Page 12 of All of You

Very sweet. But I couldn’t do the same.

And thoughtful, sensitive, adorable Jamie Morris (I know, cliché, right? Sensitive rock star? But I’m telling you, he is.) understood. He knew I had secrets I couldn’t share, and he also knew I hadn’t cheated on him after he spoke to Sam, who was far more interested in Jamie than me.

But we also couldn’t stay together. More than anything, it was because we had all the chemistry of a paper bag and a rock, but also because we never saw each other. I’d been prepping for a European tour, and he’d been heading back into the studio. It wasn’t meant to be, and we walked away friends.

And I walked away being called all manner of things people like to call women who a.) date men, b.) are suspected of cheating, c.) exist. I won’t list the names here. Though I’d braced myself for the backlash and swallowed down Nikki’s suggestion that I suck it up and deal with the fallout rather than letting the larger lie blow up in our faces at that point—the general perception that I’d come from “nowhere” and worked my way to the stage in Nashville (which was true, except that my nowhere had eighteen bedrooms and tea served every afternoon and private tutors).

But words can wound.

And they did.

So I went on tour and kept my head down. Happily, most of the tour went without incident, and other than paparazzi constantly asking me who I was banging now, I didn’t have to deal with the problem.

But now that I was back, no longer on tour and out of sight of the local paparazzi and the American paparazzi, my apparent indiscretions were surfacing again through quiet whispers and sly looks and pointed questions by bloggers and interviewers.

I had to turn it around—no question about it. I wanted to just walk out one day and tell them where I came from. There’d be backlash, not least of all from Cynthia and Stuart Grantham. But they would deal—whenever it did come out, they’d have to, and so would I.

What Nikki suggested made me feel a little sick. I didn’t like the idea any more than she thought I would—she knew me well enough to know I wouldn’t be happy about another lie to make me look better. Especially considering the problem that started all of this, my supposed cheating, wasn’t even an actual thing.

I took a deep breath and let it out to the count of five. If I was doing it, I wasn’t going to lie to anyone it might personally affect. That included Ben.

“Fine. I’ll do it. I’ll call him when we get home.”

CHAPTER SIX

Ben

No hope of ignoring the incoming messages.

@WhitGranthamOfficial: Are you around today to meet?

@TheRealBenHolder: Meet? Are you passing me secret information?

@WhitGranthamOfficial: Ha ha. No. I need to talk to you about something.

@TheRealBenHolder: Sounds serious. I won’t be home ’til around seven tonight. I can be available then, or I’m around this weekend too.

@WhitGranthamOfficial: Tonight please. I’ll come to you. Send me your address.

And just like that, I was going to see Whit Grantham again.

In my house.

“Holder! Eyes up.”

Major Flint was in a mood, and though I shouldn’t have been looking at my phone, when it dawned on me that Whit had messaged, no way could I calmly flip the device over and ignore it until after this interminable meeting.

Yeah, no.

So I checked. And looky there, Ms. Grantham wants to talk. But what about? And why did she want to come to my house? Because she didn’t want me in her house, maybe? Had she gotten the impression I’d be one of those freaky people who stalked her or showed up at her house uninvited? My deeds hadn’t shown that, surely. But I could understand not having some man she hardly knew in her home. She’d probably had to learn to be cautious.

My attention returned to Flint, but my mind was traveling through the apartment—not horrible. I’d vacuumed recently because Thatcher had been over for a movie, and that meant popcorn. I’m not sure if the man had a hole in his lip or what, but when he left, there’d been a blast zone of crumbs surrounding where he’d sat. It was almost as bad as my two-year-old nephew. Guess I could thank him that his sloppiness had resulted in my being at least one step closer to having an appropriately clean house for Whit’s visit.

I grew up in a house of women. My mom stayed home, and my two older sisters treated me like the baby of the family, which I happily complied with, relishing being showered with their love and attention. They’d given me advice about women over the years, but I had yet to tell them about my interactions with Whit, particularly because my oldest sister Bridgette would freak out when she heard.

One happy side effect of growing up with women was the habit of keeping things clean. I’d been lectured within an inch of my life about putting the lid down, cleaning up “pot shots” as Bea, my middle sister, called them, and picking up after myself. Honestly, I was thankful I’d learned those habits early. Some of my buddies never had, and going into their houses was like walking into a gas station restroom—ultimately not a place you wanted to spend time.

“Have a good weekend, and we’ll see you all back here Monday. Don’t be idiots!”

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