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CHAPTER EIGHT

Jade

I’ve been in a funk since the night of the awards ceremony, and no matter how many times I tell myself I’m better off without a broody, grumpy songwriter with the world’s biggest penis, it’s hard to let go. Of the memories. The laughter. The sex. Good gracious, I’ve never experienced anything like what we did. What he did.

Including the waking up alone part.

In what universe do you do that to someone you spent the whole night with? I’ve had one-night stands, but those were hookups. Meet, have a drink, have sex, say goodbye. Even with a one-nighter, you say goodbye? Right?

Well, okay. I’ve had one—two, if you count Royal.

But we said goodbye when it was over. It was polite. Civilized. Frankly, I was glad for him to go because the sex had been unremarkable. With the first guy. Sex with Royal, well, I probably won’t get over that for a very long time.

Or him.

I’m not in love or anything stupid, but we connected in a way I’ve never felt with any other guy. By the time we left Rico’s, we were finishing each other’s sentences. He likes so many of the same things I do. He understands my life, my career, and what it means to be on top.

And he thinks it’s adorable that I don’t use curse words.

Thanks, Grandma Louise.

She pounded it into my brain that a lady doesn’t use those words. Never, ever. Except maybe during childbirth. She told me that was the only time she ever said shit.

I smile at the memory and dab a bit of gloss onto my lips.

It’s time to stop moping about one very annoying Royal-pain-in-the-butt.

That’s how I’ll think of him from now on.

If I think of him at all.

I grab my purse and head into the hallway, where my security detail is waiting to escort me down to the car that will take me to the interview I’m doing with ‘Modern Country Music’ magazine.

“Good morning.” My publicist, Farrah Henley, is waiting in the car. “Are you ready? They sent over a list of questions but I don’t think you need to look at them. Really basic stuff. They want to know how you felt when you won, stuff like that.”

“Okay, great.” I nod, pulling out my cell phone, and checking my texts. I’d originally planned to head back to Nashville after the awards show, but it’s been one thing after another over the last two weeks. Interviews, a morning show appearance, and now they want me to sing the national anthem at the SoCal Vipers’ game tomorrow night. Then I can go home.

Home.

The word has a strange connotation these days.

Is it a home now that it’s so empty?

Mom and Grandma Louise are both gone. Mom died when I was in middle school and Grandma Louise just eighteen months ago.

And now I’m alone.

I have cousins and friends, a handful of staff that run the farm, and of course, my career, but it feels like I’m alone. Except for those stolen hours with Royal-pain-in-the-butt.

Nope. Not going there. Not today.

We arrive at the meeting place—a tall building with glass windows that goes up higher than I can see from this angle. I like how majestic it is. It somehow makes me feel safe, like I can hide within it and never see anyone unless I want to. Maybe I’ll sell my farm and buy a condo in a really tall building like this.

Yeah, right.

I do a mental head shake and step out of the limo.

“Good morning! I’m Becky. I’ll be escorting you up to see Ms. Bancroft.”

“Thank you,” I murmur politely.

“Is there sparkling water?” Farrah asks her. “I’m parched. It’s on Ms. Cantrell’s list.”

“Of course.” Becky nods, chattering with Farrah as we get on the elevator.

I tune them out because I’m mentally drained. It’s been a long couple of weeks. My phone has been ringing nonstop since the award show. Invitations, questions, requests…people always want something from me. I began to notice it in the last year, but it’s ramped up to a thousand since I won Song of the Year. I really hate saying no, but I’m already spread a little thin. It’s hard to be in twenty places at once, and work on my music, and think about the next album, and play gigs.

“Jade. Hello. I’m Liza Bancroft.”

“Nice to meet you, Liza.” I smile at the journalist because she looks a lot like my mama, with big blond hair and a little too much blue eyeshadow. I’m momentarily lost in a memory of my mom teaching me how to do my makeup, not long before the cancer made it so she couldn’t do much of anything, and it’s times like this I miss her so much it’s hard to breathe.

“If it’s okay with you,” Liza says, “we can settle in and have a casual conversation. Like two girlfriends.”

I’m immediately on alert, all warm fuzzies gone, replaced with wariness. Whenever a journalist says something like that, it means she’s going to get serious with the questions even though Farrah said they were all pretty basic.

“I do love having girlfriends,” I say, in my heaviest southern drawl. People automatically equate that accent with both stupidity and naivete; she’s about to find out otherwise.

She fidgets for a moment and then takes out her phone, pushing some buttons. She’s recording us, obviously, and I’m starting to feel uneasy. I’ve always been something of an empath, and I can usually tell what someone is thinking.

Except Royal-pain-in-the-butt.

He blindsided me by leaving.

Knock it off, I chide myself. Stop thinking about him.

“So you’re coming off an amazing win for Song of the Year,” Liza says, jumping right in. “How did that feel?”

