Chapter 30 Izzy
Chapter thirty
Izzy
“So…Nashville,” I say when we land just before lunchtime on Saturday.
Flying on a private jet is…I want to say lame and overrated, but that would be a lie.
It’s wildly comfortable, absurdly easy, and I’m pretty sure it costs more than my rent payment for the entire year.
The pilots were waiting at the Wild Bluffs airport when Jaxon and I pulled up at eight this morning, with a car waiting for us once we deplaned.
It’s a little unsettling—being waited on.
I flew to Australia in a private jet with Jameson and JT when they were going for a golf tournament, and I tagged along with Bryn and Lila for Jaxon’s concert. But then it felt like a fun party that I just happened to be invited to.
This feels much more intimate.
Jaxon treats it like it’s normal, like flying across the country with a woman he’s fake dating is just a regular part of his routine.
And for him, maybe it is.
But for me? Surreal.
It’s also an important reminder of just how far apart our lives have drifted at this point. I may have a ton in common with Jaxon Reid, but I am not in the same league as Jaxon Steele.
We’re met at the tarmac by a black SUV with tinted windows and a driver who hops out of the front seat and gives me a hug as soon as he sees us.
“Izzy!” the man says, and I’m glad I spent part of the flight quizzing Jaxon on his team and which members I’ll be seeing while we’re here.
“Andre!” I say, trying to match his enthusiasm. “So good to see you again.”
I met him briefly in Australia, but I was so busy trying to avoid interacting with Jaxon that I hadn’t remembered it.
Andre spends the drive to Jaxon’s house quizzing me on the basics of what I do, where I went to college, and what I do for fun.
Jaxon, who insisted on taking the back seat while I sat in the front, seems to be paying more attention than Andre is to my answers.
Every once in a while, Andre stops his interrogation of me to update Jaxon on his schedule and music empire.
I’d forgotten that he is essentially the CEO of a major company, complete with a huge team, millions of clients worldwide, and so many moving parts that it's amazing he can keep track of it all with only two assistants.
And then we’re here—Jaxon’s home.
The house sits tucked behind gates and tall, green trees, perched on a hill with views that make my lungs feel too small.
It’s modern but warm, with whitewashed brick and sprawling porches, ivy trailing along the walls, and a wraparound balcony that practically begs to be used for late-night stargazing.
I blink, trying to take it all in. “This is not a house. This is a mansion. A mega-mansion. An estate.”
As soon as I’m out of the car, I’m greeted by Annie, who feels too poised and put together to work for a musician.
“Izzy,” she says warmly, clasping my hand between both of hers. “We’ve heard so much about you.”
“Oh no,” I say automatically. “I can explain everything you’ve heard, I promise.”
She laughs. “All good things, of course. Plus, Jaxon is writing again. And laughing more. I’ve worked with him for a long time, and I haven’t seen that man genuinely happy since…” She trails off with a meaningful glance at Jaxon that I pretend I don’t see.
He clears his throat and frowns at her. “Since my tour last year. Obviously.”
Andre rolls his eyes. “Sure. Let’s go with that.”
“How’s Tim?” Jaxon asks Annie, eyes lighting up with mischief.
Her professional demeanor doesn’t change, even if her cheeks turn a bit pink. “He’s doing well. A great gate guard.”
“I heard he’s gained ten pounds from all the food you’re bringing him,” Jaxon teases.
Annie lets out an indignant huff, and with that, we walk into the house through the large front door, and I stop short.
“This is gorgeous,” I breathe.
The ceilings are tall and beamed with dark wood.
The walls are white and bright, with huge windows that flood the space with natural light.
Guitars are propped in corners like casual afterthoughts and a wall of built-in bookshelves is filled with everything from vintage vinyl to Jaxon’s old songwriting journals.
The kitchen is big enough to host a small wedding, and through the huge glass doors on the other side of the house, the back patio boasts a fireplace so fancy it could probably roast your marshmallow for you.
