Clayton’s door swung open and Duke jumped on the cowboy.
“Down, boy!” Nolan showed the dog a plastic container in his hand and he sat, good as gold. “It’s his food, not me, he’s after—”
“Hey,” Clayton said, interrupting them. “This is my brother, Nolan.”
“We’ve known each other all year,” Nolan joked. Clearly they shared the same sense of humor. “You forgot Duke’s food.”
“Thanks, man.” Clayton stood in the doorway and popped a Cheeto into his mouth.
She pointed at Nolan. “I see your brother got the looksandmanners in your family.”
“And the brains,” Nolan added.
She tilted her head, looking for an explanation.
“He’s a doctor,” Clayton said. “A vet.” He’d emphasized “vet” as if it were less impressive than a surgeon or an oncologist.
“I’m a livestock veterinarian,” Nolan clarified.
“More like a deadstock veterinarian once you’re done with them,” Clayton shot back.
“Clayton . . .” Jamie frowned at him. “That’s not very nice.”
“We’re just kidding around.”
“Speaking of jokes,” Nolan began, “what kind of dog doesn’t bark?”
Jamie shrugged.
“A hush puppy.”
She laughed, knowing it would piss Clayton off.
“Anything else?” Clayton asked impatiently.
“See you at home, man.” Nolan tipped his hat. “Nice meeting you, Miss Keaton.”
“Likewise, Dr. Langley.”
After Clayton kicked his brother out of the studio and washed his hands they returned to his room, where Duke immediately devoured his dinner. Now she was stuck with Old Hickory, wanting to leave but dreading the loneliness of her hotel room. She’d spent most of her childhood alone and had gotten used to it, but as an adult the dark thoughts crept in when no one was around. That’s why she’d rescued Poppy—to have someone, something, depending on her. But in the end it wasn’t just Poppy who needed saving. Poppy had saved her, too.
“I’m working on a song over here,” Clayton said, strumming his guitar while she sat on the couch. “Do you co-write?”
“I don’t.” She believed co-writing was like having sex with a stranger but vastly more intimate. Sex you could fake, writing you couldn’t.
“Well, if you’re not interested . . .”
“Hang on a minute.” She scrolled through her phone, searching for the song she’d been working on. “I’ve already got the verses but don’t have a chorus.”
“What was your first thought when you woke up this morning?” he asked.
She smirked, trying not to laugh. “I did a good job of drinking.”
Clayton let out a chuckle. “Okay, let’s start with that.”
She scanned her notes, piecing some parts together. She’d been trying to write a drinking song since she took her first shot of alcohol. It was her sixteenth birthday, and she got drunk with AJ and his buddies at a strip club—one of her dad’s finest moments.
“I might have something,” she said. “But I’m changing vodka to whiskey because it sounds better.”
