“Sounds good,” Nolan said. “I’m sorry you’re going through this, Jamie.”
“Thanks, Nolan.” She attempted to smile but it morphed into a frown, and she lacked the energy to fake her way out of it.
Clayton carried Jamie’s suitcases to the front porch. “You didn’t wear half of this stuff.”
She shrugged. “I like to keep my options open.”
Clayton opened the front door. “Home sweet home.”
Jamie followed Clayton inside, expecting it to be a pigsty, but it was clean, just like his tour bus, and decorated in a modern rustic style. The layout was open-concept, featuring high ceilings and a wood-burning fireplace, reminiscent of those Hallmark movies shown during Christmastime. She loved cheesy small-town romances set in tight-knit communities, which were the opposite of her upbringing.
“Got four bedrooms, take your pick. The girls’ rooms got smaller beds and the guest room ain’t much to brag about. But my room’s got a king-size bed. You’re welcome to it.”
“Are you trying to get me into your bed?” she asked with a hint of sarcasm.
“No,” he said. “Going to grab a few things. Be out of your hair in no time. I’m sure Momma’s stocked the fridge.”
She opened the fridge to find a stack of Tupperware containers with yellow Post-it notes that saidfor jamie. “What the hell is this with my name on it?”
Clayton’s voice echoed from another room. “She cooked for you, darlin’.”
“How did she know I was here?”
“I sent her a message before we got on the plane,” he said. “She feels just awful for you.”
“I’ll never be able to eat all of this!” she shouted back at Clayton.
“Round here, love comes with a side of biscuits and gravy.”
“She doesn’t even know me.”
“You’re a friend of mine, so you’re a friend of hers.”
“Friend” is a strong word.
Clayton stood in the foyer with two duffel bags in hand. She felt bad for kicking him out of his house but needed her privacy, a space to untangle the details of Derrick and Matilda’s relationship and prove it was just for publicity. However, if itwasn’tsome stunt, then he was dating some teenager who, by all accounts, wasn’t even bright.
“Ran you a bath with some Epsom salts,” he said, nodding toward the bathroom. “Figured you might want to unwind a bit.”
She shrugged and gave a half-smile at the gesture. “I’m not sure if I can, but I appreciate it.”
“Are you going to be okay?” Clayton asked on his way out the door. “I’m just down the road, so holler if you need anything.”
She looked around the living room. “Where’s the TV?”
Above the mantel, a large garishly framed painting of two horses stared back at her, glossy coats catching an unseen light source, their manes perfectly windswept, their eyes oddly lifeless. It was the kind of art they sold at hotel conventions, where the brushstrokes were justconvincing enough to pass for talent but not enough to stir any real emotion. The gold trim around the frame was thick and ornate, clashing with the otherwise rustic decor, as if someone had tried—and failed—to inject a sense of sophistication into the room.
“Don’t own a TV,” Clayton replied.
“What?” She’d never heard of such a thing.
“Books are in the library, down the hall and to the left. Knock yourself out.”
“What’s your Wi-Fi password?”
“There’s no Wi-Fi, and the 5G is sketchy, but you can use the landline if you need to make a call.”
“How am I going to watch Netflix?” It was worse than she’d imagined.
