And anyway, they weren’t in public, he reminded himself. They were in his backyard, by that firepit he never actually used, with Pickles at his feet licking her stuffed banana. When he had moved out to the mansion after leaving Hollywood, he had insisted his team install a relaxing space for evening fires. Jameson had all these romantic fantasies of being away from the city, but then the reality had just never quite matched up, and the firepit had sat unused for several seasons.
Leave it to Gray to come knocking on his door, asking about it.
“I’m just glad I caught him,” he said. He was wearing a blue flannel under his jacket, standing across the fire from Jameson with the light flickering in his face. “Plus, I found this old thing. There’s nothing like a fire to pass an evening.”
“I think so, too,” Jameson said. He bent down to lift his glass of wine, and when he held it up, he smelled the fruity aroma, mingling with the burning wood. “Fires are so relaxing.” They made him feel normal in a way he couldn’t explain.
“Exactly,” Gray said. He plopped down on the bench, then leaned back with his beer. “Back at my place outside Albany, me and my guys have a fire every weekend.”
Jameson shot to attention. He’d been reluctant to ask Gray about his life, knowing it would just open the door for his security guard to return the questions. But he’d been dying of curiosity. Gray was like a big floating question mark to Jameson or a book where all the pages were blurry. “Oh yeah?” he asked casually.
“Sure. I live with my buddy Raiden, and our friend Horatio is right down the road. It’s a hell of a lot better to spend a Saturday night around the fire, instead of wasting all our money at the bar.” He grinned at Jameson, sending a thrill underneath his skin. “Plus, you get enough drinks in my guy Raiden, and he ends up singing along to the radio all night.”
Jameson crossed his arms. “Am I supposed to believe you don’t sing along to the radio?”
Gray barked out a laugh. “Okay, it depends on the song, all right? I’m doing everyone a favor, though, when I keep my mouth shut. You don’t want to hear this singing voice.”
Jameson wasn’t so sure about that. “Everyone with a voice can sing,” he pointed out.
“Can you?”
Dee’s advice echoed in the back of Jameson’s head, encouraging him to share a little more of himself with Gray. It was ridiculous for him to loosen up, considering a photographer had nearly broken in that very afternoon.
Although Gray was the one who had kept things secure. He was the reason Jameson wasn’t intruded upon that day. It was another good reason to trust the guy, even though the grin he was shooting across the fire was pure mischief.
“I can sing,” Jameson admitted, then took another sip of his wine. “Kind of, at least.”
“Let’s hear it then.”
“What?”
“There’s no better audience than a fire, and everyone sounds good under the stars. Everyone but me and Raiden, that is.” He took a swig of his beer, then went back to holding Jameson’s eye. Jameson felt like the dark stare was reaching inside of him and taking hold, and he had an urge to give in to it. “I can get the radio, if you want backup singers.”
Jameson laughed with his perfect and practiced Justin Sweet laugh, fighting to hold his composure together when every instinct told him to give in. “I don’t think so, Gray. I’ll have to disappoint you tonight.”
And then Gray did something that Jameson did not expect whatsoever.
He pouted.
He turned down his mouth in a big frown, then crossed his arms over his chest. “And after I went to all the trouble of making this fire…” he grumbled, clearly teasing.
Jameson couldn’t help it—he blurted out an actual laugh, his voice lilting up before he pulled it back down.
Gray uncrossed his arms, that grin filling his face again. “That sounded like a yes.”
“It did not,” Jameson objected.
Gray jumped to his feet. “It did. Be right back.”
Jameson sat there while Gray hurried off, disappearing back into the guest house. For a moment, he was outside all alone, and he listened to the crackle of the fire and the quiet his money and the large property had offered him. A smile played on his lips. Spending a night by the fire might not mean as much to Gray, he realized. But doing something normal like that meant everything to Jameson.
It made a whole different kind of life seem possible again.
Gray came back outside, then plopped a small stereo down on the path outside the guest house, its cord trailing back in. Beside Jameson, Pickles stirred at the noise and peeked her head over the bench. Gray fiddled with the radio for a minute, then cranked up the volume through the static as a radio voice announcednineties rock favorites. When he returned to the fire, he had a triumphant look on his face, like he’d just pulled something off.
“I’m still not going to sing,” Jameson said.
“You say that now,” Gray said, then nodded to the radio. “But the right song comes on, and I’ll get you.”
