“Ugh.”
“Play me what you’ve got.”
“It’s not finished yet,” she said. “I’m working on the second verse.”
“Play it anyway.”
She sighed and picked up his guitar, her fingers instinctively finding the chords. The wood was warm, worn smooth from years of his touch. She shouldn’t be doing this. But the guitar was already in her hands, so she played the first verse.
“Here, pass it to me.” He sat on the couch and tuned the guitar by ear, which it didn’t need. “Might sound better in a different key.” He strummed a G chord and began to sing.
“Hey, that’s my song!” she said, refusing to admit he was right. “We’re not co-writing, remember.”
He handed the guitar back to her. “Just trying to help.”
“Did you forget something?” she asked, sitting next to Poppy on the couch.
“No,” he replied. “Momma wants you to join us for supper.”
“Dinner?”
“Yes, supper.”
“Look at my hair.” Jamie pulled her messy ponytail tighter. “And I don’t have any clothes suitable for dinner.”
“Now, darlin’, it’s downright rude to turn down an invitation around here. We take hospitality mighty serious.”
She sank into the couch. “I don’t get along well with mothers.”
“What do you mean?”
“Derrick’s mom hates me.” It wasn’t just a feeling—Mrs. Anderson made sure of it—the polite smiles that never reached her eyes, the clipped responses, the way she made her presence feel like an intrusion. Derrick had grown up in privilege—quiet streets, elite schools, parents with Ivy League degrees—while she came from a world of late rent notices and empty promises. Her father had been more of a rumor than a presence, and her mother, a showgirl with a dazzling smile and a restless heart, had left when she was too young to understand why.
“Momma will love you.”
“Did she like Tammy?”
“She wasn’t her biggest fan,” Clayton said, flashing a sheepish grin. “You can meet my girls, but you may need to watch your language.”
She scrunched her face, clearly offended. “I don’t curse in front of children.”
“Is that a yes?”
“Fine,” she agreed. “I’ll have Ruth bring some clothes.”
“You two made up?”
She nodded. “I told her it was Shorty’s fault.”
“That’s real generous of you,” he drawled, his smile downright wicked. “Why don’t you invite her along? The more the merrier.”
“Are you sure?”
“Sure, I’m sure. By the way, a certain doctor is smitten with her.”
“Nolan?” she gasped. “Ruth can’t stop talking about him.”
“Well, it’s settled, then.” Clayton stood from the couch. “Any allergies or things you can’t eat?”