“Amazing,” I reply. “I honestly wasn’t expecting it. When they said my name, it took a second to register.”

“You looked beautiful,” she says. “And your speech was touching. You didn’t seem nervous at all.”

“Thank you.”

“Did you know Royal Ewing would be there?”

My internal bullcrap detector immediately goes off.

“No.” I slowly shake my head. “We’d never met or had any type of contact.”

“But you left together.”

Good grief.

Where is she going with this?

I glance at Farrah, but she’s busy on her phone, completely ignoring the conversation.

“We met backstage and wound up going to a party at Rico Galago’s house.”

“Was it a date?” She smiles, a teasing tone to her voice, but now I know where she’s going and I refuse to play this kind of game.

“Of course not. I told you—we just met. We wanted to talk a little since he wrote the song for me. So, we decided to go to the party.”

“He was seen leaving your hotel room early the next morning.”

I freeze.

My cheeks feel warm, and my stomach feels like it’s going to turn.

What the heck is going on?

I look to Farrah but she’s not even paying attention, tapping away on her phone without a care in the world.

“Is there a question?” I ask quietly, grateful my hands are on my lap so I can squeeze my thighs to vent my frustration without anyone seeing me.

“What were you two doing all night?”

I snort. “We were doing what musicians do—talking about and writing music.”

“Is he writing you a new song?”

“You’ll just have to wait and see with everyone else.” I try to keep my voice playful, but I’m furious on the inside.

I don’t like getting blindsided like this. The record company’s PR people usually protect me from questions like this, but of course, I’ve also never had anyone spotted leaving my hotel room before either.

My management team hired Farrah when ‘Forever in Rewind’ started to take off, insisting that we needed someone who would have the time to focus on just me, instead of an entire record label’s roster of talent. I don’t think she’s particularly good at her job, but she does what needs to be done.

Until today.

And we’re going to have a conversation about it ASAP.

Despite my annoyance with him, Royal’s words about having the right people in your corner have been percolating in the back of my mind, and I realize I’m not truly surrounded by a team of trustworthy people.

I’m going to have to do something about that.

Thankfully, the rest of the interview is pretty bland—despite multiple references to Royal—but I’m still furious when we get back out to the limo. The moment we pull into traffic I turn to Farrah, who’s immersed in something on her phone.

“Farrah.” I say her name, and she doesn’t even look up.

“Give me a minute,” she mutters.

I wait ten seconds, counting slowly.

…one thousand and nine, one thousand and ten…

“Time’s up,” I say, a little louder this time.

She glances up with an arched brow. “What’s wrong?”

“Why didn’t you or your team know that Royal was spotted leaving my hotel room?”

She looks confused for a second but then shrugs. “I’m sure someone did, but it’s not a huge deal.”

“It is to me.”

“Why?” She shrugs. “He’s hot. Every woman in America wishes he could be seen leaving their room.”

“That’s a fantasy,” I grit out. “This is my real life.”

“It’s not a big deal, Jade. Seriously, don’t get your panties in a bunch.” She goes back to her phone.

“Farrah!” I raise my voice this time, and she puts her phone down with a put-upon sigh.

“What would you like me to do?” she asks. “It’s already over.”

“You needed to step in when Liza brought that up. You said the questions they sent were basic. And they weren’t. She brought up Royal at every opportunity, and I had to deflect. It’s supposed to be your job to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

“You handled her great!” she says, with a placating smile. “The interview is going to be amazing and?—”

“You’re missing the point.”

“Look, I know this level of fame is new to you, but you’re good at this stuff. And mentioning Royal isn’t a bad thing. Any chance we get to capitalize on your friendship with him is a huge bonus.”

I want to snap that we’re not friends, but that’s more information than she needs.

Especially since I’ve just made a decision about what I’m going to do.

“I don’t need to capitalize on any of my friendships ,” I say quietly. “My music speaks for itself. As my publicist, you should know that.”

“Well, yeah, but your connection to Royal is different. He’s an enigma and never more so than since his accident. The music rumor mill is still buzzing about the way his wife divorced him afterward and how he and his band aren’t speaking. It’s enthralling.”

“It’s terrible,” I snap, irritated. “He lost his ability to play guitar, which was his career. On top of that, his wife and band all abandoned him…What part of that is enthralling? Anyone with a soul should feel awful. And as a human being, the story is heartbreaking.”

She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, I’m sure he’s breaking hearts all the way to the bank. Every time a story goes viral, they sell a ton of records, and no matter what happens going forward, he makes money from that. We should all be so lucky to be in his situation.”

Is she serious right now?

I never liked her, but now…I truly hate her.

Will I go to jail if I reach out and slap both sides of her face a few times?

Probably.

Not worth it.

But I feel better knowing what I’m about to do.

“I don’t think this is working,” I say quietly.

“What isn’t?” she asks, frowning.

“This. You. Me. Working together.”

“What does that mean?”

“You’re fired.”