Proof of Innocence. Lenora Worth

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      From the hot tub in the men-only section of BodyWorks, a therapeutic spa and chiropractic clinic in downtown Nashville, Brad watched as Roxanne Klein kicked off her designer shoes. Grabbing a towel to sit on, she lowered herself to the edge of the tub, sinking her tiny feet into the water. He rolled his eyes and then lowered his head back against the towel he had positioned behind him.

      “Don’t look at me like that,” Roxanne said. “I asked the last guy I saw coming out if there was anyone else in here before going in.”

      And that made it okay? The woman was terrible. She had no sense of boundaries, although in truth, it was no doubt the reason she was so fantastic at her job. As one of Nashville’s most sought-after publicists, she could turn acts no one had ever heard of into overnight successes. As much as he hated to admit it, she was worth the astronomical fee she charged—a fee he really couldn’t afford. That’s why he had put the fate of his career in her hands a year before.

      So far she’d changed his hair color from light brown to blond and had forced him to buy colored, non-prescription contacts to hide the fact that his eyes were different colors—one a deep blue, the other a sea-foam green. She’d also changed his stage name from Monroe to Jackson and had ordered the name switch on his first CD cover before it had hit store shelves. He’d found out a week later when he’d seen it advertised in a flyer.

      “Besides, I wouldn’t have to resort to these measures if you’d stop avoiding my calls,” she said, a chill in her Southern accent.

      He felt it, despite the heat of the water. “I got your voice mails and I left you one of my own.” He stood and pushed himself out of the hot tub. There was no relaxing around Roxanne.

      Already, he felt his muscles tightening again after the two-hour session with his physical therapist. In the three years since the car accident, he had been going to therapy twice a week to build up the strength in his legs and back. Besides the countless broken bones, he’d had torn muscles and five dislocated disks in his spine.

      Yet he’d been the lucky one.

      “But you didn’t give me the answer I wanted to hear.” Roxanne kept her eyes on him as he made his way to the towels and wrapped one around his waist. Luckily, he always wore his swim trunks.

      “Well, it’s the only answer you’re going to get.” Brad raked a hand through his highlighted hair and watched her as she swung her legs over the side of the tub and stood up. With her shoulder-length blond hair and big blue eyes, he might have found her attractive if she weren’t always trying to convince him to do things he didn’t want to do—such as her latest request.

      Even in bare feet, Roxanne was almost as tall as the five-foot-eleven Brad. “Think about this rationally—it’s television. So far, we’ve done the magazine articles, the talk radio, that one-time appearance on that music reality show, but we haven’t been able to secure a prime-time spot focused on you as an artist. This is the opportunity we’ve been waiting for.”

      “Heartland Country Television is the opportunity we’ve been waiting for?” He raised an eyebrow. Roxanne could talk, and he suspected 99 percent of the time people bought everything she said. But even she had to know that calling Nashville’s local country television station prime time was a stretch.

      “Okay, so it’s not Oprah—and don’t think I haven’t tried calling her—but it’s a start. And their ‘Home for the Holidays’ episode is one of the most watched Christmas Eve programs. Apparently, people love seeing how stars spend their holidays,” she insisted, following him to the men’s change-room door.

      “You can’t come in here,” Brad said, pausing with his hand on the door.

      “Try to stop me.”

      He let out an exasperated sigh. “Roxanne, I won’t do it. ‘Home for the Holidays’... Do you even know what that means for me?” He shuddered at the thought of returning to his family home in Brookhollow, a place he hadn’t dared visit in three years. He’d tried the year before when he’d been performing an hour from his hometown, but as the town-limits sign had come into view, he’d pulled a U-turn and hightailed it out of there. Facing his past, especially this time of year, would have destroyed him.

      “Let me guess—your family’s crazy? So? Whose isn’t? Country music is about crazy mothers, alcoholic fathers, hillbilly farm life and broken-down trucks. Be the stereotype. Embrace it. Trust me, it will surprise you how fans love humble beginnings. It makes you more relatable—”

      “Forget it, Roxanne. I don’t think my family would go for it.”

      That was a lie. His mother and five older sisters would have eaten it up. Brookhollow did Christmas in a big way, with the colorfully decorated storefronts on Main Street, the twenty-foot evergreen erected in the town center, the parade and the horse-drawn sleigh rides through the park. He didn’t even want to think about his own family’s extreme holiday traditions. At Christmas, not an inch of wall space inside the home was visible beneath the garlands and wall hangings. Outside, the twelve thousand multicolored lights stapled to the roof lit up the entire neighborhood, and the large evergreen trees around the family farm were decorated with hundreds of baubles and bows. Overdone was an understatement. Tacky was more the word.

      “Let me talk to them.” She offered him a confident smile.

      “No. And besides, you’ve changed my last name, remember?” How did she expect to pull that off?

      “So, we’ll change the name on your family’s mailbox. I’m not seeing an issue here, Brad.”

      She was unbelievable. He didn’t doubt for a second she would force his entire family to assume the surname Jackson for this publicity stunt. “Can we talk about this later? I’d like to get dressed now.” He had no intention of resuming this conversation, but goose bumps were covering his bare skin now that he was out of the hot tub. Or maybe it was the icy chill he always felt around his publicist.

      “Go ahead,” she said with a shrug, daring him to force her to follow him into the change room.

      “You’re unreal, you know that?”

      “It’s called being persistent. It’s why you hired me. I’m going to take your wavering resolve and lack of a snappy retort as agreement.” She opened her shoulder bag and pulled out the contract for the television spot.

      He accepted it with reluctance and scanned the pages. “You forged my signature?” Why her behavior still shocked him, he didn’t know. By now, he knew there was no point in putting up a fight. Roxanne Klein didn’t know the meaning of failure.

      “Don’t get caught up on morality,” she said. “We needed to secure the last-minute spot before they gave it to some adorable seventeen-year-old kid who writes all his own songs and plays like eighteen instruments. I did what I had to do. I’ve also confirmed your travel arrangements to Brookville...”

      “Brookhollow.”

      “Whatever. Middle of nowhere, New Jersey...” She positioned her aqua-blue heels on the concrete floor and held his shoulder for balance as she slid her feet into them.

      “Are you going with me?”

      “It’s the holidays. Are you kidding? No.” Her eyes fell to his torso and she frowned. “Have we talked about getting a plastic СКАЧАТЬ