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?”
Jesse points a finger at her. “Yes, that’s the one. I’m Tommy Smith.”
“You had such a tough loss against the Jets last Sunday,” I say. I only know the Titans lost because my brother and Jordan whined about it for hours.
“Don’t you worry, darlin’. We’re gonna bury the Dolphins this weekend.”
The hostess raises her eyebrows at me, giving me a once-over and turning her nose up at my outfit. She grabs two menus and leads us to a table by a window overlooking the Cumberland River. The best seat in the house, just like at the concert last week. Getting the best seat seems to happen a lot when Jesse Scott is involved.
The hostess hands us our menus, winks at Jesse, and says, “Enjoy your lunch, Mr. Sco—I mean, Smith.”
“Thank you,” we say, and I dissolve into giggles. Jesse gives me his half-cocked smirk, the one on his most recent album cover.
I place a red and white picnic-patterned napkin in my lap. The tablecloth is made of paper, and a cup of crayons sits on the table.
“You and the owner of the Titans eat at a restaurant where you can draw on the table?” I ask.
“Wait till you try the brisket.”
The smell is definitely making my mouth water.
Jesse
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?”
Jesse points a finger at her. “Yes, that’s the one. I’m Tommy Smith.”
“You had such a tough loss against the Jets last Sunday,” I say. I only know the Titans lost because my brother and Jordan whined about it for hours.
“Don’t you worry, darlin’. We’re gonna bury the Dolphins this weekend.”
The hostess raises her eyebrows at me, giving me a once-over and turning her nose up at my outfit. She grabs two menus and leads us to a table by a window overlooking the Cumberland River. The best seat in the house, just like at the concert last week. Getting the best seat seems to happen a lot when Jesse Scott is involved.
The hostess hands us our menus, winks at Jesse, and says, “Enjoy your lunch, Mr. Sco—I mean, Smith.”
“Thank you,” we say, and I dissolve into giggles. Jesse gives me his half-cocked smirk, the one on his most recent album cover.
I place a red and white picnic-patterned napkin in my lap. The tablecloth is made of paper, and a cup of crayons sits on the table.
“You and the owner of the Titans eat at a restaurant where you can draw on the table?” I ask.
“Wait till you try the brisket.”
The smell is definitely making my mouth water.
Jesse
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