Page 28 of Heartbreaker

If I think of him at all.

I grab my purse and head into the hallway, where my security detail is waiting to escort me down to the car that will take me to the interview I’m doing with ‘Modern Country Music’ magazine.

“Good morning.” My publicist, Farrah Henley, is waiting in the car. “Are you ready? They sent over a list of questions but I don’t think you need to look at them. Really basic stuff. They want to know how you felt when you won, stuff like that.”

“Okay, great.” I nod, pulling out my cell phone, and checking my texts. I’d originally planned to head back to Nashville after the awards show, but it’s been one thing after another over the last two weeks. Interviews, a morning show appearance, and now they want me to sing the national anthem at the SoCal Vipers’ game tomorrow night.ThenI can go home.

Home.

The word has a strange connotation these days.

Is it a home now that it’s so empty?

Mom and Grandma Louise are both gone. Mom died when I was in middle school and Grandma Louise just eighteen months ago.

And now I’m alone.

I have cousins and friends, a handful of staff that run the farm, and of course, my career, but itfeelslike I’m alone. Except for those stolen hours with Royal-pain-in-the-butt.

Nope. Not going there. Not today.

We arrive at the meeting place—a tall building with glass windows that goes up higher than I can see from this angle. I like how majestic it is. It somehow makes me feel safe, like I can hide within it and never see anyone unless I want to. Maybe I’ll sell my farm and buy a condo in a really tall building like this.

Yeah, right.

I do a mental head shake and step out of the limo.

“Good morning! I’m Becky. I’ll be escorting you up to see Ms. Bancroft.”

“Thank you,” I murmur politely.

“Is there sparkling water?” Farrah asks her. “I’m parched. It’s on Ms. Cantrell’s list.”

“Of course.” Becky nods, chattering with Farrah as we get on the elevator.

I tune them out because I’m mentally drained. It’s been a long couple of weeks. My phone has been ringing nonstop since the award show. Invitations, questions, requests…people always want something from me. I began to notice it in the last year, but it’s ramped up to a thousand since I won Song of the Year. I really hate saying no, but I’m already spread a little thin. It’s hard to be in twenty places at once,andwork on my music,andthink about the next album,andplay gigs.

“Jade. Hello. I’m Liza Bancroft.”

“Nice to meet you, Liza.” I smile at the journalist because she looks a lot like my mama, with big blond hair and a little too much blue eyeshadow. I’m momentarily lost in a memory of my mom teaching me how to do my makeup, not long before the cancer made it so she couldn’t do much of anything, and it’s times like this I miss her so much it’s hard to breathe.

“If it’s okay with you,” Liza says, “we can settle in and have a casual conversation. Like two girlfriends.”

I’m immediately on alert, all warm fuzzies gone, replaced with wariness. Whenever a journalist says something like that, it means she’s going to get serious with the questions even though Farrah said they were all pretty basic.

“I dolovehaving girlfriends,” I say, in my heaviest southern drawl. People automatically equate that accent with both stupidity and naivete; she’s about to find out otherwise.

She fidgets for a moment and then takes out her phone, pushing some buttons. She’s recording us, obviously, and I’m starting to feel uneasy. I’ve always been something of an empath, and I can usually tell what someone is thinking.

Except Royal-pain-in-the-butt.

He blindsided me by leaving.

Knock it off,I chide myself.Stop thinking about him.

“So you’re coming off an amazing win for Song of the Year,” Liza says, jumping right in. “How did that feel?”

“Amazing,” I reply. “I honestly wasn’t expecting it. When they said my name, it took a second to register.”

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