Jesse pulls the guitar strap from around his neck. “I’m starved.”
Mr. Logan claps once. “Lunch sounds great. Then we can resume the schedule for this afternoon. The tour of the Ryman Auditorium should be fascinating.”
Jesse sighs, grabs his cowboy hat off the piano, and puts it on.
“Mark.” Holly clucks her tongue. “I don’t know the rules of this job shadowing thing, but shouldn’t Maya be spending time with Jesse while he does his normal routine?”
Mr. Logan straightens his jacket and tie. “How about Mere Bulles for lunch, then? It’s fabulous. I got us a reservation.”
“Sounds nice,” I say, pretending I know what Mere Bulles is, but Holly shakes her head.
“Mark, how about you and I go to lunch together, and we’ll leave the kids alone to get to know each other. Okay?”
“But,” Mr. Logan blurts, and Holly gives him a monumental glare, so he quickly adds, “I think it would be great if you two went to lunch.”
“Really?” Jesse asks, looking up.
“I’ll send Gina and Tracy to handle any press who follow you and to deal with the restaurant. We’ll meet up after lunch.” Mr. Logan pats Jesse’s shoulder. “You okay with this?” he asks quietly.
Jesse glances over at me. “Yeah. She’s cool.”
Mr. Logan goes from looking surprised to happy in record time. “Good. I’ll have a car take you—”
Before he can finish his sentence about our ride, Jesse grabs my elbow and yanks me out of the studio and into the parking lot, where we jump on his bike and take off.
I Knew You Were Trouble
“We can’t go to lunch here.”
“Why not?” Jesse asks. “They’ve got the best steak this side of the Mississippi.”
“I, uh, can’t—” I look through the Mere Bulles window at the glittering chandelier and tables topped with white linen and lush flowers. “I don’t make all that much down at Caldwell’s.”
“I’ll spot you.”
“But then you’ll probably think I want a free lunch in addition to that record deal I’m so desperate for.” Several older women with very structured gray hair are congregating near us on the sidewalk, trying to get a closer look at Jesse.
“Let’s just go to Chipotle,” I urge him.
“I know you’re not trying to get a free lunch. And we can’t go to Chipotle without my security detail.” He keeps a close watch on the old ladies as if they are going to jump him. “There was a burrito incident.”
“A burrito incident.”
“Yeah.”
“Well, we still can’t go here. We’re not…dressed appropriately.”
He eyes my short black dress. “You look fine.”
“I wasn’t talking about me. Your jeans look like Swiss cheese.”
Jesse looks insulted. “There’s nothing wrong with my jeans.”
“Your mother would not be happy if she saw you going to lunch in those clothes.”
“We’re not talking about her—” He stops midsentence and strides down the busy Nashville street. “C’mon. Let’s get some barbeque instead.”
My black skirt bounces as I hustle to catch up with him. “What about your publicists? Aren’t they meeting us here?”
“Pfft.” He waves a hand, and a couple of minutes later, I find myself at a restaurant called Finger Licking Good. It’s not as fancy as Mere Bulles, but it’s still nicer than what I’m used to. It’s filled with well-dressed businesspeople who must love their barbeque.
Jesse opens the door, tipping his hat like a gentleman, and we go up to the empty host stand.
“Cover me,” he says. He darts behind the stand and drags his finger across the reservation book.
“What are you doing?” I whisper-yell, keeping an eye out for the host.
“Ever seen Ferris Bueller’s Day Off?”
“No.”
“Watch and learn.”
When the hostess walks up, her eyes trail over Jesse’s dusty red boots, jeans, and ratty white T-shirt up to his cowboy hat. She pauses at his freckled face.
“Oh.” Her hands fly to smooth and fluff her hair.
“We have a reservation for two,” Jesse says. “Last name’s Smith.”
“Smith?” She raises an eyebrow.
“Yes, Smith,” Jesse repeats, and I have to bite down on my cheek to keep from laughing.
“Tommy Smith? The owner of the Tennessee Titans?”