“I guess you’ve earned one,” she said, smiling.
He leaned in, intrigue incandescent in his eyes. “What’s your country song?”
She pursed her lips, unsure if this was a trap. “I like Beyoncé’s country music.”
“Cowboy Carteris a masterpiece,” he nodded. “But respectfully, there’s a whole lot more to discover too.”
She scrunched her nose, mostly amused. But she didn’t want to spoil the goodwill passing between them. For the story’s sake, she reminded herself.
“I don’t know. It’s a lot of talking about shooting whiskey, having a jacked-up truck, and finding a good, God-fearing girl who worships the ground you walk on. And then drinking enough whiskey to forget her when she inevitably leaves you.”
“Fair—some of the themes can be…” His voice trailed off as he tried to pull the words from the thick air around them. His gold ring orbited his pinky at lightning speed.
“Sexist and misogynistic?” she offered.
His brow creased in mock offense. “I was gonna say old-fashioned. You know, a lot of stuff about gender roles and putting a woman’s worth in her looks, which I don’t agree with.”
Here he was again, a far cry from the honky-tonk lothario she had expected. That probably would have made for a better story. Yet, for reasons she wasn’t ready to unpack, this revelation was far more compelling.
“So enlighten me,” she said, instinctively leaning closer, luxuriating in his spicy-gourmand scent.
Smiling back at her, he looked as eager to submit to whatever was dragging them closer. Unless it was all in her head? Of course it was; famous people lived to be charming.
She pulled back.
“To me, country music is about telling the truth,” he said. “It’s about love, family, and maintaining faith in the future. And, for me, coming into my own as a man.”
A few quiet moments passed as she relaxed into the boat’s soothing rhythm. “‘That Don’t Impress Me Much’ by Shania Twain,’” she said, finally.
His eyes narrowed atop his smirk.
“My favorite country song. Sophomore year of high school, during study hall, my English teacher blasted it daily from her CD player.”
He looked impressed. His smile reached his eyes, which made the boat suddenly feel like it was levitating. “Shania’s a saint. She’s my godmom, if you ever wanna meet her.”
Brinton gripped both sides of the boat in awe. “Wait—so your dad’s a legend, along with your godmother?”
He bowed his head and chuckled. “Garth Brooks is my godfather, so yeah, I guess you could say I’m extra blessed.”
They laughed again, an unnamed comfort passing between them. It felt like a warm, well-worn cardigan.
Was that how it’d feel to be wrapped in his arms?
“What’s your country song?” she asked instead, determined not to submit to her ill-advised curiosity.
“‘The Long Road’ by my dad. It’s about making a home on the road while your family moves on. It’s so vulnerable, which is…unlike him.” He paused. “Do you like my music?”
He looked nervous. It was surprising because she didn’t expect a person so incontestably cool to care what she thought. After all, she was a grown woman who still ordered off the kids’ menu.
She gnawed the soft flesh inside her cheek, eager to make the right words appear. Like it or not, she wanted him tolikeher, certainly enough to make the rest of her visit enjoyable. “‘Table for One’…is catchy.”
He laughed, but the sound came out strained. “Oh, youmean that stellar chorus? ‘I can’t be tied down. ’Cause I need to go the distance. We’ve had our fun, but this table’s for one.’”
Brinton scrunched her brows. “I guess I’m confused. I mean, you wrote it.”
Was the song’s message more than a little douchey? Yes, but she’d leave that part out.
He forced an uneasy but authentic smile. “Actually, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. My songs.” He blew out a breath, then shook his head. “Shit, I’m freaking out. But I need to say this.”
