Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
When Brinton looked up, she was disappointed to find one of the A she doubted anyone could see what was happening.
Dane squeezed Brinton’s inner thigh. “Come on now, honey. I got a lot of time and money to spend…”
As Brinton opened her mouth to scream, Dane’s face drained of color.
“Hey, Dane, having a good night?” Jamie asked. His signature grin had morphed into something distinctly sinister as he slid into the booth, facing them.
“Ah, yeah. I was—”
“Leaving?” Jamie asked. He propped one elbow on the table, knuckles grazing his chin. “That’s good. I imagine Cheryl is waiting up with the baby?”
Dane checked his watch.
“How old is she now?”
“Um, she’s—well, I guess it slipped my mind. Goes so fast, you know.”
Jamie leaned back. “Now, that’s no good. A man worth his salt should know, don’t you think? I should call Cheryl right now, so we can get it straight.”
“That’s not necessary, Jamie. Loved the record, by the way. Deserved to win ten more Grammys,” Dane said, slinking out from the booth.
“You get home safe now,” Jamie said in a razored tone she hadn’t heard before. Its raw power was strangely comforting as dread curdled in her stomach.
“Because if I catch you even looking at her again,” Jamie continued, stepping closer to Dane, “You and me are gonna do more than talk.”
Brinton’s parents didn’t raise her to need a man to save her. She could have defended herself, if it came to it. But she was grateful that, for once, she didn’t have to.
She was terrified, and Jamie had protected her.
Dane nodded, turned, and slithered away. Jamie dropped back into the booth, expression still tense.
“Are you okay? Did he hurt you?”
“Yes, I’m okay. No, he didn’t—”
“Good.”
Brinton clutched her chest. “I should have left with Sammi. It’s my fault, I was here alone.”
“It’s not your fault,” Jamie said, softer now. “A woman should be able to sit alone at a bar in peace.”
“Thank you, Jamie. I mean it,” she said, hands shaking as she pulled out a fresh water bottle. She realized how overheated she was as her adrenaline dipped.
He nodded appreciatively as she slid a bottle to him.
“You don’t gotta thank me. I saw him come over, and I knew his play. You remember hearing about the guy I had words with at my concert a few years back?”
She did. “Something about a punch thrown backstage? Was that him?”
Jamie placed his folded hands on the table, knitting his fingers together so tightly his knuckles paled.
“Yeah. I watched him repeatedly slip his hand under a fan’s skirt after she rejected him. So, I had to make sure he heard her.”
She shook her head in disbelief. “The headlines made it seem like you got into a fight because he hit on your date.”
The scandal made Jamie’s song “Touch Me Like You Mean It” shoot to number one on the country charts.
Jamie tutted, and slowly unclenched his fist. “I wouldn’t believe everything you read about me.” That tender smile returned. “Unless it’s something you wrote.”
She set her hands on the table, close enough to touch his. But she didn’t quite have the nerve.
He sighed. “Brinton, I’m sorry about what happened in the car. I signed the new contract because my father threatened to get you pulled from the story. He’s got friends in high places. I couldn’t—I refused to let that happen.”
Brinton felt terrible for misreading Jamie’s withdrawal and making it about herself. She was also unnerved to know his father would stoop as low as to sabotage her. And worse, that he’d punish Jamie in the process.
Jamie was willing to take it, for her.
“God, Jamie. Please know I appreciate you, but what about your plans to start fresh? You signed a binding contract.”
He dragged his hand down his jaw. “I figure we double down. If we can get your article published, cover story or not, my father will cancel the contract. He’ll have no choice once the truth is out there.”
“That’s a huge if.”
The corners of his mouth lifted. “Go big or go home, right?”
She smiled, clinging to hope. For him.
“But if we do this, I want to go at your pace. Especially about your mother.”
He pushed his hands closer, closing the gap between them until their fingertips faintly touched. It was probably for the best; they were in public, and he was still extremely famous.
But it felt so good to be this close. Heat and intrigue sparked between their fingertips.
She couldn’t speak, only drank him in. Her breath hitched. To her delight, his did too.
“Thank you, Brinton,” he said. “I wanna tell you about my mom. I wanna tell you so many things, if you can bear with me. You make me feel like I’ve got a story to tell, and that what I want for my music—for my life—is in reach. Can you forgive me?”
She cracked a smile. “Only if you promise not to make insanely important decisions on my behalf.”
He smiled back. “I’ll see what I can do.”