Chapter 1 #2
Jamie cocked his head like she had asked for the universe’s deepest secret.
“My real life?” he started. Jamie spoke even slower than his Tennessean accent deemed possible.
“Nobody’s ever asked me a question quite like that before, so thank you.
I guess I believe music is where artists lay themselves bare—what keeps them up at night, and what gets their boots on the floor in the morning.
In my real life, I wanna be that kind of person.
No ego, just…honesty. That’s why, I hope one day—”
Jamie glanced over his shoulder to the brunette and goateed man. Their expressions were tight and silently expressed something Brinton couldn’t decode.
The goateed man shook his head.
For the first time, Jamie’s broad shoulders stiffened. “Um, that’s why I’m proud to share, for my forthcoming second album, my father once again took the reins as producer. And he’s as authentic as it gets.”
Beneath Jamie’s lukewarm smile, there was a hint of something that felt like reservation. He seemed to bristle with every word that formed next. Why was that?
“You’re hearing it here first,” Jamie continued. “The album will be out this summer.”
That was it—she’d landed an exclusive quote and a new album announcement. She had done it. There was no way Rich could deny her a cover story now.
Yes, she was close enough to taste it—
Then, a wave of stale coffee crested in her stomach. She swallowed a burp.
Oh God.
Jamie’s brow creased. “You all right?”
Brinton jumped as his fingertips grazed her elbow. “Mm-hm.”
Her lips twisted into a grimace. As her shoulders dipped backward, Jamie’s palm spread over the small of her back.
She gripped his shoulders as one of his hands inched up to cradle her neck. A thin gasp escaped her lips when his calloused fingertips teased the springy baby hairs at her nape.
As she looked up at him, her nose brushed against his soft, freshly shaven neck. She wondered how it would feel against fingertips.
Or, a pair of lips.
He smelled divine, like honeyed whiskey spiked with cloves.
It was only a few seconds. However, all around them, the screaming fans and barking reporters flattened into a whisper. Jamie’s breath hitched as his eyes searched hers.
What was he looking for?
Jamie brought Brinton back to level. “Sweetheart, why don’t you sit—”
Just try to focus, she begged herself. Just keep him talking.
“What else can you tell us about the new album?” Brinton sputtered as her stomach throbbed.
For the second time, Lucero circled his wrist to signal Brinton to sign off. They needed to reset for the next interview.
“Can I get you some water?” Jamie asked, ignoring Lucero’s pantomiming.
Oh God. Oh God!
It was too late.
Watery, hot bile tinged the back of Brinton’s throat. She couldn’t stop the rush. Seconds later, she was doubled over and spewing her sins onto Jamie’s very expensive-looking cowboy boots.
“Woah,” Jamie gasped, jolted by surprise.
Lucero dry-heaved. The brunette behind Jamie shrieked.
“Good Lord, that smell,” the goateed man croaked. He jostled Jamie down the red carpet.
Presumably to burn his cowboy boots.
Brinton prayed to every deity that her exorcism had gone unnoticed, but as she stood and straightened, every bystander’s phone was a sniper’s scope trained on her.
“Um—we’re on a commercial break,” Lucero stuttered. Disgust streaked his hardened face. “But I heard from Rich. The live stream has over five million viewers. A new record.”
Brinton didn’t watch as her microphone splashed into the fresh puddle at her feet. She had gotten her interview, her big moment. But it had cost something she couldn’t afford to lose.
Inside the Arena’s bustling auditorium, Jamie sat in his dress socks. Regretfully, he’d stashed his favorite boots inside a VIP bathroom.
On stage, a willowy pop star wore yellow pasties and a skirt fashioned from matching caution tape. As she announced the nominees for Best New Artist, Jamie tried to mentally check-out.
Industry tastemakers had predicted that Jamie would win, but that was the last thing he wanted. Not after what he had done.
Jamie’s stomach rumbled. They never served enough food at these events. When he got back to the fancy hotel his team had booked, he’d grab a cheeseburger, crispy shoestring fries, and a double whiskey on the rocks. He’d cap off the night in bed, watching Sports Center.
It would be a rare reprieve from the circus he called life.
His mind wandered back to Brinton, the Landmark reporter. Lordy, he felt for her. His team informed him that the red-carpet interview had gone viral. Great for the album, they said. Jamie knew that was far worse for Brinton.
Should he have someone send her a fruit basket? What was the protocol for “sorry you became a meme”?
He didn’t know.
With all the cameras and shouting, Jamie understood why Brinton had seemed stressed. But he wouldn’t wish what happened to her on anyone. In fact, he admired her grit.
Had he done something to trip her up? He wasn’t trying to, but he kept getting distracted by her shy little smile. And how she squinted hard when searching for the right words. It was cute.
Hell, cute was an understatement. She was gorgeous. But gorgeous women were a dime-a-dozen in his world. Brinton had something else.
She asked one hell of a good question about being authentic in his own life. It was rare that someone in Jamie’s orbit cared what he thought, let alone encouraged him to say it aloud.
His team only cared about building his legacy.
Of course, Brinton couldn’t have known that. Still, for a few moments, her question almost prompted Jamie to tell her the truth about his life.
It would have detonated his entire career, but at least he would have a clear conscience.
Would Brinton have wanted to help make that happen? The question yanked at something buried deeply in Jamie’s chest. Then again, he probably wouldn’t see her again.
Breaking his reverie, “Table for One” blared over the speakers. That was when Jamie noticed everyone was staring at him. Their faces were stretched with excitement, and they cheered like he had won a Grammy.
Did I just win a damn Grammy?
Enveloped by a roar of cheers, Jamie slowly stood and stumbled down the crowded aisle. He wanted to run away, but the congratulatory slaps on his back propelled him forward.
When the caution-taped pop star handed him his trophy, he kept his eyes glued to hers, despite the magnetic pull of those pasties.
“Holy sh—” Jamie breathed into the microphone, catching himself.
So much for mentally checking out.
Dread tightened the muscles at the base of his neck. He rubbed the warm spot with his free hand, but it didn’t help. He was so damn overwhelmed.
“I—um—can’t believe this,” he began.
This was a nightmare.
“I want to sincerely thank the fans,” Jamie continued. “You know, my father won this same award in nineteen eighty. When I was writing these songs, under his guidance…”
The words soured and clung to Jamie’s tongue. What if he broke the cycle of lies? He could scrape up the dignity he had left. He could tell the world the truth.
He exhaled deeply. His chest ached as his heartbeat quickened. Suddenly, the air was too thick.
No—the Grammys stage wasn’t the right place. It would be too easy for his intentions to be misconstrued. He had to find another way.
“I’m so grateful that the fans love these songs as much as I do,” Jamie said, submitting to his team’s approved talking points.
Extending more obligatory thank-yous, Jamie backed away from the mic stand. But as the spotlight—or, the light of inspiration—beamed down, he doubled back.
When he glanced down to his socked feet, the crowd exploded with cheers. Right.
How to explain that?
“I’d also like to thank Brinton Shaw. You might be my good luck charm. Though, you owe me a new pair of boots.”
It was no Edible Arrangement, but it was something. He wanted Brinton to know he was thinking of her, and that he hoped she was all right. For now, it was the best he could do.
Jamie hoisted the gilded gramophone into the air and gave a practiced smile. It should have been the best night of his career. This was his father’s plan.
But Jamie was a fraud. Soon, everybody else would know too.