Chapter 6
“Can we stop to eat? I’m fading fast over here.” I tend to zone in when I’m recording, completely losing track of time. It’s not unusual for me to come in bright and early only to look up and see the sun setting.
“Yeah, sure. I’ll grab something too while you take a break.” He squats to put his guitar in its case.
I absolutely should not do what I’m about to do. Every instinct is screaming, Abort mission. Do not pass go, do not collect $200 . But apparently my mouth has a mind of its own.
“Wanna grab lunch together?” The words spill out fast like they’re afraid I’ll pull them back in if they don’t scurry out. “Since this is your first time here, I can take you to my favorite lunch spot.” My voice sounds a lot more confident than I’m feeling. I’m well aware there's a line of professionalism that I can’t cross, but I’m having an awfully hard time remembering exactly where that line is.
His hands stall right as he’s closing the latches on his guitar case. When he looks up at me, his expression has turned soft. Like perhaps my lunch invite means more to him than I realize.
“Yeah, I’d like that, a lot. Thanks.”
Once we’ve packed everything up, we head upstairs, Austin following close behind me. Without thinking, I lead him through the exit that takes us past my office. He stops to study the pictures on the wall, his eyes lingering on each one. His lips move as he silently reads the words under each photo. There are pictures of everyone who has owned the studio: my granddad, my dad, and, lastly, my picture.
Under it, a small plaque reads:
Penny Miller
Owner 2022 - Present
With my head down I pretend to shuffle papers on my desk, but I can feel his eyes on me.
“Penny?”
“Hmm?” I hum, still refusing to look up, though I can’t stop the small grin tugging at the corners of my mouth.
“Did you forget to mention something?”
“Like what?” I keep my gaze fixed firmly on the papers in front of me.
“Like, maybe that you’re the owner?” He gestures pointedly at the pictures hanging on the wall.
I look up, my eyes meeting his. “It’s nothing, really. Don’t make this a thing, please. It kind of fell into my lap, and I did what I had to do. I’m literally a nepo baby.” I try to brush it off, but the guilt lingers—the weight of knowing I got this position, one I’m not even sure I want, simply because I inherited it, not because I earned it.
He breathes out a short laugh, repeating my words “nepo baby” under his breath, but his amusement quickly fades, his tone shifting. “But it is something. It’s rare to have a woman-owned studio. You know that, right?”
“Mm-hmm,” I hum. Okay, earlier he was impressed, not annoyed, to be working with a woman. Good to know.
“I’ll go grab my keys,” I say, desperately needing a subject change.
After I’ve locked up, I head to grab my car and quickly return to where he’s waiting in my gravel parking lot.
“I don’t know if you know this, but your back tire is the spare,” he says, folding his tall frame into my Honda Civic.
Placing a hand over my heart I mock gasp. “What? It’s the spare? I would’ve never known without a big, strong man pointing it out.” He snorts at the dramatic flutter of my eyelashes but waits for me to continue. “Yes, I’m aware.” I sigh. “I’ll get to it.” Eventually , I think to myself. I am on a minuscule tight budget trying to get the studio bills back on track, and who is pricing tires these days, anyway? Daddy Warbucks? Plus, I run out of hours in my day buried under all I’m juggling.
“How long have you been driving on it?” He cocks one eyebrow at me.
“Two months?” My words squeak out, sounding more like a question. I scrunch my nose bracing for his reaction.
He stares at me, mouth open and blinking rapidly. “Two months? You do realize spare tires are only meant to be temporary, right? Like, a couple of weeks—max.”
“This is temporary! It’s temporarily on there until I get a new one!” I’m fully aware of how utterly ridiculous that explanation sounds.
“Nope, I’m driving. C’mon.” He’s shaking his head as he climbs from my car and heads to the van.
I give in easily and climb out too. She really is on her last leg. Dad bought her for me on my eighteenth birthday, and now, fourteen years later, she needs an extra dose of TLC.
Once I’m buckled in his van, I glance around, taking in his makeshift living quarters. Sleeping in here must have been miserable for him. A masculine scent hits me and I inhale deeply.
“Where to?” Austin asks as he reverses out of the parking lot. Even though the van has a reverse camera, he still throws his arm over the back of my headrest, glancing behind us as he backs onto the road. When he pulls his arm back, his fingers lightly brush against my shoulder, and a zing of electricity shoots up my spine.
“Let’s go to my friend Jackson’s diner. He has the best French fries. Head thataway.” I point toward Main Street and he pulls out onto the road.
Singing River is small enough that we could’ve walked, but it’s July in Alabama, and today is not the day to test the limits of my all-natural deodorant. Besides, despite jumping on that stage last night, I’m guessing Austin wants to lie low for now.
“It’s only fair I warn you. Jackson is a huge fan of yours.”
His eyes jump to mine, shooting me an accusatory look. He grabs his ball cap from the dashboard, and I instantly feel bad.
“You have nothing to worry about!” I quickly add. “He’s not gonna out you for being here or anything. This town isn’t like that. But he might gaze at you longingly with stars in his eyes. And it’s late enough in the afternoon that odds are nobody will be there but us. That’s his diner right over there.” I point toward Jackson’s building, and Austin pulls into the empty parking lot, a relieved expression crossing his face.
