Jamie furrowed her brow. “She’s the greatest songwriter in country music, maybe ever.”
“She listens to Dolly all the time on the bus,” Buddy said, supporting her story. “I’m sorry to hear about Derrick.”
She tensed her shoulders at the name but avoided making a face.
“Well, well,” Clayton said. “Action Jackson isn’t here, huh?” He took a swig of beer. “Not enough danger? Not enough bad guys to capture—or punch out?”
She looked him dead in the eye. “We broke up.”
Clayton smirked. “Better than breaking down.”
Before she could fire back the announcer’s voice boomed through the speakers: “St. Jude’s and the Ryman would like to welcome . . . Jamie Keaton!”
Buddy stepped in, settling a Les Paul Goldtop over her shoulder with practiced ease.
“Break a leg,” Clayton said, his voice laced with amusement.
Jamie tightened her fingers around the fretboard. “Yeah, you wish, cowboy.”
At five minutes to midnight the other performers joined Jamie onstage. She poured another splash of vodka into her Solo cup and turned around to see Clayton standing at the center microphone, beer in hand.
“What are you doing?” She gestured toward the available microphones on either side of them.
“Ringing in the new year!” His eyes danced when he spoke, glossy from alcohol. “Great show, by the way.”
The compliment took her aback, but she figured it was the beer talking.
“Fine,” she replied, not wanting to argue in front of everyone. “We’ll sing ‘Auld Lang Syne’ when it hits midnight.” She shouted into the microphone, “10 . . . 9 . . . 8 . . .” Clayton took the microphone from her and counted down. “7 . . . 6 . . . 5 . . .” He draped his arm around her shoulder. “4 . . . 3 . . . 2 . . .”
“Happy new year!” Clayton leaned in and she turned her head. Smack. A kiss landed squarely on her mouth, and it tasted like beer.
Yuck.
“What are you doing?” She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. They were hardly friends. She considered him her archenemy, like Lex Luthor to Superman. Unsurprisingly, Tammy Travis, a one-time popular country singer, had divorced him a few years ago. The gossip around the music industry was that Clayton had cheated on her, and it seemed accurate based on everything she knew about the opposite sex.
Men can’t be trusted.
CHAPTER 2
CLAYTON
Clayton woke up with the hangover he deserved. “Dang,” he murmured, hiding his head under a pillow. His clothes were still on, but luckily his boots were off. He had no memory of how he ended up in bed. The last thing he remembered was Shorty dropping him off at his ranch in Franklin, half an hour from downtown Nashville. His manager was good people, salt of the earth, and he never touched a drop of alcohol.
A paw scratched at his back and he rolled over to find Duke, his yellow Labrador Retriever, hankering for breakfast.
“Are you awake, man?” his younger brother, Nolan, shouted from down the hall. The sound of stomping boots made his head throb even more. “It’s almost eleven.”
“Let me sleep it off a spell,” Clayton drawled, rubbing his temples and hoping the pain would ease.
“Hi, Duke!” Nolan ruffled the dog’s fur as his tail wagged. “Happy new year!” He handed his brother a coffee mug and shook two tablets from the economy-size bottle on the nightstand. “Shorty’s been calling.”
“I’ll holler back at him later,” Clayton replied, taking a slow sip of coffee. He set the mug down carefully.
“You should take a look at this,” Nolan said, handing him his phone.
“What in tarnation did I do now?” Clayton squinted at a blurry picture of him kissing Jamie Keaton.
“Why in the world did you kiss her?” Nolan asked.
