“I’m paying.” Jamie crossed her arms over her chest. She didn’t believe in asking for favors.
Nolan picked up his doctor’s bag and walked toward the door. “I’ll take one of the puppies off your hands if they’re not all spoken for.”
“You’d be doing me a favor,” Jamie said. “I promised one to Ruth and one to the girls. The rest don’t have homes.”
Nolan nodded. “It’s settled then.”
“I’ll walk you out,” Ruth offered, leaving Jamie alone with Clayton.
An awkward silence settled over the room before Jamie crossed her arms. “You can leave too. And don’t let the door hit you where the Lord split you.” She smirked. “I learned a little Southern talk.”
Clayton exhaled heavily, rubbing the back of his neck. He wasn’t wearing a hat, and Jamie couldn’t help but notice—annoyingly so—how thick and enviable his auburn hair was. Women would have killed for it. And it was wasted on him.
“I’m real sorry, Jamie.” His voice was quieter than she expected. “Never meant for this to happen.”
She let out a slow breath, rolling her eyes. “Yeah, well, me neither.”
His gaze softened. “How are you holding up?”
She lifted her shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. There was no point in answering that.
A beat passed before he changed the subject. “How’s the record coming along?”
“It’s basically done.” She hesitated, then decided to be honest—he’d understand. “But I don’t know if there’s a hit on it.”
“What does your A&R guy think?”
The so-called creative genius in charge of her songs thought it was “awesome.” But Arthur also thought CDs were making a comeback and once suggested she cover a Steely Dan song “for the kids.” Why were record labels still clinging to guys who got their start when Elvis was topping the charts?
She rolled her eyes. “Arthur loves it.”
“Arthur’s still kicking around, huh?” Clayton chuckled.
“Barely. Last week he told me streaming was just a phase.”
Clayton let out a short laugh. “And yet he’s the one deciding what’s a hit?”
“Terrifying, right?”
He shook his head. “Can I hear it?”
Jamie wrinkled her nose. “You want to listen to my record?”
“Why not?”
She hesitated. Normally she’d say no. Dusty, Evan, and Shorty were too close to be objective. But Clayton? He didn’t know the first thing about rock music. If he hated it, it wouldn’t sting too much.
Maybe that made him the perfect person.
“Is it mixed?” he asked.
“Evan’s been mixing as we go.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“There’s no problem,” she said, then pointed a finger at him. “But you have to promise to tell me the truth.”
“A promise made must be a promise kept.”