“You sure it’s okay if I’m out in public like this? I’m trying to keep a low profile.”
“Last night was you trying to keep a low profile?” I shoot him a dubious look, arching an eyebrow.
“I was an idiot. Yes, I’m trying to keep a low profile.”
“Well, your secret is safe. We’re used to it here,” I explain, shrugging up one shoulder. “We have an unspoken agreement in our town: if someone famous comes to record, we don’t do anything to draw attention to them. You’re not the first person with a story, and we’re good people here in Singing River.”
“Yeah, I’m starting to realize that,” he replies, glancing over at me with one side of his mouth hitched up.
“There’s this old story from back in the sixties that people like to tell. Mick Jagger loved coming here to record because people left him alone. He could go shopping without anyone batting an eye, except for one old woman who told him to cut his hair.” I shake my head, grinning. “All that to say, your location is safe here. I promise.”
“Imagine being the old lady who later finds out she told Mick Jagger to cut his hair.” Austin chuckles, low and rumbly, and I can practically feel it beneath my skin.
As we exit the van, I glance over and notice his hat is low over his eyes despite my reassurances. He opens the door to the diner for me, his hand gently resting on the small of my back as he guides me inside. We’re immediately met with raucous hoots and hollers from Jackson. He and I grew up together, and I’m a regular here since I hardly ever cook.
When we were kids, he was short, pimple-faced, and on the pudgy side—which made him an easy target for bullies. I’d come out swinging for him every time. But joke’s on everyone because Jackson’s turned into a total hottie. It’s like he hit his growth spurt late. He shot up several inches after high school, shedding the baby fat in the process. He grew into himself, and now he has the guys lining up. But he’s so busy with the diner that he hardly has time to date.
“Penny girl!” Jackson calls out, heading our way to wrap me up into a tight hug, lifting me off the ground. He’s ridiculous, acting like it’s been months since we last saw each other, even though he saw me the other night. After a few seconds of me laughing and trying to wiggle free, he sets me down, and we both turn to Austin.
All the color drains from Jackson’s face, and I shoot him a look, silently willing him to get it together. Jackson jokes that when he settles down, his man will have the same wavy hair poking out from under Austin’s ball cap. The look I’m giving him is practically screaming at him to remain calm.
He blinks a few times, slack-jawed, until I quickly kick his shoe with mine, snapping him out of his stupor. “Nice to meet you. I’m Jackson—Penny girl’s brother from another mother,” he says, extending his hand. Austin returns the handshake, and if it weren’t for the health inspections his diner regularly undergoes, I’m pretty sure Jackson would never wash that hand again.
We make our way over to the counter and climb onto the stools. Austin studies the menu for a few seconds and we place our order.
“How are you liking Singing River so far?” I ask after our sodas arrive.
“Honestly? Not what I expected—in a good way.” He glances around at all the rainbow flags around us, and I know what he means. People tend to have a set of preconceived ideas about Alabama, but we’re full of surprises. For instance, I don’t know a single person married to their cousin, and we all wear shoes! But, to be fair, I do know a girl who once took her baby to a bar, so there’s that.
Jackson shows up shortly with our food, and he grabs a stool to sit with us while we eat. He and Austin do most of the talking while I quietly observe. Jackson asks question after question about celebrity life, and Austin answers them like he doesn’t mind the small talk.
“What’s the craziest thing a fan has thrown on the stage?” Jackson asks.
Austin stops to consider the question, then with an eye roll, he says, “Mostly bras and panties. Someone once threw a dime bag of weed onto the stage, but I have a feeling that was on accident. They were probably missing it later. Fans are crazy sometimes,” he adds. “It gets old fast.”
We talk for a while longer, and finally Jackson blurts out that he’s a huge fan. I knew he couldn’t hold it in for much longer. He unlocks his phone, opens Spotify, and starts playing Austin’s newest song. But Austin stops him, asking if he can hook his own phone up to the speaker instead.
He scrolls for a few seconds, then hits play. A raw recording, one that I’m pretty sure he did with his GarageBand app, streams through the speakers. It’s not one he played today, and honestly, it’s unlike anything I’ve ever heard from him before. It’s absolutely amazing.
This is what I get to work with for the next two weeks. A thrill of excitement rushes through me at the thought.
The three of us continue chatting, and before we know it, people begin to trickle in. A quick glance at my phone tells me close to two hours have passed. We decide it’s time to head out before the diner gets even more packed.
Jackson pulls me into another tight hug, leaning down to whisper in my ear, “If you don’t claim him, I will.”
My eyes practically roll into the back of my head at his nonsense. “There will be absolutely no claiming of anyone,” I whisper-hiss back, pressing a quick peck to his cheek. In my normal voice, I say, “Bye, hon! See you soon.”
Austin shakes his hand again, and we head toward the van to drive back to the studio.
“I’m—” I begin, right as he starts to speak.
We both laugh awkwardly, and he dips his head. “You go first.”
“I’m really excited about your album. I’ve got a great feeling about it.”
