Chapter 63
SIXTY-THREE
HARRIET
As much as I wanted to dress up for the occasion, being almost thirty-eight weeks demanded comfy pants and a loose top, and thanks to the heatwave we’re experiencing, I don’t regret my decision.
I also don’t bat an eyelid when we enter the conference room and all three men in suits stare at me in surprise.
Third trimester equals zero fucks to give.
Nashville skyline dazzles under the clear blue sky through the floor to ceiling windows. Golden records decorate the walls, and a man sits in the corner, laptop at the ready to take minutes, I presume.
I knew Peter wouldn’t be here, though it would’ve been fun to watch him squirm in his seat as Steven tears him a new one. In the words of my lawyer, “We’ve got this.” Our case is airtight, and it’s crystal clear Peter wrongfully used my songs and god knows how many others.
Tate also isn’t here, which isn’t surprising. He’s probably too busy, or they didn’t deem his attendance necessary. I wonder if he knows I’m the poor artist his record label pilfered from.
“Harriet, this is Connor Vance, CEO of Vance Records.” Steven introduces me to a man with thick black hair.
“Miss Thomas. Thank you for coming in. Please, take a seat.” His southern accent is comforting, but it could be a trap, so I nod politely and accept the chair Steven pulls out for me.
It takes me longer than necessary to sit, thanks to the tightening in my stomach, and yes, I grunt when my butt hits the cushioned seat.
“Mr. Vance. Nice to meet you.”
Steven gestures to the other two gentlemen. “Owen Purcell, Vance Records’ legal advisor, and Howard Andrews, the label manager, here on behalf of Mr. Brooks and representative of the label.”
I’m a guppy in a giant fishbowl filled with big wigs who probably make my daily salary in an hour. They all seem friendly enough, and while Steven holds all confidence we’ll settle today and there’ll be no need to go to court, I’m not fooled just yet.
“Shall we begin?” Steven says while unbuttoning his jacket and gesturing for the other men to sit. It’s impressive. These aren’t his offices, yet he owns the room with poise.
Owen, their lawyer, begins. “We appreciate you coming here today, Miss Thomas. As you’re aware, this meeting is voluntary, and I’m sure you and your legal representative wish to see this resolved quickly and efficiently, considering your condition.”
Charming way of saying I’m a beached whale.
“My client would appreciate no further unnecessary stress from this situation.” Steven points at the stack of papers sitting on the shiny mahogany conference table. “Provided today’s meeting goes accordingly.”
The three men exchange looks, silently communicating.
I hold my breath, trying to appear cool, calm, and collected.
A drop of dread sinks in my stomach. They’re going to challenge my claim as rightsowner. It was stupid to think I could go up against such a prestigious label, regarding their golden child, no less.
“We’re confident we can resolve the matter today,” Owen says and opens a folder.
“We don’t contest Miss Thomas’s claim to being the rightful copyright owner of Tate Brooks’s recent single, Left Lonely.
We would also like to reiterate that this does not reflect the ethos of Vance Records, and we have dismissed the individual responsible, with immediate effect. ”
I exhale, fingers twisting in my lap as I fight to contain my whoop. If learning Peter got his slimy ass handed to him is the only positive news today, then it’ll be music to my ears.
My stomach chooses that moment to tighten further, squeezing a sharp hiss from my lips.
All eyes dart my way.
I wave them off. “I’m good. Please, continue.”
Steven leans in. “We can take a break.”
“No. No.” After thirty or so seconds, the pressure eases off. I’ve been experiencing Braxton-Hicks for the last few weeks, though the timing today could be better.
Seemingly convinced, Steven returns his attention to the rest of the table. “This is promising, but what about compensation? Let’s not pretend Tate Brooks isn’t a global sensation or rumored for a Grammy nomination, all of which could be linked to Miss Thomas song.”
I could really kiss him.
“That was our next item.” Owen loosens his tie, and dare I say, he looks nervous.
“The usual process is to purchase the rights to the song, which we are willing to do. There is a second proposal on the table, one I would like to mention is not customary. However, Mr. Brooks insisted once he was made aware Miss Thomas was involved.”
My eyes bulge. “Tate knows it’s me?”
Howard clears his throat, speaking for the first time since we entered the room. “He is, putting it mildly, furious. Had we have known your relationship with him from the beginning—”
“My client’s relationship with Mr. Brooks is irrelevant, considering they’ve had zero contact in almost a year,” Steven cuts in.
Talia is going to lose her shit if she learns this tidbit. Which is why I will not be telling her. In her words, the less she knows, the better.
“And what is it your client is insisting?” Steven presses.
Everyone turns to Owen. “If Miss Thomas doesn’t wish to sell the rights, Mr. Brooks is open to pulling the entire album, halting his tour, and putting out a statement explaining the situation. As you can imagine, this would be a PR nightmare, and we—”
Steven holds up a hand. “I hope you’re not trying to sway my client’s decision?”
Owen reddens. “Not at all.”
“Once we have a clear idea of the offer, I’ll ask for the room so we can discuss this privately.”
“Certainly.” Owen picks up his pen, draws a line across the paper before closing the folder, and slides it across to us. “I think you’ll find our offer substantial and considers any damages, including the inconvenience and stress experienced.”
I’m reeling from the news as the men exit, leaving Steven and me alone. We share a look.
“Is this bad?” I whisper.
Steven shakes his head. “It’s good. Really good. You’ve got options. Now…” He pushes the folder in front of me. “Let’s see what they’re offering and don’t feel pressured to make a decision today.”
I toy with the edge of the paper. “I really don’t want this getting messy. I’ll be happy with a few bucks and to call it a day.”
Going public with this is the last thing I want. Not only for me, but for Talia. If news got out, the press would come digging around Iris Meadows, and she’s worked hard to keep herself off their radar ever since Tate blew up.
