Chapter 5
FIVE
Josie is at the stove making eggs when I come downstairs.
She’s barefoot, hair still wet from the shower, and wearing another of my old flannels.
She looks over her shoulder, her eyes moving up and down my body with no shame, as I walk in.
A lesser man would feel used and abused by his wife. I am not said man.
I don’t say good morning. I cross the kitchen and put my hands on her hips from behind.
She leans back into me, spatula still in her hand, and I press my mouth to the side of her neck where her hair has kept her skin damp.
She smells like gardenias and warm cotton.
I drag my lips up behind her ear. She tilts her head to give me more room as her body sags against mine.
My wife moans and the sound goes right to my dick.
I flex my hips, reminding her that after all these years, she can do this to me with the simplest of acts.
“The eggs are going to burn,” she says. Her voice is low, seductive.
“Where’s Paige?”
“At school.”
“Let the eggs burn.” I don’t give two shits about the eggs, toast, or whatever else may burn. I only care about her, the way she makes me feel, and how I can please her.
The spatula clatters onto the counter as she turns around in my arms. She hooks her fingers into the front of my shirt and pulls me down.
Her mouth opens under mine and I taste the same minty toothpaste we’ve used since we moved in together and the coffee, she’s already been drinking.
I shift us to the side, away from the stove and push her back against the counter, her hips hit the edge.
She makes a sound against my teeth, low and throaty, and her hands slide up my chest to my shoulders.
Her nails dig in through the cotton. I grip her waist harder.
She arches into me. The flannel slips off one shoulder, and I follow it with my mouth, kissing the bare skin, the strap of her tank top, the curve where her neck meets her collarbone.
Her fingers twist into my hair. She pulls.
This . . . this is worth staying home and putting my aging career on the backburner. Being with my wife, basking in her presence, and being present for my kids and grandchildren is enough.
“Liam.” My name comes out rough. “It’s morning.”
“I’m aware.”
“The stove is on.”
I lean over and turn the burner off without looking. She laughs against my mouth. I feel it vibrate through her chest into mine. She pushes me back with both palms flat on my sternum.
“Go sit down,” she says. Her cheeks are flushed and her lips are slightly swollen. I rub my thumb over them and then kiss her again.
“I love you.”
“I love you,” she says right back.
I don’t sit down. I pour a cup of coffee, lean against the counter beside her while she turns the burner back on and finishes the eggs. She slides them onto a plate and sets it in front of me at the island. I sit down.
“I’m going to do the show.”
She turns from the sink. Her mouth pulls into the smile. It’s the one she uses when she knows she’s right about something but doesn’t want to gloat. It’s fine, she can gloat. She knows me better than I know myself.
“Good,” she says. “Now eat your eggs before they get cold.”
“That’s all you have to say?”
She stands across from me with her coffee with both hands wrapped around the mug. “I think you’re making the right decision.”
“Why’s that?” I ask, while shoveling food into my mouth.
“Selfishly, it keeps you home for a bit. I love falling asleep in your arms, in our bed, and waking up the same way. I want you to spend time with the triplets, with Noah, and Paige. I want you to write music freely and not feel the pressure of needing to tour. I think doing something like this gives your fans a whole new insight to who you truly are.”
I let her words settle over me and smile. I love everything she just said, and I agree. Doing something like this could benefit me in more ways than I can see right now.
“I’m hoping Bex is still in town. I didn’t ask if she had a place to stay.”
“Did she leave a way for you to get in touch with her?”
I nod and pull my wallet from my back pocket. “I have her card,” I say as I slip it out and set it on the island. Josie pushes my phone toward me and smiles.
“What are you waiting for, Page?”
I groan. “Woman, why must you taunt me all the time?”
Josie winks as she takes a sip of her coffee. “You’re doing the right thing, babe. Call her.” She pushes away from the island and refills her mug. I dial the number and put the call on speakerphone.
Bex answers on the second ring. “This is Bex.”
“Good morning, Bex. This is Liam. Liam Page.”
