Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
Brinton cocked her head and studied the wooden contraption about twenty feet away.
The slanted board sloped downward on one side and had a small hole at the top.
Adding to her confusion, at Jamie’s behest, she was now barefoot in the lush lawn nestling the patio, soft blades of grass tickling her toes.
Behind her, two bubbling jacuzzis and enough teak loungers for a football squad flanked the enormous swimming pool. Dotting the perimeter, an army of shady sugar maple trees.
It was proof that, if you were rich enough, heaven on Earth did exist.
“What’s the point of this again?” Brinton asked.
Jamie, also barefoot, let out a playful, exaggerated groan, like this was the most natural thing in the world.
“The point of cornhole is to have fun. It’s a game.” He nodded to the small red and blue bean bags next to him, haphazardly piled beside their iced teas on a teakwood table. “You throw these bean bags into the hole in that board to score points. The first person to score twenty-one wins.”
A game was not what she needed. She needed a time machine.
She’d planned to come off in control when seeing Jamie for the first time in months, but back in that kitchen, it was like no time had passed.
She was stuck in Grammys purgatory, paralyzed by fear and shame all over again.
A snarled bundle of nerves. Soon enough, Jamie would see her flawed emotions, like Eli always did.
She’d screw up this interview, and she’d get fired.
Because she didn’t belong here. Yet, there she was, barefoot with a still-shirtless Jamie Crawford Jr.
Jeez, did everyone walk around flashing their gilded pecs all willy-nilly?
He handed her a stack of four red bean bags. “I thought this could shake off the cobwebs. First interview and all.” His lips curved into a broad smile that steadied her like a long, deep breath, which she also didn’t need. She simply could not fall for his charms.
In fact, she’d spent days studying them from past interviews she had watched online.
That smile wasn’t genuine; it was a destabilizing weapon.
When he bit his bottom lip, he was flirting.
Sometimes, he did this twitchy thing, where he spun the chunky gold ring on his left pinky.
She didn’t know what it meant, but she would figure that out too.
Knowing all this, her pulse still raced.
She needed to relax so she didn’t scream.
Or worse, project from a different hole in her body.
Brinton breathed in deeply through her nose, held it for four counts, then let it go, as her mother had taught her.
Sweet wildflowers and freshly cut grass filled her nostrils.
Yes, she could do this.
Brinton took the bean bags from him and, to her horror, a spark danced between their fingers as they briefly touched, just like at the Grammys.
It was probably static electricity. Happened all the time. Didn’t it? She flung the thought from her head. “Follow-up question, why aren’t we wearing shoes?”
He offered a low chuckle, his glistening abs flexing from the force. You really could play Tic-Tac-Toe on them.
“Oh, that’s ’cause it feels nice. Figured you don’t touch grass much in New York City.”
Who had time for Earthing when you were in a perpetual state of dread? She rolled her eyes, but her smile eked out.
Oh, great, he’s funny too?
“No, but I’ve pet a lot of bodega cats, which I’d argue is better.”
When she wiggled her toes, it did feel nice. Crap, if he was going to walk around being right all day, bronzed nipples out in triumph, she needed something stronger than iced tea to drink. “Are you still okay with me recording our conversation?”
“Go for it.”
She crossed to the table, clicked on her digital recorder with her free hand, and turned back to him, expectant. “So, what next? These bags are getting heavy.” And they were burning daylight.
He picked up his four blue bags, eyes twinkling despite the cool shade blanketing them.
“By Crawford Rules—which is how we play—each bag in the hole is worth three points. A bag that lands on the face of the board but doesn’t go in is worth one.
We’ll take turns. The real fun is that if either of our bags land on the board but don’t go in the hole, the other person can knock it in with their own bag and steal the points. ”
Without permission, something warm bloomed in her chest. He looked genuinely excited, which was genuinely…sweet?
“That sounds like sabotage.” She laughed.
He grinned back at her. “Only if you miss the hole. And honey, I never miss the hole.”
He winked, and her stomach dipped. She’d never think of the word “hole” quite the same. Jamie stepped back so she could approach her starting point, which was on the right side of a second slanted board two feet ahead of them.
“Take all the time you need.”
