She thought back to all the articles—and fine, gossip—from her research. “Is it because you feel like that’s all people see? A guy who goes from woman to woman?” She knew from experience what it was like being forced into a box. Did he feel the same?
Facing her, he smiled through a glint of something else in his eyes. Was it shame, or maybe embarrassment? She couldn’t put her finger on it, but she recognized it as what you did when you wanted to hide in plain sight.
“Technically, that’s two questions, but I’ll allow it. I guess, yeah, being a musician, people want you to fit into a specific hole, and you gotta stay in that hole or there’s no place else for you.”
He wound back and lobbed his bean bag over-hand, hitting his target with startling precision.
“Is there some part of you who wants to be in that hole? I mean, there are videos of you making out with dozens of women at Nashville bars. Not to mention your breakup withKendall Chase, which, ultimately, seemed to benefit you. You won a Grammy?—”
His jaw set and his eyes cut away again, searching for what to say in the dense tree line but coming up short. He was uncomfortable.
“All right, it’s my turn to ask you a question,” he said, voice lower.
Should she press him to answer? At this point, things were going well enough, and she didn’t want to risk him telling his team that she ambushed him. So, she let it go. “Fair is fair,” she said, turning to face him.
He cocked his head. “You think I’m a bad guy or something? Because I know you just arrived, but it seems like you’ve already made up your mind about me. You can tell me, really.”
She didn’t think he was a bad guy per se, but she didn’t know what his intention had been in calling her out in his acceptance speech. Brinton hadn’t exactly expected him to reach out and explain, but it might have eased the roiling discomfort she felt as the internet picked her bones clean over many agonizing months.
She had to know if she wanted to survive these next two weeks. “I’m trying to understand you.”
Brinton tossed another bean bag, this time overhand, which disappeared into the tiny abyss. Time to pull the trigger. “I vomited on you—I ate bad shrimp, for the record—but you embarrassed me in your Grammys speech. You called me your good-luck charm. Do you know how many weirdos messaged me online because of that, sending me photos of their puke boots or asking me to do the same to theirs? My name is still trending.”
As she looked at him, her heartbeat ricocheted between her ears.
He stooped down, dropped his bean bags on the ground.Stepping closer, he placed a hand on her shoulder, fingertips gently brushing against her blouse and making her shiver. “God, Brinton, no. I’d never—I’m so sorry I made you feel that way. On that stage, everything happened so quickly. I was caught up in the moment…” He trailed off, stepped closer. She shivered again. “Truthfully, you were the highlight of that night.”
Her lips parted, releasing the breath she’d been holding. “I don’t understand?”
Now he blew out a breath, his blue-green eyes a wellspring of sincerity. “But I didn’t consider how you felt about what happened, what you’d gone through that day. I thought about you a lot though, all those months. I wanted to shoot you a DM. Hell—I even tried sending you an email, so I could tell you…”
He ran a free hand through his hair. “But, I—well, it’s just that…”
She hurled another bean bag forward. It sank into the hole. “Why did you wait, Jamie? You could have sent me a DM. You could have said something.”
He looked down at his bare feet, dragging one across the grass. “I know I could have. It’s embarrassing, but I don’t even control my social accounts. My team does. So, if I got the chance to tell you what I needed to say—or to see you again—I wanted it to be on my terms. Not theirs. And I was afraid…”
“Afraid of what?”
His eyes latched with hers, and the corners of his mouth upturned softly. “That no matter what I said, it wouldn’t have come off as genuine, because I’m in the public eye. There’s a lot of pressure when people know you. A lot of room to get this misconstrued. I hoped having you here for these next few weeks was my chance to tell you how glad I am that we met.”
The massive knot in her stomach unfurled a bit. He hadn’t been making fun of her. Shit, now shefeltlike a cornhole.
“Oh.” She picked at the cottony fibers of the last bean bag in her hand. “I assumed you thought I was joke.”
Exactly like everyone else.
He fervently shook his head. “Never crossed my mind. And for the record, I think you’re an awesome writer. You ask thoughtful questions, you’re smart as hell, and I can tell you care about doing things right. I admire that. And I was looking forward to having fun hanging out.”
As her adrenaline leveled out, his words were a weighted blanket. She couldn’t remember the last time a man—and certainly not a legitimate famous person—wanted to hang out withher. She could have fun with him too. Professional, sanctioned fun. This was how she would get the angle she needed and land a cover story.
“You really like my writing?”
He flashed a sheepish grin. “I may have read all yourLandmarkarticles before you got here. I think the Tracy Chapman piece was my favorite. You really nailed how before-her-time she was, and how her raw, tender storytelling remains relevant.”
No one ever mentioned that one, but she felt the same way. She grinned back at him, more than a little pleased. “A little recon, huh?”
“I remembered you were a sharp-shooter. I can tell you got a sweetness about you, but you also got a stinger. Like a honeybee.”
