He flexed his fingers. “Gets tight sometimes but it’s not that bad. Hurts sometimes when I play guitar.”
“Can you still throw?”
Clayton grabbed a guitar, resting it on his knee. “Well, my slider’s shit. That’s a breaking pitch.”
No shit.
It irritated her more than anything when men assumed she didn’t know anything about sports. She grew up in bars, casinos, and at the racetrack—anywhere her father could lose money. And, boy, did he.
“I know what a slider is,” she said. “AJ’s big on sports.”
“Who’s AJ?” Clayton asked.
“My dad, if you must know.”
“Are you two close?”
“No.”
“Well . . .” He examined his elbow. “That there surgery was a bust, and it ended my career”—Clayton snapped his fingers—“just like that.”
“Your career isn’t much better now.”
“At least I earned it.”
“Screw you.” He had no idea what she’d gone through. “I waited on tables for nine years, busting my ass at every open mic in Nevada before Star Factor.”
“Look, I apologize.” His dark eyes went still. “I did the same thing here in Nashville.”
“That’s different.” She waved dismissively. “You were already a baseball player and married a country singer. I came from nothing. Literally.”
“Now let me tell you, switching careers from being an athlete ain’t no easy ride. And don’t get it twisted—Tammy met a ballplayer, not some crooner.”
“She didn’t help you?” Jamie asked, her voice raised on the last word.
“Help me?” He blew out a breath. “Not on your life. She does nothing unless it’s to help herself.”
“What about your girls?”
“Serendipity,” he said, a warm smile spreading. “I always wanted kids, you know, but Tammy was hesitant. Those girls came as a surprise.”
“I’ll never have kids.” Jamie got up from the couch and whistled for her dog, curled up next to Duke. “Come on, Poppy!”
“Let them be.” Clayton picked up a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. “Stay and have a drink with me.”
“Do you have any vodka?” she asked, assuming he didn’t. Besides, she’d already spent too much time with him and needed to get back to her music.
“No, but there’s some in the kitchen,” Clayton said. “It’s Dusty’s.”
“He won’t mind?”
“Mind? Are you kidding? He’s Canadian.”
They entered the kitchen and Clayton opened the cabinet above the fridge.
“Tall people,” he said. “Dusty and me—we’re the only ones who can reach it.” Clayton pulled down a bottle from the top shelf. The label readvan gogh espresso: coffee flavored vodka.
She scrunched her nose, repulsed by the sound of it. “Coffee-flavored vodka?”
