Page 37 of Beneath a Tennessee Sky

We make it back to my building. The doorman jumps out to open the door for us. I lead her through the lobby. The elevator ride up is torture. Jinnie stands close enough that our arms brush with every movement.

The doors open directly into the penthouse. Jinnie’s breath catches as she steps into the living room, her gaze sweeping over the massive space.

“Holy shit, Jack,” she whispers.

I drop her bag by the couch. “It’s kinda ridiculous, right?”

She drifts to the windows, pressing her palms against the glass. “It’s a lot.”

There’s something in her voice I can’t place. I move behind her, close but not touching. “You hate it.”

“No!” She turns quickly, her back against the window now. “It’s amazing. It’s just...” Her fingers pluck at my t-shirt. “Not really you, is it?”

The truth hits like a punch. This place—the sleek furniture, the abstract art the decorator picked out, the minibar stocked with liquor I don’t even drink—it’s a set. A stage.

I catch her hand, bringing it to my lips. “You’re the first real thing that’s been in here.”

Her eyes soften.

Then my stomach growls, loud enough to echo. “Sorry.” I cringe. “I’ve been going since five o’clock this morning and only managed to get a protein smoothie this morning. I wanted to make sure I had the whole night with you. I made reservations.”

“Reservations?” she says with a smile.

I realize I haven’t kissed her. I quickly remedy the situation. She leans in to me.

“Maybe I’m not so hungry,” I murmur against her lips.

She smiles. “You need to eat. You’ve lost weight.”

“Because I never have time to eat.”

“Well, I’m not about to let you collapse on my watch. Let’s go.”

The restaurant is all low lighting and white tablecloths, the kind of place where the menus don’t have prices.

“I should’ve warned you,” I murmur across the table. “This place is—”

“Fancy as hell?” She grins. “Yeah, I got that when the hostess looked at my shoes like I had stepped in poop.”

“Your shoes are great.”

“They’re from Target, Jack.”

“So?” I reach across the table, capturing her hand. “Best damn shoes in here.”

The waiter arrives with our appetizers—some tiny, artfully arranged thing involving tuna and foam. Jinnie pokes at it suspiciously.

“We can leave. There’s a Waffle House down the street.”

She shakes her head, spearing a bite with determination. “Nope. When in Rome.”

We make it through three courses before the whispering starts. A group of girls at the next table keep glancing over, their phones subtly angled in our direction.

Jinnie notices immediately. “Fans?”

I grimace. “Probably.”

She studies me for a long moment. “Does that happen a lot now?”