Brinton had typed the same three sentences, in slightly different order, exactly six hundred times since plopping down to write at the guest house’s sprawling kitchen table two hours ago. Nothing was sticking. She was mired in a wicked case of writer’s block.
Fine, it wasn’t writer’s block. It was holy-crap-I-almost-kissed-Jamie-Crawford-Jr.-block.
Yesterday’s lapse in judgment at his father’s recording studio remained etched in her mind. Was it so wrong that she wanted to be both professionalanddesired? That she was slowly, against what she knew was convenient, starting to desire him too?
Being in Iris, she felt more open to not only expressing herself, butbeingherself. Perhaps because Jamie was one hell of a muse. In such close quarters, she got know him in ways that felt privileged. Rare. That filledher cup more than it should have, yet she couldn’t stop herself from daydreaming about what could be.
Someone rapped three times on the front door. Brinton answered, revealing Sammi. She wore a mint green romper embellished with lace trim. Curved into a mischievous grin, her lips gleamed with a luscious apricot gloss.
“What’s up?” Brinton asked, gesturing for Sammi to come inside. “I didn’t see anything on the schedule for today. Did I miss something?”
Sammi perched like a songbird on the back of the enormous cloud of a couch. “Nope. I wanted to check in and see if you were free today?”
“Well, I’m writing,” Brinton replied. She slipped back into her chair at the table. “Though I could use some more time with Jamie, if you can set something up?”
Sammi let an exasperated sigh fly. “Jamie’s in the studio again.” Then, a little brighter, “But I have an alternative.”
Brinton lifted a brow. “You have to give me more than that.”
“It’s Friday night, and I’m taking you line dancing,” she squealed, clapping her hands in time. “There’s this great bar?—”
Promptly, Brinton spun back to her laptop. “Ah, let me stop you there. I’m not a bar kind of person.”
She was always self-conscious about taking up physical space, a requisite of socializing in public. Then, the task of striking up dreaded small talk with someone, only to feel them recoil when something—or someone—better came along.
Brinton would sooner put her head inside a Vitamix.
“Bars are not my vibe.”
Sammi pulled up a dining chair across from her. This was now a negotiation.
“Well, you’re gonna like this one. It’s a locals-only kind ofspot. More importantly, this counts as your cultural immersion program. You gotta cap off your first week right. You know, get out of this house and see therealIris.”
Sammi leaned in and cocked a brow. Brinton caught a whiff of her sugary perfume. “It was Jamie’s idea. He thought you’d like it.”
“Really?” Brinton couldn’t beat back the smile bursting behind her lips.
Wasthisa date? No, that’d be crazy.Thiswas work. So why was every single one of her senses firing at once?
Brinton shut her laptop screen. “So, he’s going to be there?”
Somehow, when stress turned her blood acidic, Jamie was a constant, affirming presence.
Sammi smiled, basking in her victory. “I figured y’all can also squeeze in an interview.”
“Yeah, okay then,” Brinton said passively. She had to at least pretend that butterflies weren’t currently throwing a rave in her belly.
Sammi rose and twirled on her heels. “Amazing. So, the last thing is getting you some boots.”
“I’m not a cowboy boot kind of girl. I prefer combat boots.” Brinton glanced down at said scuffed boots, stuck one out for effect. “They double as a weapon in a pinch.”
Sammi fluttered her dark, miles-long lashes. “My goodness, New York City has hardened you, huh?”
Brinton smirked at the thought. “Sadly, my per diem doesn’t cover cowboy boots.”
Like a sassy sorcerer, Sammi produced a black American Express between her pointer and middle fingers. “Lucky for you, I got the company credit card. Consider it a welcome gift from James Sawyer Crawford, Jr.”
Finally, Brinton let her simmering smile escape. “Should I text Michael to pick us up?”
