We leave Annie and Andre, and Jaxon shows me a number of rooms before showing me the guest room closest to his room—my room, I guess—with soft gray linens, fancy-looking art prints on the wall, and a view of a garden that looks like it should be on the cover of a magazine that my parents would’ve had at their dental office.
“This okay?” he asks.
“Okay?” I parrot, dropping my bag on the ground. “This is nicer than any hotel I’ve ever stayed in.”
“Well,” he says with a wink, “make sure you leave a five-star review when you check out.”
I leave my bag, and he shows me the rest of his “house.” Between the gym, the pool, and the pool house he converted into a recording studio, I don’t know what’s more impressive.
We spend the afternoon exploring the grounds, and before I know it, it’s time to leave for dinner.
We slide into the back of a sleek black luxury sedan that’s waiting just outside the front door, and Jaxon introduces me to his driver, Eli.
The ride is peaceful as we pass by massive fences surrounding green lawns bursting with curated color. Jaxon points out his various friends and neighbors, some names I recognize, others I’ve never heard of.
Apparently, this is the neighborhood the majority of the professional baseball players from the Nashville Night Terrors choose to live, and he points out the properties of basically their entire starting lineup as we drive.
He leans across me as he points out my window, and I can’t help but breathe in deeply as I catch the scent that is gut-clenchingly masculine and so distinctlyhim. “That’s where Chase Boslin lives,” Jaxon says, naming a prominent country music star he’s recorded a few songs with in the past. “He hosts a poker night a few times a year.”
When Jaxon sits back, his hand remains on the seat between us, and I feel like a middle schooler again as it consumes every atom of my attention. Why do I feel the need to grab it and never let go? To feel the warmth of it cocooning my own? There’s no one here we have to fake this for, which means, this is all me.
Stupid hormones.
The scenery changes from the suburbs to downtown, sprawling estates turning to new construction commercial lots.
“We’re here,” Jaxon says as the driver pulls to a stop in front of an old brick building in the heart of Nashville with the name “Clementine’s” on the front. “This istherestaurant you have to go to when you come to Nashville.”
He holds my hand as I slip out of the car, and my nerves celebrate, rejoicing at the contact they’ve been begging for all night.
I gulp, trying to get myself under control. It’s just dinner. Not a date. Not even a fake date.
Jaxon keeps hold of my hand as we walk in, and I try to play it cool when the hostess gushes over Jaxon before turning a who-the-fuck-is-this glance my way.
We follow her to a booth tucked in the back, half hidden behind a giant potted plant. It’s dim and cozy, with exposed bricks, mismatched candle holders, and live music in the corner.
“This place is really cool,” I say once we’re situated with our orders placed.
Jaxon laughs, and I swear my body melts. “I think the fact that you just ordered the chicken and waffles with truffle honeyanda bourbon cocktail makes you the most Tennessean of anyone here.”
I roll my eyes. “I will take any excuse to order breakfast for dinner,” I say. “It’s the superior meal and I don’t understand why we, as a society, make such a big deal about dinner.”
Even though the air between us is alight with some sort of electromagnetic pull, I find myself relaxing in a way I didn’t expect. Somehow, this feels…real. Normal. But also, not. It feels like a first date, but with someone who already knows everything about me and likes me anyway.
I have to keep reminding myself it’s neither real nor a date.
It doesn’t help that Jaxon keeps finding reasons to reach across the table to touch my hand. Or maybe I’m the one bridging the gap between us.
The server brings out our food, and we dig in. While I’m chewing, I silently repeat that this isn’t a date. That this is just friends out for dinner. But I’m having a hard time convincing myself.
“I can’t believe you live here,” I say between bites of honey-covered cornbread.
“I can’t believe youarehere,” he says, looking at me like I’m a rain cloud just before the first drop falls, filled with promises of what could be.
Jaxon gazes at me, smiling softly.
“What?” I ask, wiping at my mouth with the back of my hand to confirm there isn’t anything there.
He shakes his head, the lighting causing something besides amusement to dance in the chestnut depths of his eyes. “What’s it like working with your best friend?” he asks.