I turn in a slow circle. “Now that I know what your house looks like, I’m going to be a lot more embarrassed when you sit on my thrift store couch in my tiny living room.”
Jaxon snorts. “I like your living room. Come on, I’ll show you upstairs.”
We leave Annie and Andre, and Jaxon shows me a number of rooms before showing me the guest room closest to his room—my room, I guess—with soft gray linens, fancy-looking art prints on the wall, and a view of a garden that looks like it should be on the cover of a magazine that my parents would’ve had at their dental office.
“This okay?” he asks.
“Okay?” I parrot, dropping my bag on the ground. “This is nicer than any hotel I’ve ever stayed in.”
“Well,” he says with a wink, “make sure you leave a five-star review when you check out.”
I leave my bag, and he shows me the rest of his “house.” Between the gym, the pool, and the pool house he converted into a recording studio, I don’t know what’s more impressive.
We spend the afternoon exploring the grounds, and before I know it, it’s time to leave for dinner.
We slide into the back of a sleek black luxury sedan that’s waiting just outside the front door, and Jaxon introduces me to his driver, Eli.
The ride is peaceful as we pass by massive fences surrounding green lawns bursting with curated color. Jaxon points out his various friends and neighbors, some names I recognize, others I’ve never heard of.
Apparently, this is the neighborhood the majority of the professional baseball players from the Nashville Night Terrors choose to live, and he points out the properties of basically their entire starting lineup as we drive.
He leans across me as he points out my window, and I can’t help but breathe in deeply as I catch the scent that is gut-clenchingly masculine and so distinctly him.
“That’s where Chase Boslin lives,” Jaxon says, naming a prominent country music star he’s recorded a few songs with in the past. “He hosts a poker night a few times a year.”
When Jaxon sits back, his hand remains on the seat between us, and I feel like a middle schooler again as it consumes every atom of my attention.
Why do I feel the need to grab it and never let go?
To feel the warmth of it cocooning my own?
There’s no one here we have to fake this for, which means, this is all me.
Stupid hormones.
The scenery changes from the suburbs to downtown, sprawling estates turning to new construction commercial lots.
“We’re here,” Jaxon says as the driver pulls to a stop in front of an old brick building in the heart of Nashville with the name “Clementine’s” on the front. “This is the restaurant you have to go to when you come to Nashville.”
He holds my hand as I slip out of the car, and my nerves celebrate, rejoicing at the contact they’ve been begging for all night.
I gulp, trying to get myself under control. It’s just dinner. Not a date. Not even a fake date.
Jaxon keeps hold of my hand as we walk in, and I try to play it cool when the hostess gushes over Jaxon before turning a who-the-fuck-is-this glance my way.
We follow her to a booth tucked in the back, half hidden behind a giant potted plant. It’s dim and cozy, with exposed bricks, mismatched candle holders, and live music in the corner.
“This place is really cool,” I say once we’re situated with our orders placed.
Jaxon laughs, and I swear my body melts. “I think the fact that you just ordered the chicken and waffles with truffle honey and a bourbon cocktail makes you the most Tennessean of anyone here.”
I roll my eyes. “I will take any excuse to order breakfast for dinner,” I say. “It’s the superior meal and I don’t understand why we, as a society, make such a big deal about dinner.”
Even though the air between us is alight with some sort of electromagnetic pull, I find myself relaxing in a way I didn’t expect. Somehow, this feels…real. Normal. But also, not. It feels like a first date, but with someone who already knows everything about me and likes me anyway.
I have to keep reminding myself it’s neither real nor a date.
It doesn’t help that Jaxon keeps finding reasons to reach across the table to touch my hand. Or maybe I’m the one bridging the gap between us.
The server brings out our food, and we dig in. While I’m chewing, I silently repeat that this isn’t a date. That this is just friends out for dinner. But I’m having a hard time convincing myself.
