American Love Song

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Brinton Shaw succumbed to the inevitable: she wasn’t getting out of this hellhole alive. Figuratively speaking, anyway.

She tightened her grip on the cold metal railing in vain. Beneath her, the red carpet stretched another ten feet longer each time she exhaled.

Crowds were her biggest trigger. Yet, there she was, one of hundreds of journalists tightly packed like sardines inside a bullpen.

Brinton couldn’t remember when the electric pulses started shooting up her arms and down her legs. Or, when she could no longer hear her own thoughts over the barricade of screeching fans.

She was, however, certain about this: the Grammy Awards were the absolute worst fucking place to have a panic attack.

Usually, she fought like hell to hide hers from everyone—and especially at work. But as the flashing cameras and swinging microphones gave her tunnel vision, there was nowhere to run.

Brinton’s videographer, Lucero, was positioned with his camera and tripod four feet away. “You don’t look so good,” he offered, tilting his bald head.

Built like a pro wrestler, he almost exclusively scowled unless asked about his new favorite K Pop group. “Kinda like…a hunk of wilting brie in a heatwave.”

Coincidentally, Brinton’s insides felt the same way.

Shifting in her black-heeled combat boots, she forced a laugh. “I’m good.”

You have worked so hard to get here, just—please. Hold it together.

She had to. In mere moments, she needed to smile and competently deliver the first of the night’s red carpet interviews. There was zero margin for error.

When Rich, her Landmark editor, assigned Brinton to cover the Grammys red carpet, it was the biggest opportunity of her career. It got her closer to finally writing a cover story for Landmark, the pretentious but respected magazine she worked for in New York City.

In four years, she was the only Landmark staff writer who hadn’t been asked to pitch a cover story. To her, this wouldn’t have stood out so prominently if, year after year, she hadn’t been the only Black person on staff.

The subtext popped out like a fresh BBL: in corporate America, diversity and inclusion were only valuable on paper. This was kindling for Brinton’s imposter syndrome. Hot and husky on the back of her neck, it admonished that she should be grateful to be chosen.

She was one of the good ones.

Brinton had no choice but to keep her head down and work harder. Eventually, she would prove herself. Today was that day.

“You got Jamie Crawford Jr. headed straight to you,” Lucero said, now behind the camera.

“Country music guy—I got it,” Brinton answered, dragging her sticky palms down her silky gold wrap dress.

She swished her waist-length knotless braids off her right shoulder. Heat spread across her cocoa-brown cheeks. “This one will be easy.”

If her brain didn’t feel like a raw egg cracked onto a hot skillet, this might have been true. For days, she had memorized a dictionary’s worth of facts about artists she expected to interview. This included Jamie Crawford Jr. and dozens of DJs with stage names inspired by exotic fruits.

But right now? All that preparation was meaningless. What if she flubbed a word? Or, if she had pit stains on her dress? Or, if she failed so spectacularly that Rich demoted her to reviewing Kidz Bop albums for all of eternity?

“What’s the signal before we go live?” Brinton choked out, suddenly dizzy. She steadied herself against the railing behind her. The shock of cold felt like a relief on her sticky lower back.

“4…3…2…”

The light on Lucero’s camera flashed red as Jamie Crawford Jr. approached. He was that square-jawed, Varsity Blues kind of attractive. In fact, he looked even better than in the pictures. It was actually quite rude.

Jamie’s sandy blond waves were boyishly mused and kissed his ears. Brinton guessed he had earned his coppery tan from playing shirts-versus-skins football with buddies in a field. Or, driving a tractor for fun.

His midnight blue suit was impeccably tailored to his well-over six-foot-frame and drew out the shimmer highlights of his aquamarine eyes. The whole effect was effortlessly cool, like James Bond’s twin brother, separated at birth and raised in a honky-tonk.

“Hey,” Brinton said, hoping to sound more confident than she felt.

“Hey, yourself,” Jamie answered.

He stretched each letter like he had swirled his tongue in molasses. God, why was she thinking about his tongue?

She was there to work, not hit on the talent. Why would he look twice at her? His options were probably like Olive Garden breadsticks: never-ending and hot.

Brinton, meanwhile, saw herself as more like a cute librarian than an Instagram baddie. At least she was blessed with enough curves that she needed to jump when pulling on jeans.

Jamie outstretched his catcher’s mitt-sized palm. When she took it, he squeezed.

God, his hands were huge.

Brinton’s belly clenched. Was it the thrill of unexpected warmth from his touch? Or, the triple shot of espresso that she had downed on an empty stomach?

