No.” She sipped her freshly squeezed orange juice. A dozen halved oranges, their insides mangled from a citrus reamer, sat on the island counter. “I brought my guitar to bed, but Duke insisted on lying on my legs, making it impossible to play.”
“Sorry about that,” Clayton said, wiping down the island counter. “I’m going to take the girls to school. Want to join me?”
“Why would I?” She folded a piece of bacon in half before eating it.
He shrugged, continuing to clean up the breakfast mess. “The girls wanted you to come, so I told them I’d ask.”
“Jesus, Clayton.” She pointed her finger, scolding him.
“You shouldn’t have done that.” She hated when people committed her to things without asking first. It was a classic Derrick move.
Once he’d tricked her into dancing lessons by saying they were going for salsa.
Mexican food was her favorite. But of course he meant the dance, not the condiment.
That would have meant nachos, and he vehemently opposed fried food.
“No worries.” He grabbed the landline. “I’ll just say you’re tied up. ”
Not wanting to let the girls down, she sighed and covered the receiver with her hand. “No, I’ll go with you.”
A few minutes later Jamie climbed into Clayton’s truck and they drove up to the main house, where the twins waited on the porch, backpacks slung over their shoulders.
Dressed in identical uniforms with matching pigtails—Birdie’s handiwork, no doubt—they looked like mirror images, save for the slight tilt of Charlotte’s head and the impatient bounce of Emily’s foot.
The girls pulled open the truck’s back doors and Charlotte passed Jamie a piece of paper over the seat. “Here,” she said.
“What’s this?” Jamie asked as she examined the pencil drawing of two adults, two children, a dog, and a house. It looked pretty realistic for a child’s artwork.
Emily leaned over the front seat and pointed to the paper. “It’s us—you, Daddy, Charlotte, and me.” She giggled and pointed to the dog. “And that’s Duke.”
“Ah, I see.” Jamie handed the paper back. “That’s a really good drawing.”
Charlotte passed her the piece of paper again. “We made it for you, Miss Jamie.”
“You did?” Jamie widened her eyes as she turned to Clayton. He smiled, slow and sure. Warmth spread through her chest. “Thank you.”
The twins replied, “You’re welcome, Miss Jamie.”
Clayton looked away from the road and glanced at the drawing. “Where’s Poppy?”
“Who’s Poppy?” Emily asked.
“Miss Jamie’s poodle is named Poppy.”
“Poppy Rose,” Jamie clarified.
“You have a dog?” Charlotte inquired .
“I sure do.”
“Can we meet her?”
“Of course you can.”
“When?” Emily asked with excitement. “After school?”
“Sure, if it’s okay with your dad.”
Clayton drove along a long stretch of road with his wrist draped over the steering wheel. He turned on the radio, adjusting the station until it landed on “Anti-Hero” by Taylor Swift. She’d hardly pegged him as a Swiftie but he knew every word, just like the twins and her.
“I wish I wrote that song,” Jamie said. “You know, those songs that are just so good you wonder why you didn’t write them.”
“Uncle Hero is better.”
“What?”
“Uncle Hero instead of Anti-Hero.” He chuckled and she cringed at his first dad joke of the day. “But I know what you mean,” he continued, “Wish I wrote ‘I’ll Just Stay Here and Drink.’ It’s by Merle Haggard, that guy in my writing room.”
As they pulled up to the school a few kids around the twins’ age stood near the entrance. From the truck Charlotte and Emily waved, clearly recognizing them.
“What’s all this fuss about?” Clayton asked.
The girls unbuckled their seat belts and Emily leaned over the front seat. “We kind of told our friends Miss Jamie was dropping us off today.”
Clayton sighed. “Girls, you shouldn’t have done—”
“It’s okay,” Jamie said, waving to the crowd of children, growing larger by the second. “I’ll get out and say hi to them.”
Charlotte giggled. “They’re going to want selfies, Miss Jamie.”
“Well, shoot, maybe they’ll want to take a selfie with me,” Clayton said .
“Daddy!” The girls laughed uncontrollably. “Nobody likes your music.”
I love these children.
Jamie flashed a wicked grin as she hopped out of the truck, taking Charlotte and Emily’s hands while they made their way toward their friends.
A few girls were teary-eyed, their emotions running high, which sent a flicker of unease through her.
Still, she offered reassuring smiles, murmured soft words to calm them, and waited until their breathing steadied.
With effortless charm she signed autographs, posed for selfies, and exchanged quick hugs. When it was time to say goodbye she pulled the twins in close, squeezing their hands before watching them disappear into the building.
She stepped back into Clayton’s truck, where he sat grinning like a fool. “What’s with your face?” she asked.
“Nothing, darlin’.” He started the engine. “Thanks for doing that.”
“Oh, no problem.” She fastened her seatbelt with quick, efficient movements, making sure he knew it wasn’t about him. It was for the girls. Only for the girls.
Clayton drove back the way they came and Jamie turned on the radio, smiling at the song playing.
“I love the Weeknd!” She turned up the volume and began to sing.
“It’s only Monday,” Clayton said, as if she didn’t know that.
“No, the Weeknd, as in the artist.” She pointed to the radio. “His melodies are catchy.”
“His name is the Weekend?” Clayton scoffed. “That’s a dumb name.”
“It’s spelled W-E-E-K-N-D.”
“Guess spelling wasn’t high on the priority list in that family. ”
“It’s not his Christian name, Clayton. Do you really think his parents named him the Weeknd? Drake’s name isn’t really Drake either.”
“Who?”
“Forget it.” She shook her head, frustrated. “I don’t know why I even bother.”
Clayton stared straight ahead as he drove down the empty road. They hadn’t seen a single car since leaving his house. They were literally in the middle of nowhere.
“So . . .” He glanced at Jamie. “We’ve been invited to present at the ACM Awards. It’s in April—I think it’d be good for publicity.”
She turned to face him. “What are the ACM Awards?”
“Good Lord, woman—the Academy of Country Music Awards.”
She’d never heard of the ACM Awards, but that didn’t surprise her, considering her lack of knowledge or interest in country music. It sounded like some version of hell on earth, but then again, it might boost her profile as a songwriter.
“Will there be gift baskets?” Jamie asked, her voice filled with hope. “I mean for the presenters.”
“Yeah, I guess so.” Clayton scratched his beard. “These things usually do, but it’s mostly ladies’ stuff—jewelry, chocolates, all that fancy crap.”
“Fine, I’ll do it.” She crossed her arms. “But I’m taking your gift basket.”
Jamie spent the rest of the day trying to finish her song but she couldn’t come up with any decent guitar parts, even though the melody and most of the lyrics were done.
She’d always been more of a topline writer, developing the lyrics first. In contrast Clayton began his songs with the music, which wasn’t surprising, considering they were opposites.
She entered the kitchen and rummaged through the cupboards to check for ingredients to make cookies.
The girls were coming over after school to see Poppy and she wanted to do something nice for them.
She discovered a package of chocolate chips with a recipe on the back.
She’d never baked anything, partly because her parents lacked kitchenware and partly because Derrick simply wouldn’t allow sugar—even the artificial kind—in the house.
She gathered all the ingredients on the island counter and read the directions.
Next she preheated the oven and sprayed the cookie sheet with nonstick oil.
Unsure of what it meant to sift the dry ingredients and unable to find any measuring spoons, she guessed the amounts for each item.
She mashed the wet ingredients together and added the flour mixture.
Following the instructions, she poured a package of chocolate chips into the bowl before rolling the dough into balls.
She watched through the oven window as the cookies flattened, but to her horror the balls melted together, coating the pan and forming one giant cookie.
Fuck .