“Doofus,” she said, correcting him. “That’s what I call him.”
“He doesn’t even like music.”
“I know, right?” She rolled her eyes. “He’s an accountant.”
“Bean counter.” He chuckled. “Hey, sorry again about last night.”
“I got your flowers.” She raised her eyebrow, ready to let him have it. “Red roses are for the Bachelor, not apologies, for your information.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You sent me red roses like the Bachelor gives out.”
“Red roses?” A pink hue flooded his cheeks and she realized he hadn’t intended to send them—at least not red ones. “Who’s the bachelor?”
“You know, the TV show.”
“Never seen it.” He gulped loudly. “Guess that’s my third strike.”
“Fifth, but who’s counting?”
“Fifth?” He scratched the reddish stubble on his face.
“Yeah . . .” She counted on her fingers. “You didn’t take me on tour, you ran over your time, you made fun of my breakup, you kissed me, and sent red roses. That’s five.”
His shoulders slumped. “Okay, four out of five.”
“Four?”
“Sorry, darlin’.” He cleared his throat. “Didn’t know about your breakup.”
She scoffed. It had been practically headline news. “It was all over social media two months ago.”
“I’m not on social media,” he admitted. “The label—Lisa does it for me.”
“You’re joking?”
He shook his head, keeping a straight face. “Why don’t you come into my room and write something?”
She peeled away the shellac polish from her fingernails. “I’m not in the mood.”
“To begin . . . begin,” he said. “Wordsworth. Anyway, come see what I’ve been working on.”
She swung her legs around and attempted to get up but Duke wouldn’t budge. “Your dog weighs a ton.”
“Come on, boy!” Clayton whistled but the dog didn’t move, so Jamie rolled him over, groaning at the sight of her black jeans now covered in dog hair. Poppy Rose was a miniature apricot poodle and didn’t shed. Poppy also listened when she was called.
They walked down the hall and Clayton opened the door to one of the rehearsal rooms. The scent of sandalwood jolted her back, reminding her of the air fresheners people hung from their rearview mirrors.
“It’s been soundproofed.” He pointed to the black egg crate foam covering the walls, making the room feel smaller.
Jamie focused on a pile of ropes lying like snakes on the floor. Is this how it ends, in his kill room? Her attention quickly shifted to a gold trophy shaped like a gramophone sitting on a road case in the corner.
“You’ve got a Grammy?” she asked, shocked.
He turned toward the statue and Duke jumped onto the couch.
“Yeah.” He shrugged one shoulder. “Best country performance. Solo,” he added.
