CHAPTER 13
JAMIE
W hen they landed in Nashville only a few photographers lingered near the arrivals gate—nothing the rock star couldn’t handle. Jamie pulled her hat lower, sunglasses in place, and walked through the flashing cameras without breaking her stride.
Nolan dropped off Ruth downtown, barely slowing as she slipped out with a casual wave, then headed south to Franklin.
The city lights faded in the rearview mirror, replaced by rolling hills and sprawling farms. The further they drove, the quieter it got—just the hum of the tires and the weight of whatever was about to come.
“You sure you’re not being a little hard on Ruth?” Clayton asked.
Jamie barely looked up from her phone. The screen was flooded with photos of Derrick and his “new girlfriend” getting cozy on set—his hand on her waist, his mouth close to her ear, a look she knew too well. A look that made her doubt everything all at once.
“Hard on Ruth?” She let out a faint laugh. “She should’ve told me the second she found out.”
“She was just doing her job. ”
“Her job is to be my assistant, not Shorty’s lackey.” The words came out sharp, a defense she’d mastered. Because if she let herself think about it too long, it wasn’t just Ruth. It was Derrick. It was every damn person who swore they had her back only to prove they didn’t.
Nolan drove his truck up to Clayton’s house and kept the engine running.
Clayton hopped out of the passenger side with Duke close behind. “I’m going to pack a few things then head on out.”
“Sounds good,” Nolan said. “I’m sorry you’re going through this, Jamie.”
“Thanks, Nolan.” She attempted to smile but it morphed into a frown, and she lacked the energy to fake her way out of it.
Clayton carried Jamie’s suitcases to the front porch. “You didn’t wear half of this stuff.”
She shrugged. “I like to keep my options open.”
Clayton opened the front door. “Home sweet home.”
Jamie followed Clayton inside, expecting it to be a pigsty, but it was clean, just like his tour bus, and decorated in a modern rustic style.
The layout was open-concept, featuring high ceilings and a wood-burning fireplace, reminiscent of those Hallmark movies shown during Christmastime.
She loved cheesy small-town romances set in tight-knit communities, which were the opposite of her upbringing.
“Got four bedrooms, take your pick. The girls’ rooms got smaller beds and the guest room ain’t much to brag about. But my room’s got a king-size bed. You’re welcome to it.”
“Are you trying to get me into your bed?” she asked with a hint of sarcasm.
“No,” he said. “Going to grab a few things. Be out of your hair in no time. I’m sure Momma’s stocked the fridge. ”
She opened the fridge to find a stack of Tupperware containers with yellow Post-it notes that said for jamie . “What the hell is this with my name on it?”
Clayton’s voice echoed from another room. “She cooked for you, darlin’.”
“How did she know I was here?”
“I sent her a message before we got on the plane,” he said. “She feels just awful for you.”
“I’ll never be able to eat all of this!” she shouted back at Clayton.
“Round here, love comes with a side of biscuits and gravy.”
“She doesn’t even know me.”
“You’re a friend of mine, so you’re a friend of hers.”
“Friend” is a strong word.
Clayton stood in the foyer with two duffel bags in hand.
She felt bad for kicking him out of his house but needed her privacy, a space to untangle the details of Derrick and Matilda’s relationship and prove it was just for publicity.
However, if it wasn’t some stunt, then he was dating some teenager who, by all accounts, wasn’t even bright.
“Ran you a bath with some Epsom salts,” he said, nodding toward the bathroom. “Figured you might want to unwind a bit.”
She shrugged and gave a half-smile at the gesture. “I’m not sure if I can, but I appreciate it.”
“Are you going to be okay?” Clayton asked on his way out the door. “I’m just down the road, so holler if you need anything.”
She looked around the living room. “Where’s the TV?”
Above the mantel, a large garishly framed painting of two horses stared back at her, glossy coats catching an unseen light source, their manes perfectly windswept, their eyes oddly lifeless.
It was the kind of art they sold at hotel conventions, where the brushstrokes were just convincing enough to pass for talent but not enough to stir any real emotion.
The gold trim around the frame was thick and ornate, clashing with the otherwise rustic decor, as if someone had tried—and failed—to inject a sense of sophistication into the room.
“Don’t own a TV,” Clayton replied.
“What?” She’d never heard of such a thing.
“Books are in the library, down the hall and to the left. Knock yourself out.”