“Yeah?” His eyes cut in my direction. “I mean, I think they’re solid songs, but Doug at my label acts like they won’t sell. They’re always pushing country pop on me, saying that’s what’s popular now. That’s one of the reasons I’m recording these songs here and not with them.”
“They’re just trying to use you as their puppet. Surely you know that. Plus, maybe this will be the album that makes you a household name and lands you on the charts,” I tease.
Austin turns to me, his face splitting into a full, genuine smile, and he shocks the hell out of me with an actual laugh. The sound is rich like my nana’s chocolate pie, like something I might want to indulge in, but would regret later on. And if I thought all those half smiles and low chuckles were something, this full smile that lights up his whole face is devastating. I’m immediately doing all kinds of mental gymnastics thinking up ways to see it again.
“You know…this might be the album that does it.” He gives me a wink, and that's when I spot the dimple hidden beneath his facial hair. My heart picks up speed to a gallop and a spark twinges in my belly at the sight of it.
When we pull into my driveway, I glance over at my garage and back at him, blowing out a raspberry that causes my hair to fan up from my forehead. While weighing the pros and cons of my idea, I chew the skin on the edge of my ragged thumbnail.
“There’s a room over my garage that nobody’s using. I can’t in good conscience let you sleep in a van when I’ve got a perfectly good place you could stay. You’re welcome to it the whole time you’re here, and I swear it won’t be weird. People use it all the time.” My word vomit comes out all in one breath.
He arches one eyebrow, an incredulous expression crossing his face. “You couldn’t have led with that this morning when you realized I was sleeping in this thing?”
Well, damn. He’s got me there. “I wasn’t sure it was a good idea. I mean, you’re you, and there was—there was that thing last night and…” My words trail off, and one side of his mouth hitches up.
“What thing last night?” he asks, his question a challenge. He knows damn well what I’m talking about.
My throat works on a swallow, but I refuse to break eye contact. “You know what I’m talking about.”
He puts the van in park and turns to face me fully. This close I can see that his eyes have turned a deep azure. “You mean that thing where I’d just seen the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on and I knew I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t at least try to see her again, even if she was calling me an asshole?”
Gulp. Shut this down right now, Penny Miller. My cheeks are flaming hot and I’m pretty sure my body temperature has risen ten degrees.
I shake my head, a tiny smile threatening to betray me. “That might work on other women, but not me.” It’s a bald-faced lie, and he knows it. “Grab your stuff and come on.”
That damn rumbling laugh follows me as I unbuckle and climb from the van. Once he’s grabbed his luggage and guitar, I lead the way up the wooden stairs and into the apartment. He sets his stuff down and turns to me expectantly. I might as well go ahead and lay down the rules now.
“Listen, I want you to be comfortable here. Treat it like it’s your own home. There is one rule I need to ask of you, though.” I pause, making sure I have his attention before continuing. “I occasionally have a drink or two. It’s no big deal; we’re both adults here. But since we’ve established that I know who you are, no binge drinking up here. Please. I’m not interested in babysitting anyone who’s blacked out drunk. I’ve worked hard to fix this place up and there’s no extra money in my budget to fix or replace anything you might break. I don’t have the time or energy for that.”
I’m thinking about an article I read where he caused some pretty expensive damage to a hotel room a few weeks ago. My words come out harsher than I intend, but it’s important to be straight with him from the get-go.
“Here in Singing River, we avoid the tabloids.”
Austin has the good sense to look embarrassed, or maybe it’s genuine shame. “I swear to you that won’t happen. Like I said, I’m trying damn hard to give all that up. And it's great in here.” He gestures around the room. “How much do you charge?”
“What about $500 a week? It’ll be more private than a hotel room,” I offer after taking a few seconds to think over a fair price.
“$1000 a week, but that includes room and board—with a little twist.” His expression turns mischievous.
“What kind of twist are we talking about here?” I ask, allowing my curiosity to show.
“Lemme cook for you.”
I stand there, blinking at him. Of all the things I thought he might say, cooking for me was not one of them. I can’t even picture him doing something as domestic as cooking. “Do you even know how to cook? Will we be eating microwave meals and frozen pizzas?”
“Trust me Penny, I know my way around the kitchen,” he says, tossing me another wink and my stomach does a giant swoosh.
I’m not sure a wink has ever elicited a feeling like that from me. Get it together , I mentally scold myself, trying to settle the butterflies threatening to take flight in my belly.
“Don’t make me regret this. And also, don’t go getting any ideas. If you sleep in your van, it’ll probably show in your music cause I’m sure it’ll make you cranky. That’s all this is.”
“Hey, who chased who down in the parking lot last night?” he teases, raising his hands in mock surrender.
“I did not chase you!” I have to roll my lips in to keep from laughing. “Now, shake my hand and tell me this is a business agreement that might include cooking.”
His large, warm hand completely engulfs mine, guitar calluses brushing against my thumb, and I can’t help but wonder how those calluses would feel against the most sensitive parts of me. Warmth spreads straight to my core at the thought.
“Penny, darlin’. This is just business…for now.”
Well, shit. I certainly didn’t put this on my summer bingo card.