Jamie frowned. “What artist?”
Dusty leaned back in his chair, smirking. “Reba McEntire.”
Her heart nearly stopped. “I don’t write country songs.”
Dusty chuckled. “Tell that to your number-one hit.”
She hesitated, then shook her head with a breathless laugh. “I mean . . . I’ve got hundreds of songs.”
“That’s what I figured.” He nodded. “Send me a few when you get home. No pressure, but she’s got an album to finish.”
When Jamie returned to the ranch she was riding an adrenaline high. She couldn’t wait to tell Clayton that Reba McEntire had requested one of her songs. This was it, this was what she’d always wanted: to be a songwriter.
She burst through the door. “Clayton, come quick!”
He appeared from the kitchen, brows furrowed. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong.” She shook her head, breathless with excitement. “Reba McEntire wants one of my songs!”
His expression shifted instantly, a slow smile spreading across his face as he pulled her into his arms. “That’s incredible! What song?”
She adjusted her topknot, her mind racing. “I don’t know. I have hundreds, but they’re all rock.”
“Then why not write a new one?”
She blinked, then grinned. “That’s a great idea.” Grabbing her acoustic guitar, she flopped onto the couch. “I’m going to write a country song.”
“I love that for you,” Clayton teased, mimicking the women onThe Bachelor.
She laughed—then froze. “Wait. That’s actually a great song title. Do you want to help me write it?”
His brows lifted. “Thought you didn’t co-write.”
“Things have changed, Clayton.” She met his gaze, her smile softer now. “A lot of things.”
They spent the afternoon crafting the song, Clayton working out the music while Jamie shaped the lyrics and melody. The process flowed effortlessly, as if the song had been waiting for this moment.
Her phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen and her stomach flipped.
“Oh no.”
Clayton looked up. “What is it?”
She turned the phone toward him. “My exam results are in.”
“Well, go on, now. Let’s see how you did.”
Her hands felt clammy. “I can’t look.”
“Want me to do it?”
She nodded, logged into her account, and passed him the phone. He tapped the screen, his expression unreadable as her heart pounded.
After a beat, he smirked. “What’s the first line of ‘I Did a Good Job of Drinking’?”
“What?” She wrinkled her nose, thrown by the question. Then it hit her. “Congratulations are in order?”
Clayton nodded. “You passed, darlin’.”
