Page 7 of All of You

But after spending that time with her, I’d wanted more. After all, that time really hadn’t proven to be all that great an opportunity to get to know her since we just went from place to place in a car with the publicity officer for the post and a photographer her PR person had hired. Naturally, I’d wanted more.

Thanks to social media, I got it.

Not really. But following her on Instagram allowed me to see pictures of her without being too creepy. And then, yeah, I searched the Internet for her and read some of the stories which recapped what some part of my mind remembered from before I deployed—she’d won a contest on TV and got a record contract, then had blown up from there. She was a crazy accomplished musician, so bands and other musicians loved working with her, and she was stubborn, so record companies didn’t, except for the fact that whatever she touched turned platinum.

No one knew much about where she’d come from, and Reese wouldn’t tell me anything. He’d been preoccupied lately, though, so I hadn’t asked him outright.

I planned to.

When she’d sent me a direct message, I’d never felt such a stupid jolt of adrenaline over a line of words as in that moment.

Nothing had been the same since tapping that little notification to respond to her.

Okay, that might be a little far-fetched, but what do you want from me? I’d been chatting it up with Whit Grantham, Grammy-winning Country artist, whose lyrics and voice made me feel like my bones were melting in the best possible way. I’d progressed beyond the point of playing it cool.

Except now, her world surrounded me, something completely foreign, and yet, I instinctually resisted being impressed by it.

One thing was certain—I was less than impressed with Colton Danes’ hitting on my date and ignoring his own.

“See ya, man.” I gave him a chin nod. “Nice to meet you, Kaylee.”

I could see Whit duck her head out of the corner of my eye, so I looked over at her—well, down and over, despite the lift her shoes gave her, which had to be at least three inches. She was tiny, and even though she’d worn cowboy boots the last time we were together, I still dwarfed her.

I wasn’t even that big of a dude, but compared to her, I felt gigantic. But at the risk of sounding cliché, her presence more than made up for her stature.

“Are you laughing at me?” I asked her upon hearing her snicker.

“No, I’m laughing at Danes and how confused he was by your total lack of response to him in all his glory,” she said, her face lighting up in a way that looked completely genuine.

“Should I have done something different?”

She shook her head, her perfectly white front teeth biting into her glossed lower lip. “No. Not at all. You handled him perfectly.”

Her hand squeezed my bicep where she held my arm.

I could admit—I liked that. Not like some barbarian wanting to flex my muscles and crow, but because any man would enjoy Whit Grantham’s hand on his arm, squeezing his bicep as she complimented him, even if it came at the expense of another guy. Perhaps all the more if that guy was the tool box known as Colton Danes.

“You two have a history?”

A waiter approached, and I took a champagne flute from his tray and handed it to Whit.

“Thank you. No, we don’t have a personal history, if that’s what you mean. We’ve never even worked together, for that matter. But we see each other constantly, and he almost always says something exactly like what he said just now.” She took a sip of champagne. “You didn’t want a drink?”

“I’m good for now.”

We continued into a reception area that vibrated with the energy coming from the little pockets of people talking and laughing.

“Something like, he calls you baby and doll face?”

“Yes. But don’t be confused by that—he’s not giving me a nickname because we know each other well. I suspect he calls all women something in that range so he doesn’t have to work so hard to remember their names.” She quirked an eyebrow and squeezed my arm again. “Ready for some introductions?”

“Sure.”

Whit

“This is my friend Ben Holder,” I said as John Smith Johnson—I know, right? John Johnson? Hence the Smith, I suppose—extended his hand to Ben.

“Pleased to meet you, Ben. How do you know Whit?” Johnson asked, looking fully at Ben in a way that said he expected him to answer.

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