Tate’s proposal is more than generous, and something tells me it has more to do with his wife than me.
“I understand, but don’t sell yourself short, Harriet. They fucked up, and from the sounds of it, Tate is in your corner.”
With zero expectations, I flip open the folder and scan the pages.
I slam my hand on the table and snort.
Then, my laugh turns maniacal until I’m clutching my side, trying to stop my cackle from jostling the baby too much.
Steven is right to appear wary. I’ve lost my fucking mind and have started hallucinating. He peers over, and I ready myself for him to throw ice cold water over me, because the offer I’m reading cannot be right.
His mouth drops open. “They aren’t messing around.”
I freeze. “This is real?”
“This”—he taps the seven-figure value—“is astronomical. And look at the royalties.”
My gaze lowers to more numbers. I’m lightheaded and shut my eyes as the room spins.
Steven, being the sane one, laughs lightly. “Do you need time to consider?”
“What I need is to lie down.” I collapse into the chair. “This type of money is life changing.”
“It is. And you deserve the recognition. It’s a great song, Harriet.”
It’s easy to allow my mind to float up to the stars as I imagine what this money could do. I could buy a house, pay off any debt and upcoming hospital bills, not have to rush back to work after the baby arrives.
Jesus, I could build my own recording studio if I wanted.
Warren’s been quietly stewing over his decision to step down as a firefighter, but with this in the cards, he can stop worrying.
“From the glazed look in your eyes, I take it you’ve made your decision?” Steven asks.
I cover my face with my hands, laughing again. “Call them in before I lose my shit.”
We dot the i’s and cross the t’s. There are no fireworks or popping of champagne bottles. That’s all going on in my head as I vibrate in my seat while we sign the settlement agreement.
And that’s it.
We shake hands, and they leave us to it.
The second the door closes, I pull Steven into a hug. He goes rigid against me before awkwardly patting me on the back.
“Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.” I’m almost sobbing into his pristine suit jacket, and I pull away before I cover him with snot.
“It’s my pleasure, Harriet. There’ll be some details to finalize, but I can handle it from here. You can enjoy the rest of your pregnancy, and I’ll touch base with Talia if I need your input.”
There’s no controlling my wild grin. My cheeks hurt, and I massage them when there’s a knock on the door.
His Stetson appears first.
“Tate, you can’t go in there,” a voice calls. He ignores them, steps into the room, and promptly flips the lock on the door.
When he spots me, a shy smile pulls at his lips as he dips the edge of his hat. “Hey, stranger.”
“Tate,” I hiss. “What are you doing here?”
I’m torn over how to react. Tate is a huge country music star, worth millions, and I’ve just threatened his record label with a lawsuit. Most would cower at the sight of him, but I know Tate. He’s kind, funny, and for most of his life, he’s loved my best friend ferociously.
“I’m misbehavin’.” He throws me a cocky grin before his eyes lower to my belly. “You’re pregnant?”
I rub my bump, ignoring another spell of tightening. “Guilty.”
A sadness passes over his face. “Well, it suits you. Congratulations.”
“Thank you.” We stand rigidly across from each other. “Seriously though, are you allowed to be in here?”
He smirks. “No ma’am, but when has that ever stopped me? I wanted to see you and make sure the lawyers didn’t screw you over.”
I forgot Steven was here until he interjects. “Um, I understand you’re friends, but you really shouldn’t be discussing the agreement.”
Tate raises his hands. “Understood. I’ll refrain from any legal talk if you could give us the room for a second?”
Steven cuts me a glance.
“It’s fine. I’ll meet you outside.”
When we’re alone, Tate’s buoyant veneer slips away. He whips off his hat and clutches it to his chest. “Okay, I lied, but I needed to say how fucking sorry I am.”
“Tate, it really—”
“I never trusted Peter. He gave half the women here the ick, and something about him never sat right with me when they hired him.” He paces across the carpet, hands bouncing in front of him as he rambles. This is the Tate I know. “Had I known it was your song, I would’ve—”
“Tate!” I snatch him by the arm. He pauses, peering down at me. “This is not your fault. Peter was and is a massive prick.”
The tension in his shoulders loosens, and he slumps in relief. I can picture how badly he’s been tearing himself up over this.
“How is she?” he whispers.
And there it is.
Tate was never going to let the opportunity pass to ask about Talia. His voice lacks all emotion now, and he completely deflates from my lack of response.
“Give me something, Harry. Please.” He bends the edges of his hat anxiously. “I miss her something fierce.”
His reaction is…odd. This doesn’t sound like the plea of a man ready to sign divorce papers anytime soon.
The urge to hug him is powerful. “You know I can’t, Tate. I’m sorry.”
He nods slowly and places his hat back on his head, brim lowered to hide the sorrow slashing across his face.
My heart cracks.
Then, something sharp twinges in my back.
I hiss loudly and slap a hand to my side. “Ow, fuck.”
Tate’s eyes widen as he steadies me with a gentle hand on my forearm. “You okay?”
“Mm-hm.” I waddle over to a chair. “I just need to sit. These Braxton-Hicks are a real bitch today.”
“Let me get you some water.” He rushes from the room, clearly flustered and oblivious to the fresh bottles sitting on the table.
He must trek to the Alps to find water. In the time he’s gone, I keep track of the pain, counting the minutes. What I remember about Braxton-Hicks is that they’re irregular.
These pains are very regular.
When he returns, another intense pain flares across my abdomen, and realization dawns.
“Ohhhh, you son of a—” I hunch over, breathing heavily through my nose.
“Are Braxton-Hicks usually like this?” Tate asks worriedly.
“They.” I inhale a lungful of air. “Are. Not.”