“Now Shelby,” Clayton said, “you should’ve invited me.”
Cybill, the other host, fanned herself with a stack of notes. “You don’t need an invitation, now honey. You’re always welcome.”
Ugh. These women.
“Tell us about the song.” Shelby bent forward, her frilly white blouse revealing her cleavage. “It’s going viral.”
“I had the words—” Jamie started to explain.
“And I asked her to co-write,” Clayton interrupted.
Jamie turned her head sharply and frowned at him. She was more than capable of sharing the origin story. She didn’t need Old Hickory to mansplain it.
“We were in the studio working on our albums,” he continued. “I had the music and Jamie here”—Clayton touched her knee with his mitt and she jumped back in her seat—“penned the lyrics.”
Get your hand off me.
He continued, “The song’s about New Year’s Eve.”
The hosts exchanged glances, and then Shelby blurted, “Everyone saw the picture!” Her breasts were an inch from Jamie’s face as she gestured forcefully with her finger. “Is something happening here?”
“Nothing,” Jamie said coldly, feeling embarrassed. In what other line of work was it acceptable to put up with this? Her personal life was no one’s business.
“A kiss at midnight.” Clayton winked at the rock star. “That ain’t nothin’.”
The audience rumbled with laughter and groans as she hatched a new plan: murder for hire.
“So how does that work?” Cybill asked. “Will it be on both of your albums?”
Clayton let out a low chuckle. “Shoot, that song’s too country for Jamie Keaton.”
That caught her off guard since nothing had been set in stone.
He went on, “It’s going to be on my next album, and come tour time every single soul in the audience will be my guest right here in Nashville.”
The women in the audience cheered as if it were an Oprah show during Christmas, and the studio was filled with applause.
Jamie glared at Shorty, standing stage left. He shrugged, tipped his cowboy hat, and gestured for her to ignore it.
“Will you be joining Clayton on his tour?” Shelby pressed the rock star.
“No—”
“I haven’t asked her yet.” He stared at Jamie and her palms started to sweat. “What do you say, darlin’?”
I can’t refuse on television!
Jamie gazed into the camera, her teeth clenched. “I’d love to, Clayton.”
“I’m so mad right now,” Jamie said as she climbed into the car, her hands trembling as she fumbled with her seat belt. She still couldn’t believe what had happened.
Ruth slid in beside her and told the driver to take them to the studio, where Jamie was about to sing the song that now felt like a cruel joke.
Jamie stared out the window, her pulse hammering. “Why would he do that? And on live television?” She exhaled sharply, counting the number of pickup trucks on the road, suddenly understanding why they inspired so many country songs. “He screwed me over, Ruth. There’s no way I’m going on tour with him.”
Ruth hesitated then reached out, gently squeezing her shoulder—the only person who could touch Jamie without setting her on edge. “I think he was trying to help.”
“I don’t need help fromanyman, especially Clayton Langley.”
