“The guy at the door said the lineup was set.” She sipped her drink, closing one eye at its strength.Holy shit.She plucked a straw from its plastic holder and stirred her drink, the ice clinking against the glass.
“Don’t worry about him.” He wiped down the bar with a dry rag. “I should warn you, this place is going to be a tough sell for a pop-rock princess.”
Jamie lowered her gaze and shook her head. Dismissing men and their foolish comments had always been easy. Before Derrick she hada one-strike policy—no patience, no second chances. “Let some other woman fix him” was her motto, and she’d never wavered.
“I’m thinking about playing a stripped-down version of the song I wrote with some help from Clayton Langley,” she told him, causing the couple next to her to turn their heads. The woman’s face was wrinkled from sun damage, framed by canary-yellow hair and oversized, round glasses straight out of the seventies. Beside her, a man—presumably her husband—wore a brand-new Bluebird baseball cap, the tags dangling.
Beau pointed to the entrance. “He just walked in.”
Jamie turned around and spotted Clayton with his acoustic guitar slung over his shoulder. He’d shaved his face, but he looked better with stubble. Then again, his face was as smooth as a baby’s bottom, perfect for slapping.
Beau stood on his toes and waved, and Clayton nodded.
The songwriters in the round announced they were taking a break, and a few seconds later the regular bar volume took over.
Clayton navigated the crowd, greeting patrons as if he were the mayor of Nashville.
“Oh my goodness!” Canary Hair shouted, clutching her companion’s arm. Her long red fingernails dug into his skin, undoubtedly leaving a mark. “That’s him! That’s Clayton Langley. In person!”
Good grief, woman.
The country singer strode toward the bar while Jamie sucked on her straw until her drink was gone. She told herself she wasn’t watching him, but her pulse begged to differ.
“You made it,” Clayton said, removing his guitar strap. “Back on the horse, I take it?”
She lifted her empty glass. “I’m no quitter.”
“I ain’t no quitter, either.” Clayton shook the bartender’s hand. “That’s a Shania song,” he added.
Jamie nodded, not because she knew the song—she didn’t—but she knew who Shania was from a documentary she’d watched. Everyone interviewed, including Shania, had credited Mutt Lang for catapulting her to stardom. However, the truth was Mutt didn’t want to help a struggling artist just because he was a good guy—he wanted to fuck her.
“Can I have your autograph, Mr. Langley?” Canary Hair asked, handing him a bar napkin and a pen. Being old enough to be his mother didn’t stop her from flirting. Female fans were worse than men, the groping more prevalent.
“Where y’all from?” Clayton asked, signing his name on the napkin.
“Nebraska,” they said.
“Welcome to Nashville!” He passed the napkin to Canary Hair. “Hope you’re enjoying your stay here.”
“You should get a job with the department of tourism,” Jamie said, smirking.
“I should!” Clayton said. “What do they say? Keep calm and travel on.”
“Ugh.” Jamie shook her head. “Your jokes aren’t even funny—”
“Whiskey?” Beau interrupted, as the line behind Clayton had grown significantly.
“Please, and another vodka for my pal, Jamie.”
Pal? Give me a break.
Clayton continued signing autographs for the people in line while Jamie stared at the neon Bluebird sign on the wall, wondering how long it had been there. Her gaze moved up to the low acoustic tile ceiling, and she knew the venue hadn’t been designed for live music. The term “cafe” was indeed accurate.
Beau pushed a drink toward her—this time with a straw.
“Thanks!” Jamie took a sip of her vodka soda, aware he was trying to get her drunk.Bo, you don’t know diddly.She laughed to herself, remembering the TV commercial from her childhood. Knocking her out would require more than a couple of stiff drinks. That she was sure about.
A striking man in his late thirties or early forties with dark hair and a Crest toothpaste smile approached the bar. “Happy new year!” he said.
