CHAPTER 21 #2
She smirked, hanging up. She had no idea how long a jiffy was so she pulled out her study books and set them on the bar. Sliding into a chair she flipped to the math section—her favorite.
But focusing was impossible. A martini shaker sat in her sightline, taunting her.
For no reason other than curiosity—or maybe something else she didn’t want to name—she slid off the chair and opened the bar fridge.
A mini bottle of Grey Goose vodka sat on the shelf.
Not her first choice, but a perfectly acceptable runner-up.
A knock at the door stopped her from twisting off the cap. She needed to study if she had any hope of earning her high school diploma.
With a sigh she set the bottle down and opened the door.
Clayton stood on the other side, holding two full-size bottles—Jack Daniel’s and Ketel One .
“Steve Trevor at your service,” he announced, his accent even more British now.
Jamie folded her arms. “I’m not letting you in if you talk like that.”
Clayton shrugged and turned to leave. “Your loss.”
“No!” She pulled the door open wider. “Come in.”
He handed her the vodka bottle with a mock bow. “Madam.”
She eyed the bottle. “Where did you get this? The ones in my room are made for elves.”
“I went across the street to CVS.”
She squinted. “Did you talk in that accent?”
“Of course I did.” He grinned. “I’m Steve Trevor.”
She rolled her eyes and took two highball glasses from the bar. “I’m only going to have a splash,” she said, pouring two fingers. “I need to study.” She cracked open a can of club soda and filled it to the rim.
He pulled out index cards from his back pocket. “I made flashcards.”
“Did you buy those at CVS?”
“Indeed I did.”
She laughed, shaking her head. “The cashier must’ve had questions—two bottles of booze and index cards, all in an English accent.”
He poured three shots into his glass and raised it. “I’m not studying.”
She took a sip of her drink, warmth spreading through her chest. “Quiz me.”
He pulled up a chair, close enough that their arms nearly touched. His glass hit the table with a quiet clink.
She told him, “Start with math.”
“All right.” He flipped through a card and said, “Last month, Agatha’s checkbook balance was $1,219. She deposited her paycheck—$2,426—and paid $850 for rent, $236 for her car, and $418 for her credit card. What’s her current balance? ”
She narrowed her eyes. “Agatha?”
“She’s British.”
A beat passed. She took another sip, then answered. “$2,141.”
He blinked. “No calculator? No pen and paper?”
“Nope.” She leaned back, smirking. “I’m good with numbers.”
His gaze lingered a little longer than before, something thoughtful in the way he studied her. “Are you some kind of math genius?”
“What? Like Will Hunting.”
“Who?”
“Good Will Hunting. The movie.”
“I’ve never seen it.”
“You need to get out more, Clayton.”
There was a knock at the door and they turned.
“Are you expecting someone?” Clayton asked.
Jamie glanced at her watch. “It must be Ruth. It’s almost time for rehearsal.”
She opened the door and Ruth walked in, laughing as she held up her phone. “Hi, Clayton,” she said, flipping the screen toward him. “I’m FaceTiming with your brother.”
Nolan’s voice came through the phone. “Hey, man!”
“Hey,” Clayton said. “Show me the puppies!”
Ruth moved closer so they could all see the screen. Nolan turned his camera around, revealing a tangle of tiny puppies playing with their toys while Poppy dozed nearby.
“The red one is Heathcliff,” Nolan said.
Two small faces suddenly crowded into the frame.
“Hi, Daddy!” Charlotte chirped.
Emily grinned as she carefully scooped up Heathcliff. “We love him!”
“Be careful, girls,” Clayton warned gently. “They’re just babies.”
Jamie smiled. “How’s Poppy doing?”
“Hi, Miss Jamie!” the twins said in unison. “Uncle Nolan said we could watch the awards on his TV.”
Clayton shook his head with a chuckle. “Don’t stay up too late, now.”
“Poppy’s fine—just a little tired,” Nolan reassured her. “But the puppies are eating well, and she’s doing great.”
Ruth glanced at the time. “We have to go.”
“Aww,” Charlotte whined.
Clayton softened. “Bye, girls. Love you.”
“Love you too!” Charlotte said. With a proud little smile she added, “Break a leg, Daddy.”
The ACM rehearsals were in the MGM Grand Garden Arena, so they took the elevator down to the lobby and walked a short distance past the comedy club to the venue.
“I’m so excited!” Ruth bounced on her feet. “Reba McEntire is one of the presenters. I hope I get to meet her.” She glanced at her phone. “Who else is presenting? Their website doesn’t list everyone.”
“No idea,” Jamie said. “Shorty sent me the run of show but I didn’t read it.”
“Same,” Clayton admitted.
Ruth frowned. “Why didn’t Shorty send it to me? That’s not like him.”
“Beats me,” Jamie said.
At the entrance a short, dark-haired producer wearing a headset greeted them and led them backstage to their dressing rooms .
