Liza painstakingly massaged two different linen napkins, one in each hand. “Mary, these are about as soft as a porcupine’s backside,” she told the twenty-something brunette with a severe ponytail beside her. Liza never raised her voice, but the entire room stood at attention when she spoke.
“Party’s in three hours. I need you to run out to Tulia’s and get the organic linen, but something dark. All this barbecue sauce, it’s gonna look like an episode ofCSI.”
Mary nodded and followed Liza into the cavernous walk-in pantry.
Jamie loved watching her work. Even as a kid, and especially after his mother died, she always made sure he had what he needed. And all of the unspoken things his globe-trotting father couldn’t provide. Jamie scooted past a man pushing a stocked cart of top-shelf liquor. He made a mental note to revisit that later.
He beelined for the long kitchen island in the center of the room, where someone had finished slicing a tray of Liza’s famous cathead biscuits and cornbread.
Leaning against the kitchen island, Jamie grabbed one of each, savoring how every crumbly bite melted on his tongue. A familiar voice and the click-clack of multiple sets of heels on hardwood broke his carb-induced reverie.
“I thought I’d give you a sneak peek before the cookout tonight,” Sammi told Brinton, who trailed behind her through the archway. Her head was on a swivel, and she took a beat here and there to scribble in the tiny black notebook in her hand.
Jamie figured he’d see Brinton at the party but didn’t account for her catching him dripping from his gray swim trunks, a biscuit hanging from his mouth. The thought madehis cheeks heat. Apparently, he cared about how she thought he looked?
Shoot, he did. But only because she could write about that, and he wanted to come across like the legitimate artist he longed to be? And, yes, he wanted her to like him. Maybe as much as he liked her. Maybe more?
Satisfied, he popped the last bite of biscuit into his mouth.
She wore one of those silky blouses that didn’t make a lick of sense in the country and tight, black jeans that absolutely did. He scolded himself for clocking how they hugged her hips. No, Brinton was absolutely off-limits.
He wanted her to write about therealhim, not the philandering Heartbreak Prince he paraded around as. Besides, he couldn’t give a woman like her—driven, and most important, genuine—what she deserved: stability and true partnership. He didn’t know the first thing about either, because his own heart was fractured.
It happened the night his mother died, before he slammed into that oak tree. His father had looked him in the eye and codified that runway emotions would be his downfall. Jamie replaced his heart—split like the front end of his father’s truck—with a self-generating force field. It protected him from being too open, too willing to risk assured pain. Or to hurt someone else because of his shortcomings.
That settled it. He’d ignore whatever was percolating about Brinton and those jeans, and all the glorious ways she filled them, and focus on the job at hand. He needed to earn her support, not sleep with her.
It was a real challenge when you’d won every gold medal in the sport.
Once Brinton’s eyes settled on him, they grew wide, as if she were embarrassed. They quickly retreated back into her notebook. Was he making her uncomfortable? A few thickbeads of water rolled defiantly from his crotch and down his thigh, not unlike pee. Was she gonna think he pissed himself?
This was already off to a fantastic start.
“Great timing, Jamie’s here. You remember Brinton?” Sammi asked as brightly as her yellow dress glowed in the sunlight.
“Sure, hard to forget,” Jamie said, hearing his dry tone and wincing. He only meant it’d be hard to forget wearing her DNA on a livestream with millions watching, but he didn’t want her to think he was still worried about it, because he wasn’t. “I—yes. Of course I remember you.”
“Though it seems you forgot you own at least one shirt,” Sammi quipped. One of the things he loved about her: she never missed the opportunity to cut him down to size. It kept him humble.
He offered a cocky smile. “You know how I feel about tan lines.”
Turning back to Brinton, he went in for a friendly hug. It seemed appropriate, since they’d met before, but she thrust her hand toward him.Right, he was soaking wet and half naked.
He took it, squeezing gently. “Sorry, I was out by the pool. But I’m so glad you could make it.”
She looked flustered. Wasshenervous? No. More likely it was some special separation anxiety Manhattanites experienced once they left their imposing skyscrapers and fancy espresso martinis behind.
“I’m wet to be here,” Brinton said, apparently a little louder than she expected. Eyes like saucers, she flicked her waist-length braids off her shoulder and stifled what sounded like a scream. She was definitely nervous.
Jamie cracked an appropriately juvenile smile. It was…cute? No, endearing. That sounded more professional. She seemed like that kind of girl—er, woman.
“I mean—I’m happy. To be here,” she mumbled, eyes dipping back to her notebook.
“Can I get you something? Water, peach tea? Something stronger?” Jamie asked.
“No, thank you.”
“How was the flight?”
