Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
After pleasantly roasting on a linen lounge chair by the pool, Jamie roughly ran a hand through his sopping wet hair and padded to the French doors leading into the kitchen.
The space was bright and airy, with luscious white marble countertops, chocolatey hardwood floors, and a long bank of windows overlooking the glimmering pool.
It was usually quiet—his father took most meals in his office or the billiards room—but today, the kitchen hummed with staff tending to platters of sticky spare ribs, tangy collard greens, smoked chicken, baked macaroni and cheese, red rice, gooey butter cake, and whipped banana pudding for the cookout that night.
Liza, the family’s head chef for the past twenty years, directed the troops like the pint-sized general she was. Pointing here and there, tasting a rotation of sauces on tiny spoons, and calling out intermittently “Needs more pepper, baby.”
She did it all without getting a single drop on her crisp, white button-down. Liza was in her 60s, with a smooth, nutmeg complexion and a soul-soothing smile. Equal parts Oprah Winfrey and Martha Stewart—wisdom, beauty, and grace. But don’t dare trifle with her shit.
Liza painstakingly massaged two different linen napkins, one in each hand. “Mary, these are about as soft as a porcupine’s backside,” she told the twenty-something brunette with a severe ponytail beside her. Liza never raised her voice, but the entire room stood at attention when she spoke.
“Party’s in three hours. I need you to run out to Tulia’s and get the organic linen, but something dark. All this barbecue sauce, it’s gonna look like an episode of CSI.”
Mary nodded and followed Liza into the cavernous walk-in pantry.
Jamie loved watching her work. Even as a kid, and especially after his mother died, she always made sure he had what he needed.
And all of the unspoken things his globe-trotting father couldn’t provide.
Jamie scooted past a man pushing a stocked cart of top-shelf liquor.
He made a mental note to revisit that later.
He beelined for the long kitchen island in the center of the room, where someone had finished slicing a tray of Liza’s famous cathead biscuits and cornbread.
Leaning against the kitchen island, Jamie grabbed one of each, savoring how every crumbly bite melted on his tongue. A familiar voice and the click-clack of multiple sets of heels on hardwood broke his carb-induced reverie.
“I thought I’d give you a sneak peek before the cookout tonight,” Sammi told Brinton, who trailed behind her through the archway. Her head was on a swivel, and she took a beat here and there to scribble in the tiny black notebook in her hand.
Jamie figured he’d see Brinton at the party but didn’t account for her catching him dripping from his gray swim trunks, a biscuit hanging from his mouth. The thought made his cheeks heat. Apparently, he cared about how she thought he looked?
Shoot, he did. But only because she could write about that, and he wanted to come across like the legitimate artist he longed to be? And, yes, he wanted her to like him. Maybe as much as he liked her. Maybe more?
Satisfied, he popped the last bite of biscuit into his mouth.
She wore one of those silky blouses that didn’t make a lick of sense in the country and tight, black jeans that absolutely did. He scolded himself for clocking how they hugged her hips. No, Brinton was absolutely off-limits.
He wanted her to write about the real him, not the philandering Heartbreak Prince he paraded around as.
Besides, he couldn’t give a woman like her—driven, and most important, genuine—what she deserved: stability and true partnership.
He didn’t know the first thing about either, because his own heart was fractured.
It happened the night his mother died, before he slammed into that oak tree.
His father had looked him in the eye and codified that runway emotions would be his downfall.
Jamie replaced his heart—split like the front end of his father’s truck—with a self-generating force field.
It protected him from being too open, too willing to risk assured pain.
Or to hurt someone else because of his shortcomings.
That settled it. He’d ignore whatever was percolating about Brinton and those jeans, and all the glorious ways she filled them, and focus on the job at hand. He needed to earn her support, not sleep with her.
It was a real challenge when you’d won every gold medal in the sport.
Once Brinton’s eyes settled on him, they grew wide, as if she were embarrassed. They quickly retreated back into her notebook. Was he making her uncomfortable? A few thick beads of water rolled defiantly from his crotch and down his thigh, not unlike pee. Was she gonna think he pissed himself?
This was already off to a fantastic start.
“Great timing, Jamie’s here. You remember Brinton?” Sammi asked as brightly as her yellow dress glowed in the sunlight.
“Sure, hard to forget,” Jamie said, hearing his dry tone and wincing. He only meant it’d be hard to forget wearing her DNA on a livestream with millions watching, but he didn’t want her to think he was still worried about it, because he wasn’t. “I—yes. Of course I remember you.”
“Though it seems you forgot you own at least one shirt,” Sammi quipped. One of the things he loved about her: she never missed the opportunity to cut him down to size. It kept him humble.
He offered a cocky smile. “You know how I feel about tan lines.”
Turning back to Brinton, he went in for a friendly hug. It seemed appropriate, since they’d met before, but she thrust her hand toward him. Right, he was soaking wet and half naked.
He took it, squeezing gently. “Sorry, I was out by the pool. But I’m so glad you could make it.”
