Jamie tapped on the glass. “Something’s missing in here.” She glanced at the floor and pointed at his feet. “You were probably wearing those shitkickers when you wrote it.”
He laughed. “You know, I probably was.”
Jamie felt inspired to write and couldn’t wait to finish her song. “Thanks for the tour, Sonny. I’m heading back to the studio.”
“I’ll join you,” Clayton said, trailing behind her as theyexited.
At the studio Clayton’s gorilla-like hands swung open the vocal booth door. Jamie tensed. Couldn’t he take a hint? While it was nice of him to take her to the museum, she didn’t intend to make a habit of spending time with him.
“There’s pizza in my room,” he said. “Come and join me.”
She sat cross-legged on the floor, her guitar resting on her lap, fingers idly picking at the strings. “Thanks, but I need to finish this song.”
Just a few more lines. That’s all I need. One good lyric to tie the chorus together.
Clayton opened the door wider and Poppy sprang to her feet, tail wagging.
“You need to eat something, darlin’,” he said, his voice softer now. “You’re wasting away to nothing.”
She blinked. That wasn’t something Derrick would have said. Her ex-boyfriend had been obsessed with her weight, always commenting about portion sizes and how she “looked better” when she was a size zero. Pizza had been off-limits. He used to joke about how much self-control she lacked, counting her calories like a WeightWatchers coach—or worse, that guy from NXIVM.
Her stomach tightened at the memory, the familiar shame creeping in. But Clayton wasn’t Derrick. He wasn’t analyzing her body like it was a math equation. He was just offering her pizza. Simple. No judgment.
Still, she hesitated.
Old habits die hard.
“I’m fine,” she said, forcing a lightness she didn’t feel. “I’ll eat later.”
But Clayton didn’t budge. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching her with that unreadable expression of his. Like he saw right through her.
And that was dangerous.
“What kind of pizza?” Jamie asked, her stomach grumbling.
“Pineapple and mushroom—with extra cheese.”
She widened her eyes. “That’s my favorite!”
“Ruth told me.” Clayton wrinkled his nose and stuck out his tongue. “Sounds downright disgusting.”
“You’ve got every right to be wrong,” she shot back, lifting her chin in mock superiority.
He smirked. “That’s a great song title.”
Later, with nothing but a greasy, empty pizza box between them, Jamie melted into the couch, a deep, satisfied sigh escaping her lips. The rich buttery crust, the gooey cheese stretching with each bite, the burst of pineapple’s sweetness against the earthiness of mushrooms—it was worth every single calorie.
Her stomach was full, her limbs heavy, and she was dangerously close to slipping into a glorious food coma. But one thought nagged at her, the urge to snap a picture of the empty box and send it to Derrick to piss him off. He’d lectured her endlessly about “clean eating” and “empty carbs.” Well, this was the most satisfying meal she’d had in ages.
And damn, it tasted like freedom.
“You know, it wasn’t as bad as it sounded.” Clayton shrugged off his plaid button-down, revealing a white cotton T-shirt underneath. “Pineapple and mushroom—who would’ve thought?”
Jamie cradled her stomach, shifting her gaze from his belt buckle to his eyes. “Told you. It’s the perfect mix of sweet and savory.” She sat up from the couch and frowned. “Jesus, what happened to your arm?”
Clayton glanced at the faded scar along his elbow. “Tommy John surgery. From pitching.”
“Does it hurt?”
