“I guess we should talk about that now…Your songs?” she asked, eyes dipping to her dusty combat boots.
She’d prepared all morning for this moment, and now it was slipping from her fingers as she struggled to grasp the words. “Jamie, about the article?—”
“I shouldn’t have put you in that position,” he interjected. “This is my problem to solve, not yours.”
“Jamie—”
“It was selfish of me,” he continued. His eyes were glassy, likely from the dust. Or was it something else?
“I just—I want you to know that I understand that now,” he stammered.
Brinton grabbed his shoulders. She gulped hard at the pronounced ridges of muscle and bone. Unadulterated beauty.
Finally, she found the words.
“No, I want to do it your way,” she said. “Together, we can do this.”
He stepped back and raked his hands through his hair. “Seriously?”
She nodded, smiling shyly. “I want to help you. I know for a fact that no one atLandmarkwill. I can’t let those assholes ruin your life. I wouldn’t even have this opportunity if it weren’t for you. That Grammys interview was my lowest moment, but ultimately, we went through it together. And…you have so much to offer. Now that I know you—the real you—the world needs to know you too.”
He shook his head in disbelief. “Brinton—I don’t know what to say.”
“Say you’ll tell me the truth. I can’t write this story if you leave anything off the table. You asked me to trust you, and now, I need you to trust me.”
“Absolutely,” he rasped. “You got more heart than anybody I know.”
She laughed bitterly, remembering the footnotes of every past mistake and missed opportunity. “Well, my track record begs to differ.”
He rested his hands on hers, which still gripped his shoulders. His warmth spiraled down her spine. She didn’t want him to let go, even while touching him like this tugged at any objectivity she was supposed to maintain.
“I’m in awe of you,” he whispered, sapphire eyes glowing. “Since the first time I saw you on that red carpet.”
Gratitude scorched her cheeks with his admission, the weight of their secret alliance. “Thank you,” Brinton said. “But…I also need to know that you understand what you’re asking. Your record deal, your fans…could all go away if I write this story. You’re effectively asking me to blow up your life as you know it. Do you want that?”
The sharpened line in his jaw ticked. “I have to. I know it won’t be easy. I know some people won’t accept it—or me. But I’d rather stand in the sun than cower in the shadows.”
She dropped her hands from his shoulders. “What about your father?”
“I’m doing this for me,” he said, fortified with a resolve that made his eyes dance like a lit fuse. “You won’t regret the next week and a half, I swear.”
She knew she wouldn’t.
Brinton exhaled, then clicked on the recorder. “All right then, from the beginning. Tell me everything.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“Who’s ready to learn a chord?” Jamie asked the six rambunctious eight-year-olds forming a semi-circle around him inside his father’s recording studio on Thursday morning.
The main space was large enough to fit ten people comfortably. It was outfitted with light wood paneling on the walls and matching coffee tables, which made the cozy interior seem much larger.
One of the highlights of being a small-town celebrity was volunteering with his mother’s favorite charity, Sacred Heart Home for Children, a locally run orphanage. Since he was eighteen, Jamie hosted a monthly guitar lesson with the kids. It was gratifying to bring some positivity to their lives.
And, it helped keep his mother’s memory alive, even as some details about her—the sound of her laugh and the smell of her perfume—had begun to fade.
The kids smiled up at Jamie like he was a faultless hero, which he definitely wasn’t. He could, at least, broaden their world in a way that music did for him.
Fingers pressed into the fretboard, Jamie held up his acoustic guitar, which gleamed like lacquered licorice.
