“No idea,” Jamie said. “Shorty sent me the run of show but I didn’t read it.”
“Same,” Clayton admitted.
Ruth frowned. “Why didn’t Shorty send it to me? That’s not like him.”
“Beats me,” Jamie said.
At the entrance a short, dark-haired producer wearing a headset greeted them and led them backstage to their dressing rooms.
“We’ll call for you in an hour,” he said before disappearing down the hall.
“An hour?” Jamie echoed. “Jesus—why are we here so early?”
“There’s food in the green room,” the producer called over his shoulder.
Clayton perked up. “I’m sold.”
“I’m hungry too,” Ruth added.
Jamie pressed a hand to her stomach. “I can’t eat. I’m a bundle of nerves.”
Clayton slung an arm around her shoulders. “Then come keep us company.”
They walked down the hall, following the wayfinding signs toward the green room. Clayton opened the door and gestured for the ladies to enter first.
Inside the energy was electric. Performers, presenters, and their handlers clustered in groups, laughing and schmoozing, drinks in hand. The scent of hot food and expensive perfume mixed in the air, and the low hum of conversation was punctuated by bursts of laughter.
“Holy cow!” Ruth said, pointing to the tables of food. “I wish I’d brought a bigger bag with me.”
Long tables were lined with chafing dishes, their silver lids propped open to reveal an array of hot entrees. Platters of cold cuts and cheeses were arranged next to baskets of bread, but just looking at the spread made Jamie’s stomach churn. Whether it was nerves or the lingering effects of exhaustion, she wasn’t sure, but food was the last thing on her mind. She scanned the room instead, searching for a bar. There—across the crowded space, bathed in warm lighting.
“I’m going to say hi to some people,” Clayton said before disappearing into the crowd.
“Have you heard from AJ?” Ruth asked.
Jamie exhaled sharply. “Yeah. He’s been blowing up my phone since I was announced as a presenter. He probably wants free tickets.”
“Are you going to call him back?”
Jamie snorted. “No. I’m going to the bar.”
“James . . .” Ruth’s voice held a warning. “You shouldn’t drink before the show.”
She lifted her shoulder. “Too late.”
Jamie wove through the crowd, murmuring “excuse me” as she brushed past strangers until she hit the bar. The bartender, dressed in a crisp white shirt and black vest, looked like he’d stepped straight out of a James Bond film.
“What can I get you?” he asked.
“Vodka soda, please.” She smiled. “Ketel One if you’ve got it.”
“We’re servingthisvodka tonight.” He lifted the blue bottle like it was a rare vintage. “One of the sponsors.”
She sighed. “That’s fine.” Next time she’d smuggle in her own vodka.
He poured the drink strong. She waved off the lemons and limes, of course.
“Here you go, miss.” The bartender slid the glass toward her just as Clayton came up behind her. She dropped a twenty into the tip jar.
