5. Jensen
JENSEN
Cody is still in bed when I walk out of the bathroom from my shower.
He’s sprawled across the comforter wearing only his boxer briefs, a hardcover propped against one thigh.
He looks about twelve years old, which is fitting considering last night, while I was brushing my teeth, he snuck out of the room like an annoying teenager.
“Get up.” I grab a pair of jeans from the armchair. “We’re getting breakfast.”
He flips a page without looking up. “You do know room service is a thing?”
“This motel doesn’t have room service, and I need coffee since someone woke me up stumbling in after midnight.” Yeah, he snuck out to drink whiskey at a local dive bar, and I didn’t have the energy to track him down.
“What kind of a bar closes at midnight?”
“It was Sunday night, Cody. And you’re supposed to be keeping a low profile.”
“Not hard to do in this town.” He finally glances up, and I know from his grin whatever’s coming next is going to make me want to punch him.
“At least I didn’t get kicked out of the local bookstore.
Are you ready to talk about being annihilated by your girl?
I thought you were some kind of legend with the ladies. ”
“I never said that.”
“Lots of other people did.”
“Lots of people said you’re the future of country music, but now you’re stuck with a babysitter because you have a penchant for throwing punches at strangers twice your size.”
He scoffs. “The last guy started it.”
“You grabbed his girlfriend’s ass in a bar.”
“She put my hand on her ass and didn’t mention the boyfriend. Details matter, Jensen.”
“There’s a fine line between cultivating a bad-boy image and tanking your career because you’re an asshole, Cody. You’re tiptoeing on the wrong side of it.” I know because I spent too much time straddling that same line.
“I can handle my career.”
“That’s not what your producer says, and I owe him, so we’re in this together. Now get dressed.”
He scratches his bare chest and flips the page. “I’m busy reading.”
“Since when do you read?”
“Since I bought this book yesterday while you were busy getting shot down by the woman of your dreams.” He pulls a little square of cardstock from between the pages. “This one was recommended by the owner herself. She has great taste.”
“You’re not supposed to take the recommendation card with you.”
“Why not? It was clipped to the edge of the book.”
“Because other shoppers might benefit from it, dumbass.”
“Well, she has nice handwriting, and I wanted a bookmark.” He closes the book and swings his legs over the side of the bed.
The shelf card sticks halfway out of the pages, and my gaze catches on what must be Sloane’s handwriting.
Good for readers who think they know who to trust, the card says.
There’s a small heart in the corner she probably drew without thinking about it, because that’s who she is.
I barely know her, but I have no doubt about that.
I wish I were more certain about her giving me—us—another chance.
“I’ll wait for you downstairs,” I tell Cody as he heads toward the bathroom. Right now, the room is too small, the kid is too much, and staring at Sloane’s handwriting on that card is doing an embarrassing number on my heart.
The woman at the front desk has a stack of brochures she wants me to take and reminds me to drink plenty of water and reapply sunscreen every two hours.
In some ways, Skylark reminds me of my hometown—Whisper Falls, Tennessee—where everyone knows your name and your business.
Especially when you were raised by a single mother who cleaned houses for most of the town’s wealthy residents.
It paid enough for her to keep food on the table, but not enough for a decent health plan.
One that might have allowed her lung cancer to be diagnosed before it became terminal.
I still have a house there—a cabin on fifty acres of wooded land that I bought twenty years ago with money from my one-hit-wonder song.
At the time, I thought it could serve as a retreat for my younger brother, Jamie, and me.
Mom loved nature, and she’d always wanted us to have something more than a rented duplex on the seedy side of town.
I figured the people who said money couldn’t buy happiness had never known the lack of it.
But my plan didn’t work, and my brother was never the same after we lost Mom.
Me neither, I guess. I just had fewer self-destructive coping mechanisms.
Speaking of self-destructive, Cody comes down the stairs in a flannel he stole from my bag, an energy drink in one hand and an unopened can of beer in the other.
I snatch the beer from his grasp and toss it in a nearby trash can. “It’s eight in the fucking morning,” I say under my breath when he starts to protest.
“Hair of the dog,” he answers.
“Have a great day,” I call to the receptionist and nudge Cody out the lobby door.
He groans and takes a pair of sunglasses from the flannel’s front pocket. “Jesus, did someone turn up the sun?”
