Jamie scoffed. “I’m not putting a duet on my album, thanks.”
“That’s a downright fine idea!” Clayton flashed a mischievous grin.
Shorty stepped into the room. “What do you think, Jamie?”
Jamie sighed. She was reluctant to give in, but she didn’t like the thought of Clayton singing it solo either. “Fine, since everyone’s against me. But I want the lion’s share of the songwriting credit—and no fucking banjos.”
“The Nashville Rule applies here, Jamie.” Shorty tipped his hat.
“What?”
“The Nashville Rule,” Dusty repeated. “Everyone in the room gets an equal share of the song.”
Now I have to split the song with Old Hickory?
Jamie scowled at her manager. “This is your fault, Shorty.”
Early in the morning a car service picked up Jamie and Ruth and drove them to Channel 4 for her appearance onHello, Nashville!Jamie still wasn’t thrilled about going but she pushed through it for the sake of the song.
“What time did you get in?” Ruth asked her boss, handing her a Starbucks coffee before entering the vehicle. Jamie and Clayton had stayed up late laying down tracks for their song and debating the acceptable level of “country.” For Jamie it was none, but they eventually found some middle ground.
Jamie glanced at her watch. “I’m not sure—it was late,” she said. “Thanks for moving us over to Shorty’s. I didn’t expect his penthouse to be so nice.”
“It’s super nice, right?” Ruth agreed. “How did it go at the studio?”
She groaned, recalling the agony of working with Clayton. His dad jokes were absolutely infuriating. “It’s a bit more rock now, but unfortunately it’s still a country song.”
“Hello, Nashville is primarily a country audience.”
Jamie turned her head. “What?”
Ruth glanced at her phone. “There’s an interview after your performance, James. They might ask why you’ve”—she made air quotes—“gone country.”
“What interview?”
Her assistant shared her screen. “Shelby and Cybill from the show asked for a sit-down. They’re the hosts in case you didn’t know.”
Jamie leaned back in her seat. “Jesus fucking Christ.” She turned to Ruth, unamused. “I know nothing about country music besides Dolly Parton.”
“I do.” Her assistant held up her hand. “I grew up on country music.”
“You poor thing, you.”
At the television station Jamie sat in a salon chair while Ruth hovered nearby. Jamie watched as Candy, a makeup artist, applied primer, foundation, and powder to her face with various brushes. The result looked airbrushed, as if she’d been perfectly drawn.
“Just a little more mascara,” Candy said, twirling her lashes with the wand. “Are you sure you don’t want fake ones?” The makeup artist had a thick Southern accent.
Jamie startled, glancing at her flat chest, then realized Candy was talking about her eyelashes. She smiled at her reflection. “I’m good, thanks.”
“What’s he like?” Candy asked, grinning widely. “Give me the goss.”
“Who?” Jamie had no idea who she was talking about.
“Clayton Langley.” The makeup artist rolled her eyes. “Who do you think?”
Jamie shrugged one shoulder, not wanting to discuss it. “He’s okay I guess.”
“Just okay?” Candy, now doubling as a hair stylist, curled her waves into ringlets she didn’t ask for, or want. “He’s the hottest guy in Nashville. And he’s single.”