“I can’t believe you live here,” I say between bites of honey-covered cornbread.
“I can’t believe you are here,” he says, looking at me like I’m a rain cloud just before the first drop falls, filled with promises of what could be.
Jaxon gazes at me, smiling softly.
“What?” I ask, wiping at my mouth with the back of my hand to confirm there isn’t anything there.
He shakes his head, the lighting causing something besides amusement to dance in the chestnut depths of his eyes. “What’s it like working with your best friend?” he asks.
“I love it,” I say, trying not to get lost in the way he’s looking at me. “Becca is so easy to get along with, and we really do work well together. She’s great with people, and I’m much better with timelines and project plans.”
“But?” he asks, as if he can tell there’s something I’m not saying. Like he’s picking up on a piece of me that no one else has noticed before.
“But I guess, sometimes, I wonder if I’m hiding behind her ambition.”
“What do you mean?” Jaxon asks.
“This is what she’s passionate about. I’m just…along for the ride.”
He considers it for a minute, and I appreciate that he doesn’t just brush it off or tell me it’s not true. Because it is true. Finally, he says, “I don’t think most people are deeply passionate about their jobs, Iz.”
“Everyone I know is,” I say. “Or at least everyone my age. My sisters love their jobs. You don’t get to be where Jameson and JT are without loving what you do. I mean, look at you. You’ve known what you wanted to do since we were ten.”
“I understand how that might be hard,” Jaxon says.
“But music was also the only thing I really ever was good at or cared about. It’s all-consuming to be so passionate about something.
Growing up, I always wanted to be like you.
To be good at so many things. To not know what I wanted to do because I had too many options, not because I had too few. ”
He places his hand over mine, pressing down just slightly so it feels like a hug.
I know he, arguably the most popular musician in the world, can’t possibly understand what it’s like to be the least successful person in your family or friend group, but there’s a kernel of truth that comes to light at his words.
I’m a utility player. It's the spot I've taken on every team I've ever been a part of—sports, school, work.
I'm the one who can play multiple positions, who makes it work no matter who else shows up that day.
“Thanks,” I say, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear while fighting back the smile that wants to spread across my face.
I take the final swig of my drink before saying, “So tell me about touring. What do you miss the most when you’re gone?”
He considers it, chewing his food thoughtfully. “A couch that smells like home, and people who don’t want anything from me.”
It’s so basic I want to hug him. It’s something most people take for granted every day. To have someplace that feels like home with people there who just want you to be you? It’s a simple thing, and I wish I could give it to Jaxon.
In a purely platonic way, of course.
We spend the dinner talking about everything and nothing—the kind of conversation that only happens when two people already know each other’s history but are finally catching up on the in-between.
By the time the check comes, my body is buzzing with the soft touches and the slightly heated looks that are emphasized by the dimming candlelight. Although I’m not sure if they’re real or all in my head.
When we walk out of the restaurant, the night is warm and the city buzzes around us. I feel like I’m a different version of myself—lighter, freer, a little tipsy but in the best way. Jaxon holds my hand as we wait for the car to pick us up and then slides in next to me in the back seat.
We hold hands the entire drive home, our thighs touching occasionally as the car turns. Would it be too much to ask the driver to just stay in a roundabout, constantly turning for the next hour or two? Until the feel of my body pressed up against Jaxon’s no longer feels like my soul coming home?
It might be too much.
“You ready?” Jaxon asks, his eyes dark as we pull in front of his house.
“For what?”
His voice is gruff as he says, “For the best shower of your life.”
I’m not ready, but I nod anyway, speechless.
“Smart. It’s a steam shower like no other,” he says seriously, as we climb out of the car, his hand burning my own with the maintained contact. “Full-body jets. Bluetooth speaker. Aromatherapy. It’s a life-changing experience.”
“Sounds amazing.”
“Just wait,” he says, still holding my hand. “You think you’re ready, but you’re not.”