“It feels more intense because we’re at altitude,” I tell him as we head across the parking lot toward the rented SUV. “For the record, most things are easier to deal with when you aren’t hungover.”
“Not in my experience,” he counters. “We need to hit some bakery in town.” He climbs into the passenger seat and pulls out his phone. “The Sugar Shack. Google reviews are insane. I love a good cinnamon roll.”
“Just so long as you’re not planning to wash it down with a beer.”
“Every party needs a pooper.” He tips his head back onto the headrest, then rolls it in my direction. “Speaking of which, are we about done here? I mean, your girl wants nothing to do with you so—”
“She’s not my girl,” I clarify. Not now, anyway. But I’m also not giving up. So, I’ll amend that to not yet.
“Kind of my point.”
“I told her I’d be here for another day and the ball’s in her court.
” We’re supposed to be working on songs for Cody’s next album, which buys me an extra week or two before I need to be back in Nashville.
Although an extended stay in the town of a woman who wants nothing to do with me might not be the best decision.
He snorts out a laugh. “Dude, she’s got no interest in your balls or any part of you.”
My fingers grip the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white. “I’m giving her time to change her mind.”
“Tick tock,” Cody says in a sing-song voice. It’s a wonder he hasn’t been punched more often.
Our motel is a couple of miles from downtown, and as we roll onto Main Street, I once again marvel at how quaint and perfect this place looks.
Like a Hallmark set on steroids. Whisper Falls is pretty, but also a little rundown, the way small towns can get when no one’s looking out for them.
My best friend, Ford Batterson, is trying to change that, but it’s an uphill battle.
Hell, I should snap some pics of Skylark for his vision board. This place is a sight to behold.
A sign on the motel’s reception desk alerted guests that some magazine had named Skylark one of the happiest towns in America.
Main Street got the memo and then some. It’s lined with businesses tucked behind bright green awnings.
Window boxes and planters hanging from vintage street lights overflow with bright flowers and greenery.
A few shops already have hand-painted signs out front welcoming customers, and I’d bet money that the shaggy mutt watching the world go by from the welcome mat outside the hardware store is everybody’s best friend.
I pull into a parking space a few blocks down from the bookstore—I don’t want Sloane to think I’m a complete stalker—and we head toward The Sugar Shack. The bakery is crowded for a Monday morning, and the older woman behind the counter, whose name tag reads Winnie, greets us like old friends.
“Welcome in, gentlemen.” She leans her elbows on the counter, grinning at Cody. “Well, now. I bet those dimples have gotten you out of a mess of trouble.”
“You’d win that bet, ma’am.” Cody leans back on his heels, hand to heart, dimples winking. “This place smells like the inside of heaven.”
The kid can turn on the charm when he wants to. No arguing that fact. But I also know the trouble those dimples have gotten him into.
“Thank you, sweetheart.” Winnie beams. “That’s a lovely compliment. What can I get for you two?”
I glance into the pastry case, then order a black coffee and tell her we’ll split a cinnamon roll since they appear to be the size of a well-fed cat.
Cody rolls his eyes and ups the order to two cinnamon rolls plus an oat-milk latte.
Right. He’ll guzzle Jack Daniels until his eyeballs are floating, but avoids dairy like the plague.
I’m babysitting a selective health nut. Love that for me.
Winnie plates up two ginormous pastries, pours my coffee, and gets to work on the latte. I tap my card, then take a large gulp of coffee, which is shockingly good.
Cody takes a bite of his roll while we wait for his drink. The noise that comes out of his mouth is obscene.
“Oh my god, Jensen.”
“Chew, swallow, then speak.”
Winnie grins over her shoulder. “What do you think?”
“This is the best thing that has ever entered my body.”
“I’ll give your regards to our pastry chef.”
“Is she single?” Cody asks around another bite. “I’ll marry her right here.” Winnie laughs again, although I’m fairly certain he’s serious.
A door swings open behind the counter, and Sloane’s friend Avah walks out of the kitchen. She’s wearing an apron dusted with flour, and her blonde hair is up in a messy knot with a pencil stabbed through it. She looks like she’s going to grab that pencil and stab me.
“She’s not,” Winnie tells Cody before switching her gaze to Avah. “Another day, another proposal. It’s a good thing Jeremy’s a secure man.”