Chapter 10
TEN
I rap my knuckles against the wooden door again.
This house rivals Miles’s. It’s so far beyond what I grew up with, but if I can make this happen, I’m gonna make sure my mama never has to worry again. Not that she’d ever let me buy her something this fancy.
She’d be happy with a three-bedroom in a good neighborhood, one with afternoon sun and a yard big enough for the garden she’s always wanted. I’m determined to give it to her.
When no one answers, I peek through the panes of glass flanking the door. There’s a layer of grime on the window that I have to swipe away to see through.
I can only make out the foyer. It’s grand, with two spiral staircases on either side of the open space.
There’s a large table in the middle, but it’s draped in a white sheet.
From what I can see of the living room, all the furniture there is covered, too.
Does anyone live here? It reminds me of a house readied for long-term storage.
A loud metallic slam makes me jump, heart in my throat. I turn, searching for the source.
Farther back on the lot, near the tree line that borders the left side of the property, sits a silver Airstream trailer. And I’m guessing the man striding toward me is who I’m here for: Boone Taylor.
A four-time Grammy winner whose songs have spent more than a hundred weeks at the top of the charts. And in recent years, the producer behind dozens of #1 hits.
I’m hoping he’ll help me get my first one. My manager swears it’s a done deal, that the man’s last forty songs have been chart-toppers.
He’s too far away for me to make out his features, but he’s wearing a ball cap, worn denim, and a gray Henley. He has facial hair, maybe a mustache? And as he gets closer, I catch a scowl.
“Morning!” I call out.
He answers with a grunt, then adds, “This way,” turning back in the direction he came but veering right, expecting me to follow.
I do.
All the way to a long barn with a paddock.
“Next time, follow the road around the house and down. You can park here,” he mutters.
“I can’t tell you how grateful I am for the opportunity to work with you, Mr. Taylor—”
“Please don’t call me that,” he cuts in. “Boone is fine.”
“Oh. Sure thing.” I give him a friendly smile, but he doesn’t see it, too focused on the latch.
The door clanks open against the metal siding, and Boone’s booted steps thunk against the bricked floor as he heads down the row of stalls.
The horses snort and neigh, offering a warmer welcome than their owner.
I resist the urge to stop and say hi and trail after him instead, guitar in hand and bag slung over my shoulder. Not that I expected any help.
At the end of a short back hallway, Boone unclips a ring of keys from his jeans, unlocks a door, and surprises me by holding it open. I murmur a thanks and step inside.
It looks a bit like an apartment, where you step straight into the living area. A big, comfy-looking couch, a couple of mismatched chairs, and a rug that takes up most of the floor.
“Bathroom’s through there.” He tips his head toward a black door at the far end. Then he gestures to the space beyond a wall of glass. “And clearly, that’s the studio.”
There’s a console crowded with soundboards and screens, and a booth beyond it with a mic hanging over a worn wood stool, the walls lined with sound-dampening panels.
“Nice space,” I say, though I’m a bit… underwhelmed. I mean, this is not the studio of a multimillionaire. More like something a college kid would throw together in their off-campus apartment.
Not at all what I expected. But I’m adaptable. And I’m in good company. If this place was good enough for Gabriella Rose, it’s sure as heck good enough for Summer Starling.
“It’s not.” He huffs a sound that’s not quite a scoff, but definitely not a laugh. “But it serves its purpose.”
He gestures toward the couch. I’m guessing that’s his version of telling me to sit. When he drops into one of the armchairs, I follow suit. “I’d say so. How many chart-toppers have been recorded here?” I ask, though it’s more compliment than question.
“Don’t know.” He sounds like he genuinely doesn’t.
“Twelve number ones and thirty-something top tens,” I answer my own question.
His gaze finally lifts to mine, brows pulling together. “You researched me?” He does not sound thrilled by that.
“Only what I could find on Wiki,” I admit. He strikes me as the type who can sniff out bullshit from a mile away.
He dips his chin, eyes dropping to my guitar case. “You play?”
Welp, the research doesn’t go both ways. That’s okay—I like talking about myself.
“Yeah. Self-taught. I’m no Chet Atkins, but I get by.”
He adjusts his cap, nudging the bill, but it looks exactly the same when his hand drops. A glint of gold on his finger catches my attention. Hmm, I don’t recall seeing anything about a spouse online.
“Would you mind me asking why you decided to take me on?” I try not to sound like I care what the answer is.
I have my manager’s side of the story, but Boone’s disinterest makes me doubt how accurate it is.
Kendra said he likes a project, and apparently I’m his newest one.
His people saw me on the show and told her I’d be a good fit.
She didn’t give me many details, just the timeline, the address, and when to show up.
Starting a week before Christmas felt a little strange, but I didn’t ask questions.
I was taught not to look a gift horse in the mouth, and this is just about the best gift I’ve ever received.
“Well, you already asked,” he says, not putting much feeling behind it.
I laugh, a little too high-pitched. “Guess you’re right.”
He rubs his palms down his jeans and peers up again. His eyes are a muddy green, faint lines at the corners. He could pass for Riley Green’s older brother. My research said he’s only forty, but he reads older. He looks like a man who used to smile more than he does now.
His gaze drifts past me and goes unfocused, surprising me by actually answering. “I trust Josh to set up my work.”
I have no clue who Josh is, but I’m guessing he’s part of “his people,” and I’m eternally grateful he took a chance on me.
“Thank you—”
“You already said that,” he cuts me off.
Another tight laugh slips out. “Guess I did. Sorry.”