It didn’t matter. She had to get herself together. First priority: stop staring at this man. Brinton dropped Jamie’s hand and pushed out a shallow breath. Her eyes shifted to Lucero’s camera.

It was showtime.

“If you’re just joining the live stream, I’m Brinton Shaw,” she said. Immediately, she regretted how tinny her voice sounded. “I have a special guest with me, country music superstar Jamie Crawford Jr.”

Without missing a beat, he flashed that glimmering, for-the-cameras grin. “I’m a huge fan of the magazine. Believe me, the pleasure is all mine, Ms. Shaw.”

Ms. Shaw. A white-hot flash zipped up her spine as his smoldering baritone warmed her ears. For some reason, it anchored her enough so she could focus.

Keep your thoughts on the sound of his voice.

“Just wait until I’ve asked my questions,” Brinton answered. Her voice felt a hint steadier. Richer. Jamie’s eyes flickered. Did he notice too?

“Maybe you’ll go easy on me, since you’ve got home field advantage?” he asked, dragging those perfectly white teeth over his pillowy bottom lip. She had to stop looking at his lips.

“Um, we should get into tonight’s nominations. You’re up for Best New Artist,” she stammered. “You must be ecstatic.”

“I…” His voice trailed off. Jamie’s eyes fell to his black cowboy boots. “I’m grateful to be here, but I don’t always feel like I deserve such fortune.”

Brinton raised her eyebrows. “I think your fans would disagree. Your song ‘Table for One’ shot to the top of the Hot 100 chart. It was the first country single to do so since, well…”

“My father,” Jamie answered flatly. He frowned, then gazed back down at the ground. “Yeah, I couldn’t believe it either.”

Was he embarrassed? Who knew that was a prerequisite to Nepo Baby fame?

“I think you made the heartbreak anthem your own,” Brinton volleyed back. “The facets of humor beneath the sadness were so unexpected.”

He softly smiled, then leaned closer to her microphone. “Oh yeah? What were you expecting?”

Was he flirting with her? And did she like it? Or rather, should she like it?

Brinton wet her lips. Her thoughts raced quicker than her mouth could move.

“I wasn’t expecting that any woman could make you cry into your whiskey. I mean, you’re the Heartbreak Prince. You don’t earn that nickname lightly.”

“Well, I’m full of surprises,” he quipped, as if egging her on.

Brinton took the bait. “Okay, then I have to ask, who was the lucky lady? You sing about so many women in that song. First crush, maybe?”

Technically, Rich had pushed Brinton to ask this. She wasn’t angling to dig into Jamie’s personal life. Even if he probably had an industrial storage unit full of women’s panties fans had flung on stage. But Brinton was on a mission. She had to land this plane.

“Oh, honey, I don’t kiss and tell.” Jamie chuckled through a slow, easy smile. “Though, now I’m wondering if it might be you?”

He was definitely flirting with her. Famous people did this all the time to seem more relatable. So why did her mouth feel like she had licked a roll of sandpaper?

“Let’s, um, stay on track,” Brinton countered. Suddenly, she was burning up. It must be Lucero’s lighting rig. Obviously.

“Hardball it is.” Jamie laughed. “Shame, I bet you could make a grown man cry. That ain’t a bad thing, by the way.”

He was trying to be a good sport and make her comfortable. She needed that. Her ears had started to ring as the crowd’s cheers swelled.

“I like to be thorough with my questions,” Brinton said. “I hope that’s not a problem.”

“No, ma’am.”

No, ma’am.

Without permission, her lips tugged upward into a soft smile. Brinton didn’t even know this man, and he didn’t know her. But she couldn’t deny the spark of familiarity between them. It flared each time he spoke. Or when she breathed.

When Jamie smiled back, it seemed like a real one that reached his eyes. It should be locked away at the Pentagon.

Unfortunately, the moment was fleeting. Another surprise wave of nausea thrashed in Brinton’s gut. Her microphone slipped from her clammy grip.

Mercifully, Jamie’s open palm shot out before it tumbled to the ground.

When he pressed it back into her hand, he didn’t say a word. He was helping her, and she was grateful. Behind him, Jamie’s entourage—an older white man with a salt-and-pepper goatee and a pageant-worthy brunette—whispered conspiratorially.

Brinton was running out of time. She still needed an exclusive angle that Landmark could run on the website’s front page. Rich warned that she had to drive clicks.

Lucero circled his wrist in a “wrap it up” motion. This was her last shot.

“Does being a musician, and playing for thousands of fans, help you express yourself more authentically in your real life?” she asked. “Or does that ever hold you back?”

It was her favorite question of the bunch. She was surprised to have pieced it together, given how the circuit breaker in her brain was officially fried.