“Oh,” Jamie mumbled. He hoped she’d gotten his package and wished to have seen her smile when she opened it. That smile would have cured him.
God, he wished she were there now. Jamie would apologize for asking her to jeopardize her career to save his. It was a bad hand all around. Brinton couldn’t help him, and he didn’t blame her.
“She’s good at her job.”
“How good?” his father asked sharply.
Good enough to know not to get entangled in my mess.
Jamie flicked his ring around his finger, but he didn’t feel any more soothed.
“It’ll be a great article. Got nothing to worry about.”
Not that his father ever worried.
Jamie Sr. grunted. “Kendall called this morning. Said you snuck off early from the party with Ms. Shaw?”
Sammi straightened in her chair, hands tightly balling the skirt of her strapless peach maxi dress. “Oh, I’m sure they were talking about the article, like we agreed.” Her eyes pleaded for him to take the bait. “Right, Jamie?”
“Um—yeah,” Jamie stuttered. He’d owe Sammi a whole field of flowers for trying to cover for him. “I told Kendall good-night and walked Brinton home.”
“That ain’t what it looked like.” Jamie Sr. slid his phone across the desk, revealing a photo of Jamie and Kendall at the party. Her chest pushed against his, their faces whisper-close. On the edge of the frame, Brinton looked decidedly uncomfortable.
Posted on Iris After Dark, an anonymous Instagram account devoted to hookups and gossip around town, thepost claimed Jamie and Kendall were “canoodling over canapés” while Brinton was pegged as the sour-faced interloper.
Jamie was frequently the subject of conversation on the account’s feed. He could handle that. But he rued implicating Brinton in thisReal Housewives of Bullshit–level nonsense.
Jamie pointed down at the photo, which silently mocked him. “That’s a bold-faced lie.”
His father’s scrutinizing look sucked the oxygen from the room. “I invited Kendall because it was good for people to see you together, get more mileage from that storyline.”
Jamie Sr. was an expert at stirring the pot and torching everything inside.
“It’ll be good for the album launch,” Tex added, blissfully oblivious to Jamie’s despair.
“I told you to be careful what you say around Ms. Shaw,” Jamie Sr. said, glowering at his son. “She’s a journalist, and when it comes down to it, she’s loyal to that magazine. Not you.”
The words lashed him. Jamie didn’t demand Brinton’s loyalty, and he respected her wishes. Yet, the hopelessness hacked at him. “I know, Daddy.”
Jamie Sr. nudged the stack of papers toward Jamie and held out a pen. “I’m giving you a lot of slack here, doing this interview at all. Don’t make me reconsider.”
Fuck, here it was. His past and future. A spectacular collision, and he was trapped inside as the flames raged. Jamie rose from the couch and walked to his father’s desk. He stared at the contract, where, at the bottom, a largeXbeckoned.
His eyes floated to the glossy fountain pen, still pinched between his father’s fingers. Jamie willed it to combust. A smoke bomb, earthquake, or freak hail storm would have also worked. Anything to buy him more time.
“Let’s get on with it,” his father snapped.
Jamie took the pen and rolled it between his fingers. He brought it down to the blank space, primed to engulf him and his dreams.
Suddenly, Sammi shot up from her seat, clutching her phone. “Butter my butt and call me a biscuit.”
Tex adjusted his black cowboy hat. “Well, don’t hold us in suspense.”
Characteristically, Jamie’s father didn’t say a word.
She grinned and spun on her cork heels. “Guess who’s headlining Yeehaw Fest next Saturday?”
Jamie dropped the pen, more than a little confused what this had to do with him. “Mother Teresa?”