“Don’t need to apologize.” He leans back in the chair. “I’m not much for niceties. I come here to work. Work keeps my mind busy.”
Despite his gruffness, my lips tip up. It feels like a challenge, and I’ve never been good at turning those down. I doubt he’ll appreciate the effort. But working this closely, I’m sure I’ll crack him, eventually.
Strong, silent type or not, I’ve heard his songs. There’s a heart in there somewhere.
“Got it,” I say with a sharp dip of my chin.
He stands abruptly, bends to a mini-fridge, and holds out a water bottle. I take it and twist off the cap, but I’m not all that thirsty.
He downs half of his before asking on an exhale, “You have anything written?”
I place my bottle on the coffee table and dig my notepad out of my bag. “I’ve got ideas, but I haven’t managed to write a full song… Not for a while, at least.”
Never, really. Working the bar scene in Nashville, I performed covers. Other people’s feelings, set to other people’s music. If the audience hated it, it wasn’t on me.
I hadn’t written a full song since high school. I didn’t even try to dive back in until I’d been cast on You’re The One. And even then, I was writing into a void. No one heard the songs.
Between dates and drama, there was nothing else to do but sit with myself. So I wrote. I figured, at the very least, I’d come out the other side a better songwriter. And maybe get a little exposure out of the show.
I didn’t expect Lucky Penny Records, a new but growing indie label, to sign me.
This’ll be my debut album, and it’s important that it’s mine, which means I can’t hide behind anyone else’s words. And Boone, with his reputation for developing talent and songwriting, is exactly why the label sent me here.
The man grumbles something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like “great.”
“Let me see.” He holds out his hand, and I hesitate only a second before placing the notepad in it.
He flips through the pages one after another, too fast to possibly make out all my chicken scratch. Near the back, he stops, spending longer on whatever caught his eye.
When his gaze lifts, he looks at me. Really looks. Or maybe it just feels that way, like now that he’s seen my thoughts on paper, he’s got X-ray vision. I shift in my seat.
“This has potential.” He holds up my notepad, but I’m too far away to see which page he’s on.
One page. Out of dozens.
“All this?” He fans the rest of the pages with his thumb. “It’s not enough.”
Not enough.
Not enough songs. Not enough talent. Not enough of whatever it takes to make it.
It’s the same fear that’s followed me through every dive bar, every failed audition, every time someone asked what my backup plan was.
My brows pull together, and my lips tip down. “Not enough… what exactly?”
He sighs, long and put upon, like it’s the dumbest question he’s ever heard.
Heat creeps up my neck, and that old prickly, out-of-my-depth feeling comes right along with it. I can’t help wondering if I’d be here without the show. If my talent alone isn’t enough. If Boone’s thinking it too.
He stands and motions for me to follow. “Let’s run through some vocals. Let me get a feel for your range and tone.”
He hands the notepad back to me. I wait until he turns away, boots heavy as he heads for the booth, before I look at the page he said had “potential.”
Of course it’s the one I wrote a few nights ago.
The words had come easy that night. Easier than anything in a long time.
I close the notepad and follow Boone into the booth.
Grace greets me at the door with a dramatic yowl that sounds less like I’m hungry and more like I’m mere moments from death.
“Okay, okay.” I head for her food.
While she eats, I change into something more comfortable, but when I come back downstairs, she’s nowhere to be found. Which is odd, because Tara warned me she gets clingy when Mac travels.
I find her outside Miles’s bedroom door, letting out the kind of cry that says, I’m not going to shut up until you let me in there.
“You’re ridiculous.” I tell her, but I open the door, so maybe I’m the ridiculous one for giving in to a ten-pound cat’s demands.
She walks in like she owns it. I suppose she does.
I’ve never been in here.
It’s tidier than I expected, which is saying something because I’ve seen the rest of his house. Everything is exactly where it should be. Closet door shut. Curtains even. The books on his nightstand are stacked smallest to largest.
Grace hops onto the bed and kneads the comforter before settling against his pillow.
I shouldn’t sit down, but I do, perching on the edge of the mattress, and immediately regret it because the sheets smell like him. Pine and something crisp and clean.
I will not lie down on this bed.
Grace butts her nose against my hand.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I tell her.
She blinks.
“Okay, fine.”
I lie back.
Only for a second. The bed is ridiculously comfortable.
My phone is in my hand before I’ve made a conscious decision. The cursor blinks at me in our text thread.
Me:
Gracie demanded I let her into your room
The diva herself pads up the bed and puts her paw on my arm.
“I know,” I say.
She meows.
“I said I know.”
Miles:
You can let her in
I kinda already did
Where are you?
Not in your bed
I’m groaning… Can you hear me groaning?
A burst of laughter escapes me, echoing through the room.
Miles:
Send a picture or it didn’t happen
I snap a photo of the cat tucked into the space between my arm and waist and send it to Miles.
Your pussy is very cozy in your bed
The three dots appear immediately. Then disappear. Then appear again.
Miles:
I’m going to be the bigger person and not respond to that
Probably wise
It’s taking everything I have
How was your first day in the studio?
This is my attempt to redirect
It was kind of terrible
His reply comes fast enough that I don’t have time to second-guess my honesty.
Miles:
Can I call you later?
I should say no. Or not tonight. Something that maintains the careful distance we agreed on… I say as I’m lying in his bed.
I sink a little deeper into the sheets and put the phone face down on his pillow. Gracie immediately runs her cheek along it.
“Don’t say it,” I tell her.
She purrs.
“You’re right.”
I pick up the phone again.