She looked flustered. Was she nervous? No. More likely it was some special separation anxiety Manhattanites experienced once they left their imposing skyscrapers and fancy espresso martinis behind.
“I’m wet to be here,” Brinton said, apparently a little louder than she expected. Eyes like saucers, she flicked her waist-length braids off her shoulder and stifled what sounded like a scream. She was definitely nervous.
Jamie cracked an appropriately juvenile smile. It was…cute? No, endearing. That sounded more professional. She seemed like that kind of girl—er, woman.
“I mean—I’m happy. To be here,” she mumbled, eyes dipping back to her notebook.
“Can I get you something? Water, peach tea? Something stronger?” Jamie asked.
“No, thank you.”
“How was the flight?”
“Good.”
“Enjoying the weather so far?”
“Yes,” she said, finishing a few scribbled notes.
He gestured to her notebook, craned his neck to steal a peek. “You…planning to share with the class?”
Brinton snapped it shut, face stretched into an almost painful smile. “Sorry, no. That’s not how this works.”
Damn, getting right down to business. Pleasantries apparently weren’t a thing with this woman. He respected it though.
“James Sawyer Crawford, Jr., I know you’re not tracking water onto my clean floors,” Liza admonished, her whisper-shout cutting through the awkward tension from the archway.
“I know, I know. And I’m sorry. Won’t happen again.” He went in to hug her, but she playfully swatted him with an oven mitt.
“Tell the truth and shame the devil,” she said, casting a knowing grin.
Sammi crossed to Liza and wrapped her into a decidedly drier hug. “Liza, this is Brinton, the journalist I told you about.”
“Charmed to meet you,” Liza said, and braced Brinton so hard she almost tipped over. Liza pulled back, eyes wide with concern. “You okay, baby?”
“Yes,” Brinton said, pantomiming an awkward hug. “I guess I’m not really…”
Jamie chuckled. She was a little uptight, but she probably meant well. Again, endearing.
“Oh, we’ll fix that,” Sammi said, crunching on a thinly sliced cucumber from a tray on the island. “Liza is head chef, and she’s behind every sinfully delicious thing you’ll put in your mouth.”
“You hungry?” Liza asked Brinton. “Dinner’s in a few hours, but let me know if I can fix you something. No trouble at all.”
Brinton smiled, a shy but blinding one. Jamie’s breath hitched. He wasn’t sure what to make of that. “I’m good for now, thank you.”
Liza nodded, and like some kind of textile genie, she produced a dark blue towel, which Jamie took. Her one flaw? She couldn’t ever stay mad at him for too long.
He planted a soft kiss on her cheek. “You’re an absolute angel, you know that?”
At the stove, Liza stirred a boiling pot of macaroni. “Uh-huh. Now, take that outside. I don’t wanna see your handsome face until the party, you hear me?”
“Yes ma’am,” he said, then glanced at Brinton. “Guess we’ll have lots to catch up on at the party tonight?”
Sammi nodded, but her usual smile grew tight. She stepped a few paces closer to Brinton, lowering her voice. She was a heat-seeking missile, launching into PR mode.
“I want you to have the best experience. In fact, I’m here to ensure it. Some things you see and hear during your stay may be sensitive, so all I ask is that, when reasonable, we keep those moments off the record.”
Brinton looked up from her notebook, her expression unreadable. Jamie wanted to interject, but there was no stopping Sammi once she’d locked in.
Brinton’s eyes didn’t leave hers. “I understand that, but I’m a journalist. I’m here to write about what I see, hear, and experience. I won’t sign an NDA.”
At least she stood for something. For his plan to work, this was exactly the kind of thing he needed.
Sammi’s expression softened. “I swear, I’m not trying to dictate how you do your job,” she said, as earnest as he had ever heard her. “At the very least, give Jamie a fair shot.” Her feline emerald eyes met his. “This interview means a lot for the new record.”
Brinton tugged on the hem of her blouse. Damn, why was he studying her like a textbook? He averted his eyes to the bank of windows before he creeped her out more than he already had.
“I’m committed to writing this story with integrity,” she added, unsmiling but warm. Like she meant it. It reminded him of their Grammys interview. She had a willingness to go beyond the surface level. Excellent.
“That’s good enough for me,” Sammi said. Her smile had returned to its former glory.
“Me too,” he said, probably too eagerly. Sammi and Brinton’s heads jerked his way, like they had forgotten he was standing there.
“How about we chat now on the patio?”
Jamie smiled his award-winning smile and poured two glasses of iced peach tea from the pitcher on the counter.
He handed one to Brinton, who grasped it hesitantly, as if it might have been spiked with cyanide. His grin faltered. All right, this might be a smidge harder than he had hoped, but he was up for the challenge.
Brinton looked to Sammi for some kind of affirmation and seemed to have gotten it in her sharp nod of approval.
“Okay,” she mumbled.
Clearly, she was still getting her bearings. But he knew how to loosen her up.