They listened to the album from start to finish but he wasn’t much help—he liked everything. At least he agreed with her on which songs should be singles and offered a few decent notes. Otherwise he was kind of useless.
“I still feel like I’m missing a song,” she said, tapping her fingers against her knee.
Clayton stretched his arms behind his head. “I’m sure it’s missing you too.”
She shot him a look. “I’m serious. The song I started at your house—‘When We Two Parted’—I never finished it. I couldn’t figure out the verses.”
“Want my help?”
She folded her arms. “You’ve helped enough, thanks.”
His smirk didn’t budge. “I’m being serious.”
Jamie hesitated. “I don’t want to co-write.”
“The song’s all yours.”
That caught her off guard. She studied him, suspicious. “What’s the catch?”
Clayton leaned forward, grinning like he’d already won. “You presenting with me at the ACMs next month.”
Jamie exhaled hard through her nose. She should have seen that coming. “Fine, I’ll do it. But only for the gift baskets.”
Back inside the studio, Jamie picked up Poppy and her guitar from the recording space and headed toward Clayton’s writing room. The last thing she wanted was for him to help her, but she was on a deadline to finish her record and had no choice. She was desperate to finish “When We Two Parted” and put it on her album.
She knocked on the door and he cracked it open an inch. “I should warn you,” he said. “Duke’s inside.”
“I suppose he can’t get her pregnant again.” She looked at Poppy and made a pouty face.
He opened the door wider. “That’s a solid point.”
She entered the room and Poppy yapped her head off until she put her down. Duke ran to greet her and they acted like star-crossed lovers who hadn’t seen each other in decades.
“Oh my God,” she said, watching the scene unfold. “They’re so happy to see each other.”
Duke could hardly contain his excitement, his tail wagging wildly as he spun in circles. But when he finally stopped he approached Poppy with a gentle nudge, as if he somehow understood.
“Guess you’ll be high-tailing it back to LA when your record’s done?” Clayton asked.
She pointed at Poppy and shook her head. “No, she can’t fly this pregnant. I don’t have a choice. I’m being held hostage.”
“Sorry.” Clayton took a seat on the stool and grabbed his Gibson. “Play me what you’ve got.”
She sat on the couch and played him her breakup song, strumming through the parts that weren’t done.
Clayton leaned back in the chair across from her, silent as the raw melody filled the space between them. Her fingers hesitated over a chord then moved on, skipping sections she hadn’t quite worked out.
When she stopped, she kept her eyes on the guitar. “It still needs work.”
“Play it from the top.”
She did.
This time he joined in, his effortless harmonies sliding into place like they’d always been there. The melody she’d been chasing for weeks he nailed in two minutes.
Jerk.
She ended the song and shook her head. “I hate you, Clayton.”
