You'd Be Mine(37)

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“This is the most at home I’ve felt in ages, Mrs. Rosewood,” Fitz says, ladling himself another serving of soup. Kacey grins at him, all smitten kitten.

I glance around at the table, sipping my unsweetened iced tea. Clay—I mean Jefferson—is engaged in some conversation with my grandpa about woodworking, while Jason and Ever-Silent Jackson are leaning over Patrick’s iPad watching the Tigers lose against the White Sox. Connie is talking my gran’s ear off about some sermon we heard at the megachurch in Nashville.

My cousin leans in. “Sorta weird how a month ago we barely knew these guys, right?”

I lower my eyes to where I know she and Fitz are holding hands under the table. “No kidding.”

Her cheeks turn a happy, glowing kind of pink. “How about our headliner talking shop with Pops? Never saw that coming.”

I glance back over, a crazy flutter in my stomach. “Me neither, but he fits, doesn’t he?”

“Did I hear you calling him Jefferson?”

I nod and lower my voice. “It seems to be a touchy subject. I wonder if he’s changing his image or something.”

Kacey narrows her eyes. “You do realize that it’s only you he wants to call him Jefferson, right?”

“What?” I ask loudly. The guys watching the game startle and look my way. I sip my tea, waving them off. Kacey nudges Fitz.

He pulls a reluctant face and motions for me to move closer after checking Clay and Pops are still talking. “All I said was that since his open mic days, Clay’s always been Clay. His brother and his grandpa called him Jefferson. Both died a few years back. Then I heard you calling him Jefferson, and he seems pleased as punch.” Fitz shrugs, perplexed. “Maybe it’s some identity crisis. He’s been sort of weird since Nashville.”

This time, I’m the one flushing. I wave my hand. “Whew, soup in July. Scurvy or not, I’m gonna need to find some ice cream.”

Kacey’s eyes widen. “I’m coming with.”

I open my mouth to protest, but she’s already at the door. Fitz shakes his head, chuckling to himself as I stand, untangling my legs from the fixed picnic bench.

“Ugh.” I open the trailer to find her perched on the tiny counter, holding the ice cream hostage.

She hands me a spoon. “What happened in Nashville?”

“Nothing. We sang Johnny and June. It was a hit. He asked if we wanted to collaborate the remainder of the tour.”

Kacey opens a pint and scoops a bite without removing her glare.

I sigh, reaching with my spoon, but she pulls the container back. “Not a chance.”

I throw my arms wide, brushing against either wall of the tiny tour bus. “What do you want me to say? That we had a hot make-out session in the hotel hallway? That I offered myself on a silver platter and he flat-out rejected me, even though I swear he wanted me, too?”

Hot tears sting the corners of my eyes, and Kacey’s mouth drops open. She plops the tub of ice cream on the counter behind her before hopping down and pulling me close. “Shit, Annie.”

I sniff, accepting her embrace. “It was not my shining moment.”

She pulls back, confused. “But you said it was hot and he clearly wanted you?”

I nod. “I thought so. He said so.” At the root of everything is boiling humiliation. My pride took a massive hit. I offered myself to a rock star, and he turned me down. Forget the details; I’d been rejected. “He’s apparently got this idea I don’t know my own mind and it would be a mistake. He’s being honorable or something.”

Kacey bites her lip, considering. “And this is when he told you to call him Jefferson?”

I pull the Ben & Jerry’s toward me. “Yeah. He got all mad and said to stop calling him Clay because he was trying not to be Clay around me.”

Kacey’s hand stills in midair, and she points her spoon at me. “Bear with me here. What comes to mind when you think of Clay Coolidge?”

“Levi’s,” I blurt before thinking.

She laughs. “Okay. My bad. This isn’t a word association thing. I mean, what would your average female say about Clay?”

“Sex appeal, boozehound, makes love to the mic, rock star, stadium filler.”

My cousin grins. “Yes. All of that. Now what do they think of Jefferson Coolidge?”

I blink. “I don’t think anyone even knows that’s his real name.”

“Exactly. He doesn’t want to be Clay the megastar boozehound around you. He wants you to see Jefferson. Just you.” She shrugs lightly. “I can’t pretend to know what’s happening in his mind, Annie, and I know rejection hurts, but maybe it’s not so cut-and-dried as you think.”

I put my unused spoon in the sink, suddenly not hungry. Kacey grabs a handful of fresh spoons, and I help her carry plastic bowls to the picnic table. I return to my seat and my iced tea and meet Jefferson’s eyes. He’s still talking to Pop, but he gives me a small, friendly smile. A real smile.

And for the first time, I realize it’s a Jefferson smile.



* * *



“A very good evening to you, Columbus!” I shield my eyes from the spotlight and find the section of the stadium where my grandparents’ tickets are. I imagine I can make out my gran’s proud smile, but in reality, it’s impossible. I blow a kiss in their direction, anyway. “This is a special night, y’all. My gran and pop are here in the audience, along with Kacey’s momma, Carla. In honor of them making the long drive out here to see us, we wanted to play one of my gran’s old favorites.”