Page 48

JAMIE

She’s quiet as we head to the mini-mart for groceries.

I saw her power down while she waited for her coffee. Did I say something? That thought worries me as I load the groceries and get back into the driver’s side. She’s curled up, her coffee clutched in both hands. A beam of sunlight hits her blonde hair, and it glows almost white.

I pause.

There’s something about her that I know would do well in front of the camera. Of course, she’s beautiful. When she walks in a room, she’s a sharp, little ray of sunshine. But it’s something else, too. She’s got a quick tongue, and I could media-train the shit out of that, turn her into America’s sweetheart with a side serving of endearing sass. She’d kill an acoustic set, up on a stool at the center of the stage.

She’d be a spotlight in the dark, all on her own.

It’s my job to evaluate people for how successful I think I can make them. This girl…she’s raw talent for sure, but she’s also got star quality. I could send her right to the top.

Professionally, I am champing at the bit to get her for myself.

Personally, it’s not much different.

“You want to go anywhere else in town?” I start the engine and head out onto the narrow street.

“No, I’m okay.”

She smiles, but I don’t like it because she should be talking back. We sink into silence. After a while, she rolls down the window and puts her hand out. The wind whips her hair. She spreads her fingers and surfs her hand over the wind. I’m having trouble keeping my eyes on the road. She’s hard not to look at.

We pull up, and I cut the engine.

“I think I’ll go home tomorrow,” she says.

My head jerks up. “What?”

“I will actually go home tomorrow,” she says. “I know you were planning on asking me to stay longer. I can tell.”

My jaw works.

“Why?”

She shrugs, biting at her lip. I can tell what she wants to say is getting stuck in her throat. Finally, she sniffs.

“Because the longer I stay, the more complicated this gets,” she admits.

I want to say it’s not complicated.

But I’m not so sure anymore.

“Alright, I get it,” I say finally. “I’ll book your flight for the morning.”

When she turns, her expression is normal. Considering she was sniffing a second ago, that’s a bit strange. She gives me a pert little smile and pops open her door, jumping out.

“Good,” she says. “You want to make me something to eat? I’m hungry.”

“Can do.”

Inside, she watches me as if I need supervising, which is annoying. After a while of tripping over her in the kitchen, I pick her up unceremoniously and set her down on the counter. Her brow arches sharply.

“Stay the fuck put,” I say.

She shrugs. “Whatever, being in the kitchen is your job, anyway.”

I wish I could say I hate her snarky little digs, but I don’t. Once I got to a certain point, people started kissing my ass way more than they should. It’s nice to be around someone who doesn’t give a fuck or want anything from me. At least, I hope not. Idly, I watch her as I toast the bread for sandwiches. It may not matter if she wants something from me professionally because, deep down, I’d like something professionally from her, too. Like the chance to mold her career, hit a button, and watch her soar.