Chapter 7 #2
He stooped down, dropped his bean bags on the ground.
Stepping closer, he placed a hand on her shoulder, fingertips gently brushing against her blouse and making her shiver.
“God, Brinton, no. I’d never—I’m so sorry I made you feel that way.
On that stage, everything happened so quickly.
I was caught up in the moment…” He trailed off, stepped closer.
She shivered again. “Truthfully, you were the highlight of that night.”
Her lips parted, releasing the breath she’d been holding. “I don’t understand?”
Now he blew out a breath, his blue-green eyes a wellspring of sincerity.
“But I didn’t consider how you felt about what happened, what you’d gone through that day.
I thought about you a lot though, all those months.
I wanted to shoot you a DM. Hell—I even tried sending you an email, so I could tell you… ”
He ran a free hand through his hair. “But, I—well, it’s just that…”
She hurled another bean bag forward. It sank into the hole. “Why did you wait, Jamie? You could have sent me a DM. You could have said something.”
He looked down at his bare feet, dragging one across the grass.
“I know I could have. It’s embarrassing, but I don’t even control my social accounts.
My team does. So, if I got the chance to tell you what I needed to say—or to see you again—I wanted it to be on my terms. Not theirs. And I was afraid…”
“Afraid of what?”
His eyes latched with hers, and the corners of his mouth upturned softly.
“That no matter what I said, it wouldn’t have come off as genuine, because I’m in the public eye.
There’s a lot of pressure when people know you.
A lot of room to get this misconstrued. I hoped having you here for these next few weeks was my chance to tell you how glad I am that we met. ”
The massive knot in her stomach unfurled a bit. He hadn’t been making fun of her. Shit, now she felt like a cornhole.
“Oh.” She picked at the cottony fibers of the last bean bag in her hand. “I assumed you thought I was joke.”
Exactly like everyone else.
He fervently shook his head. “Never crossed my mind. And for the record, I think you’re an awesome writer. You ask thoughtful questions, you’re smart as hell, and I can tell you care about doing things right. I admire that. And I was looking forward to having fun hanging out.”
As her adrenaline leveled out, his words were a weighted blanket.
She couldn’t remember the last time a man—and certainly not a legitimate famous person—wanted to hang out with her.
She could have fun with him too. Professional, sanctioned fun.
This was how she would get the angle she needed and land a cover story.
“You really like my writing?”
He flashed a sheepish grin. “I may have read all your Landmark articles before you got here. I think the Tracy Chapman piece was my favorite. You really nailed how before-her-time she was, and how her raw, tender storytelling remains relevant.”
No one ever mentioned that one, but she felt the same way. She grinned back at him, more than a little pleased. “A little recon, huh?”
“I remembered you were a sharp-shooter. I can tell you got a sweetness about you, but you also got a stinger. Like a honeybee.”
He appraised her slowly, making her feel exposed and coveted all at once. She reached for her iced tea and took a hulking gulp. A feeble bid to cool the heat spilling across her chest. “Doesn’t sound too bad.”
“Not bad at all, Honeybee.”
Honeybee. Outside of properly embarrassing pet names her family gave her, she’d only had one nickname.
At thirteen, she got her first period and had her first panic attack at Carmen Bryant’s sleepover.
Carmen only used tampons because she refused to wear “a vag diaper.” Brinton refused to wear a tampon because she was terrified it’d get stuck and sprout like a swallowed watermelon seed, its absorbent, cottony cover crushing her from the inside out.
She cried at school for a year over her new nickname: vag diaper.
Honeybee was considerably better.
Eager for a distraction from the effervescent giddiness in her stomach, she looked down at her hands—she still had two bean bags left. “Should we keep playing?”
“Hell yeah,” he said, brushing her shoulder with his and imbuing her whole body with strange tingles. “But it’s my turn.” He tossed one of his bags, which caught on the hole’s lip but didn’t fall in. He winced as his self-proclaimed winning streak ended.
“Tough break,” she said, stifling a laugh.
“Mm. Well, you can’t win ’em all. You’re a worthy opponent.” He eyed her softly, like he meant it. She gulped down a tennis-ball of tension and tossed another bag. It grazed Jamie’s, the weight sending both tumbling into the hole.
Jamie whistled. “Now, I suppose, you earned two more questions.”
Slowly, she crossed her arms in mock protest, daring him to argue. Against her better judgment, she was having a good time. “I kinda feel like you owe me four now.”
He chuckled, nodding his head in surrender. “All right then. I’m just a man at your mercy.”
Now, all the heat in her body rushed to the same place. She clenched her thighs, making it worse. What the fuck was happening to her?
At the same time, she was getting somewhere. She had to keep him talking…
Behind him, the clattering of boots on flagstone breached the charged energy between them.
They both turned to find Tex, who Brinton had learned was Jamie’s goateed manager from the Grammys, and Jamie’s father waiting.
Tex tipped his black cowboy hat to her, but Jamie Sr. looked straight at his son.
“Need you back in the studio,” Tex chirped, ignoring Jamie’s sullen expression. “Gotta polish up the tracks before the party tonight. A few folks from the label are coming.”
Jamie was still watching her, some kind of yearning in his eyes. Like he wanted to stay. If he was serious about this interview, wouldn’t he want to?
“We’re in the middle of an interview,” he said.
His father grunted. “That wasn’t a request, son.” His voice lowered as he stepped closer to Jamie. “Do I need to remind you how hard everybody else is working for you?”
Jamie flinched when his father said the word “you,” and so did she. Why did Jamie Sr. have such a hold on his son?
Finally, Jamie turned to his father. “No, sir.” His eyes bounded back to hers. A broken smile on his face. “We’ll talk more at the party tonight, but you keep practicing. He placed his bags in her hands, then let his fingertips linger against his wrist. “Looking forward to our rematch, Bee.”
Was this his game? Bring her to the edge, then yank the cord so she didn’t get too close?
She closed her eyes, disappointed at the realization that despite all her planning and pep talks, she fucking liked him.
Despite what she should have felt: objectivity.
Impartiality. A subtle “I-give-nary-a-fuck.”
She was unceremoniously screwed. It was going to be a long night.