“What’s your Wi-Fi password?”
“There’s no Wi-Fi, and the 5G is sketchy, but you can use the landline if you need to make a call.”
“How am I going to watch Netflix?” It was worse than she’d imagined.
“Read a book,” he said. “It’ll be good for you.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
After Clayton left, she took a look around. Unbelievable. As if the day hadn’t already gone off the rails, now she was stranded in the middle of nowhere—no TV, no Wi-Fi, just her and the country bumpkin’s charming lack of amenities.
She opened the fridge and smiled at the sticky notes with her name on them, but she wasn’t hungry—quite the opposite. Starving herself was another defense tactic from her adolescence. It was something she could control when she didn’t want to use a knife.
She turned on her phone and waited as her messages downloaded. Most were from Shorty and Ruth, checking in to make sure she wasn’t about to jump off a bridge. But there was nothing from AJ. Not that she’d expected otherwise. He’d never been there for her—why should today be any different?
After several failed attempts to stream a movie, she gave up and wandered into the library.
Oh. My. God.
Hundreds, maybe even thousands of books stretched to the ceiling, a built-in ladder standing ready to reach the highest shelves.
The sheer volume of them was overwhelming.
Had Clayton read all of these? No way. His two greatest passions were baseball and ropes, not late nights spent devouring novels.
She ran her fingers along the spines, noting the neat organization—nonfiction arranged by subject, fiction alphabetized by author. Thank God. At least they weren’t sorted by rainbow colors. Now that would have been an abomination.
A book lay open on the large mahogany desk, so she picked it up and read the spine: selected poetry of lord byron . And here she thought Clayton was borderline illiterate.
Curiosity got the better of her, so she took the book from the desk and curled up with Poppy on the leather couch, wrapping them in a blanket. She’d never read any poetry except for ones that rhymed, which probably didn’t count. She opened the book to the page where Clayton had left it.
When we two parted
In silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted
To sever for years,
Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
Colder thy kiss;
Truly that hour foretold
Sorrow to this .
She read the lines repeatedly, captivated by the beauty of Byron’s words, then continued with the rest of the poem, ending with . . .
In secret we met—
In silence I grieve,
That thy heart could forget,
Thy spirit deceive.
If I should meet thee
After long years,
How should I greet thee?—
With silence and tears.
Before Jamie realized it, she was sobbing uncontrollably, using the blanket to hide her face. It had nothing to do with Derrick or his pseudo-girlfriend. They were just background noise, distractions from the ache clawing at her chest.
The poem had shattered something inside her.
She wasn’t crying because of its beauty—although it was beautiful, filled with raw, aching devotion. She was crying because she understood, with complete certainty, that she’d never felt that way about anyone. Not even close.
She tried to remember a time when her heart had pounded like that, when love had made her feel weightless instead of burdened, when she’d wanted to give someone every fragile, vulnerable piece of herself without hesitation.
It had never happened. And the saddest part? It never would.
Maybe she was broken. Maybe there was something inside her wired wrong, something that made love feel foreign instead of natural. Or maybe she’d learned too early that loving someone—truly loving them—only ever led to disappointment .
She wiped her face roughly and forced herself to stand.
She refused to sit there and wallow in self-pity, dissecting emotions she didn’t even fully understand.
So she took a bath, letting the hot water burn away the remnants of her tears.
Then she climbed into bed, pulling the covers over her head as if she could shut out the world.
Jamie woke to the unfamiliar scent of cedar and leather, the sheets tangled around her legs. For a disorienting moment she forgot where she was until she blinked up at the exposed wooden beams overhead and felt the firm mattress beneath her—not hers, Clayton’s.
She sat up slowly, pushing her hair from her face, her mind still reeling from yesterday’s bombshell. Her ex. With Matilda of all people.
The betrayal sat heavy in her chest, a dull ache that hadn’t faded overnight. She pressed her fingertips to her temples, inhaling deeply, willing herself to shake it off. But no matter how much she tried to push it aside, the truth gnawed at her.
She wasn’t ready to face the day. Or Clayton. Or the mess her life had become.
But she couldn’t hide forever.
She shoved back the covers and shivered. Her breath hung in the air. Damn, it was cold out. She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to trap in what little warmth she had. Then she remembered the fireplace.
She knew nothing about lighting a fire, but she walked into the living room and found a bundle of wood, an iron poker thing, and long matches on the mantel.