“We’ll call for you in an hour,” he said before disappearing down the hall.
“An hour?” Jamie echoed. “Jesus—why are we here so early?”
“There’s food in the green room,” the producer called over his shoulder.
Clayton perked up. “I’m sold.”
“I’m hungry too,” Ruth added.
Jamie pressed a hand to her stomach. “I can’t eat. I’m a bundle of nerves.”
Clayton slung an arm around her shoulders. “Then come keep us company.”
They walked down the hall, following the wayfinding signs toward the green room. Clayton opened the door and gestured for the ladies to enter first.
Inside the energy was electric. Performers, presenters, and their handlers clustered in groups, laughing and schmoozing, drinks in hand. The scent of hot food and expensive perfume mixed in the air, and the low hum of conversation was punctuated by bursts of laughter.
“Holy cow!” Ruth said, pointing to the tables of food. “I wish I’d brought a bigger bag with me.”
Long tables were lined with chafing dishes, their silver lids propped open to reveal an array of hot entrees.
Platters of cold cuts and cheeses were arranged next to baskets of bread, but just looking at the spread made Jamie’s stomach churn.
Whether it was nerves or the lingering effects of exhaustion, she wasn’t sure, but food was the last thing on her mind.
She scanned the room instead, searching for a bar.
There—across the crowded space, bathed in warm lighting.
“I’m going to say hi to some people,” Clayton said before disappearing into the crowd .
“Have you heard from AJ?” Ruth asked.
Jamie exhaled sharply. “Yeah. He’s been blowing up my phone since I was announced as a presenter. He probably wants free tickets.”
“Are you going to call him back?”
Jamie snorted. “No. I’m going to the bar.”
“James . . .” Ruth’s voice held a warning. “You shouldn’t drink before the show.”
She lifted her shoulder. “Too late.”
Jamie wove through the crowd, murmuring “excuse me” as she brushed past strangers until she hit the bar. The bartender, dressed in a crisp white shirt and black vest, looked like he’d stepped straight out of a James Bond film.
“What can I get you?” he asked.
“Vodka soda, please.” She smiled. “Ketel One if you’ve got it.”
“We’re serving this vodka tonight.” He lifted the blue bottle like it was a rare vintage. “One of the sponsors.”
She sighed. “That’s fine.” Next time she’d smuggle in her own vodka.
He poured the drink strong. She waved off the lemons and limes, of course.
“Here you go, miss.” The bartender slid the glass toward her just as Clayton came up behind her. She dropped a twenty into the tip jar.
“I like your style,” Clayton murmured in her ear, his voice laced with his crisp English accent.
Before she could react he stepped around her and faced the bartender. “I’ll have a Jack on the rocks, please and thank you.”
Jamie nearly spit out her drink. That voice. He sounded exactly like an Englishman.
“Yes, Mr. Langley,” the bartender said, already pouring. “Coming right up. ”
“Mr. Langley,” Jamie muttered under her breath, eyeing her twenty and briefly considering taking it back.
The bartender handed Clayton a generous pour—so generous that half the bar would be wasted before the show even started if he kept serving drinks like that.
Clayton raised his glass. “Cheers, mate.”
“I didn’t know you were British,” the bartender said, impressed. “That’s cool.”
Jamie shook her head, holding back a laugh. She had to admit, his accent was pretty convincing.
“Can you get Ruth over here?” Clayton asked in his regular voice.
“Why?”
“Got a surprise for her.”
“I don’t know where she is.” Jamie rose onto her tiptoes. “Can you see her?”
Clayton scanned the crowd. “Yeah, she’s at the dessert station.”
“Figures,” Jamie said. “She’s got a sweet tooth.”
“Lord, she ain’t but a hundred pounds, if that.”
“I know.” Jamie nodded. “That’s why she’s always chewing gum—it stops her cravings.” She took a sip of her drink. “Should I text her?”
“Please. ”
Jamie pulled out her phone and sent Ruth a quick message to meet her at the bar. A few seconds later she appeared, balancing a dinner plate stacked high with desserts.
“What’s up, boss?”
Jamie groaned. “I told you not to call me that—especially in public.”
Clayton moved around to stand behind Ruth, pressing a finger to his lips in a playful hush before wrapping his arms around a redheaded woman who had joined them. Jamie blinked, her brain scrambling to place the familiar face. And then it hit her.
Trying to keep a straight face, she turned to Ruth. “How are you holding up without your dog?”
“I miss Reba,” Ruth mumbled, stuffing her face with a bite of chocolate cake.
“I’m right here,” the redheaded woman said.
Ruth froze mid-chew, then spun around so fast her plate nearly tipped over.
“Reba?” she gasped, clamping a hand over her mouth.
Reba McEntire was standing right in front of her, smiling.
“In the flesh,” Reba said. “Clayton told me you named your dog after me.”