“Wow, somebody’s cocky,” she said, immediately blushing at her word choice.
He furrowed his brow and gripped his chest in mock offense. “Who, me? Never. But…why don’t we make this more interesting. For every shot you make, I’ll answer a question. Anything you want. And for any I make, you’ll answer mine.”
He bit his bottom lip as a sunbeam warmed her inner thighs. At least, she hoped it was the sun. She peered at him, taking in all his sharp edges, and considered shutting this right the hell down and rescheduling for a decidedly less stimulating location. A warehouse full of glue sticks?
His eyes grew soft and he smiled, all sugarcane-sweet and Southern boy congeniality. “Please?”
Brinton regarded him through a curtain of braids that had conveniently fallen into her face, a temporary reprieve from his magnetic gaze. Rich demanded a juicy angle, so maybe she had to let down her guard a tiny bit. She blinked away her discomfort at the thought.
“One question.”
“I’ll take it.” He smiled wider, then gestured toward the target. “Try not to overthink it.”
Through her side-eye, she caught him watching her.
Taking her in like he wanted the memory tattooed on his brain.
She’d never tell him, of course, but it felt good to be seen for once.
Even momentarily. She sucked in a breath, cupped one bag under-handed, arm outstretched behind her, and launched it forward.
Her eyes widened in disbelief. It sailed straight into the hole.
He rubbed the ghost of golden stubble on his chin, impressed. Frankly, she was too. “Damn, that’s a nice shot.”
She shrugged. “Beginner’s luck.”
He waved his pointer finger in the air, eyes raking over her body appreciatively. “Nuh-uh. I know when I’m being hustled. But hit me.”
She inhaled. “Okay, let’s start with the new album. Is there a title yet?”
He exhaled deeply, as if the question were an anvil he was pushing up a steep cliff. “It’s called The Heartbreak Prince.”
“You…don’t seem too happy about it.”
Staring down the infinite stretch of green ahead, he slapped together the stack of bean bags in each hand. “Let’s say it wasn’t my first choice.”
She thought back to all the articles—and fine, gossip—from her research. “Is it because you feel like that’s all people see? A guy who goes from woman to woman?” She knew from experience what it was like being forced into a box. Did he feel the same?
Facing her, he smiled through a glint of something else in his eyes. Was it shame, or maybe embarrassment? She couldn’t put her finger on it, but she recognized it as what you did when you wanted to hide in plain sight.
“Technically, that’s two questions, but I’ll allow it. I guess, yeah, being a musician, people want you to fit into a specific hole, and you gotta stay in that hole or there’s no place else for you.”
He wound back and lobbed his bean bag over-hand, hitting his target with startling precision.
“Is there some part of you who wants to be in that hole? I mean, there are videos of you making out with dozens of women at Nashville bars. Not to mention your breakup with Kendall Chase, which, ultimately, seemed to benefit you. You won a Grammy—”
His jaw set and his eyes cut away again, searching for what to say in the dense tree line but coming up short. He was uncomfortable.
“All right, it’s my turn to ask you a question,” he said, voice lower.
Should she press him to answer? At this point, things were going well enough, and she didn’t want to risk him telling his team that she ambushed him. So, she let it go. “Fair is fair,” she said, turning to face him.
He cocked his head. “You think I’m a bad guy or something? Because I know you just arrived, but it seems like you’ve already made up your mind about me. You can tell me, really.”
She didn’t think he was a bad guy per se, but she didn’t know what his intention had been in calling her out in his acceptance speech.
Brinton hadn’t exactly expected him to reach out and explain, but it might have eased the roiling discomfort she felt as the internet picked her bones clean over many agonizing months.
She had to know if she wanted to survive these next two weeks. “I’m trying to understand you.”
Brinton tossed another bean bag, this time overhand, which disappeared into the tiny abyss.
Time to pull the trigger. “I vomited on you—I ate bad shrimp, for the record—but you embarrassed me in your Grammys speech. You called me your good-luck charm. Do you know how many weirdos messaged me online because of that, sending me photos of their puke boots or asking me to do the same to theirs? My name is still trending.”
As she looked at him, her heartbeat ricocheted between her ears.