Page 25 of That Weekend in Paris
There’s a stretch of silence while she visibly weighs her response. “Ah, sure,” she says, stepping back.
I follow her in, closing the door behind me.The room is soft with lamplight.
She walks to the minibar, opens it, and says, “Would you like something to drink?”
“Water would be great.”
She leans in and pulls out a bottle, handing it to me.She moves to the coffee table in the center of the room and picks up a glass. “I was actually having some wine in the hope of sleeping before dawn. Do you mind?”
“No, I’m good,” I say.
“Are you sure? I don’t have to have it.”
“I’m not bothered by other people drinking. Really. Go ahead.”
She picks up her glass and takes a seat on the sofa. “Please. Sit.”
I drop onto the far end, crossing a booted foot over my knee.
“You were amazing tonight,” she says.
“The crowd was great,” I say, deferring her compliment.
“They were great because you were great,” she says, taking a sip of her red wine.
The look of appreciation on her face makes me clear my throat and lean forward, elbows on my knees. “I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to performing in front of that many people.”
“You looked so comfortable up there. Like it’s what you were born to do.”
I laugh a little. “I’m glad it looked that way. Sometimes,I still feel as if someone is going to figure out I don’t belong up there and call me on it. Report me to the imposter police or something.”
She smiles and shakes her head. “If you don’t belong up there, who would?”
I cock an eyebrow at her. “There are so many talented artists in Nashville. You know it’s true.”
“Yeah, there are,” she says. “And I get the whole imposter thing. When I got songwriter of the year, I kept expecting someone to tell me it was a joke, and they were just kidding.”
“Really?” Now, I’m surprised.
“Really.”
“I watched the CMAs that night. I thought what you said was exactly what I would have said.”
“You did?”
“Yeah. I grew up listening to country music in my foster dad’s truck. He’d be delivering sawdust to farms all over South Carolina, and I would ride with him, cranking George Strait and Alan Jackson every time they came on. We’d sing along together. He had a great voice. Better than mine, actually. I’ve thought so many times that he should have been the one who made it in country music. Not me.”
“Did he ever try?”
I shake my head. “No. He never saw himself like that. But he saw me that way.”
“Did he encourage you to come to Nashville?”
“He did. In fact, he’s the only reason I finally worked up the courage to catch a bus there when I did. The day I got off at the station, I spotted at least three other guys who looked just like me, fresh out of the country with stars in their eyes. Bad haircuts and all. I never thought I had anything on them.”
She smiles. “That night I saw you at the Bluebird, you didn’t look like you had stars in your eyes.”
“I felt like a fish out of water. And then when I met you, I thought for sure I would have a panic attack performing in front of you.”