“I know who it is.” She laughs. “What can I do for you?”
“I want to talk about the show. Are you still in Beaumont?”
“I’m in Allenville.”
“Can you come to the studio today? Or I can meet you if you have business in Allenville.”
“I can be there in an hour.”
I tell her I’ll meet her there. When I hang up, Josie’s eyebrows are raised.
“An hour,” I say with a sigh. In an hour I’m going to make a lifestyle change.
“Then you’d better shower. You smell like sleep.”
I carry my plate to the sink and then kiss her. She puts her hand on my chest and holds me there for a few extra seconds.
“I’m proud of you.”
It takes a moment, but a smile spreads across my face. I know they’re just words but hearing them makes all the difference.
The parking lot is full when I pull in. I love every bit of it, but once again, I’m thankful Elle suggested we have designated and reserved parking for FMG Records. As a business owner, and someone who is trying to revitalize my hometown, nothing pleases me more than to see businesses thriving.
I unlock the front door for FMG Records and check the date book to see if anyone is coming in to record today.
I know everything is online, in some fancy pants tracking system, but I’m old school and need the physical calendar.
Paige’s handwriting is clear and neat, and I know she filled in all the appointments in the last couple of days.
There’s no need to do it if the old man ain’t around.
Before heading to my office, I stop in the breakroom, start a pot of coffee, and then place an order for delivery from Whimsicality. I imagine this meeting with Bex could take some time since we have a lot to iron out and I want to be prepared.
I open the blinds and let the morning light come in, make sure the air conditioner is on, and then sit down at my desk to wait. I’m impatient and nervous. If the AC wasn’t on, the sound of my fingers tapping against my desk would drive me up the wall.
I hear the front door open and then Bex’s voice calling down the hall. “Hello?”
“Back here.”
She appears in the doorway. She’s dressed casually today in jeans and a fitted blazer pushed up at the sleeves.
She has her bag over one shoulder and a notebook in her hand.
She smiles when she sees me, and it’s the same wide, open smile from our first meeting, the one that caught me off guard because it didn’t match the sharpness of her pitch.
“Thanks for calling,” she says and I can tell she means it.
“Thanks for picking up. I know I probably don’t deserve it after I abruptly ended our meeting.”
She laughs. It’s quick and genuine. She pulls out the chair across from my desk and sits down, crosses one ankle over the other, opens her notebook to a page that’s already full of handwriting. She came prepared. She’s been prepared since she walked into this studio the first time.
“So,” I say. “I want to do a trial run. I was thinking a month, but I’ll give you six weeks. If it doesn’t work, I need to be able to walk away.”
“Six weeks is fair.” She nods. “And if it isn’t working, I want you to tell me why before you walk. Give me the chance to fix it.”
“I can do that.”
“Good.” She flips to a new page in the notebook. “Then let me tell you what I’m thinking, and you tell me where I’m wrong or if you have another idea.”
She walks me through it. The format: three hours, evening slot, call-in. She’ll produce from here since moving to New York is out of the question. She’ll screen the callers and will cut them off if they veer off topic. She will do all the marketing and has a team for social media.
“Your job is to talk, to answer questions. You’re the face of The Love Line,” she says.
“You talk to them the way you’d talk to someone sitting across from you.
You listen, you respond, and you share anything about your personal life that you see fit.
There isn’t a script. This all comes from the heart. ”
“What do you need from me today?” I ask.
“Your trust. And a room I can convert into a booth.”
I walk her down the hall. The room adjacent to the production space is the right size, and she sees it the same way I do. She stands in the center and turns a slow circle, measuring with her eyes, her fingers tapping her notebook.
“This works,” she says. “Sound panels on every wall, new board, a desk for you on one side and the production setup on the other. Glass divider here.” She traces a line with her hand.
“I can see you the whole time. I’ll give you a diagram with the hand gestures I use so there’s no question when we’re live. ”
I nod and tell her to order what she needs and bill the studio account and to use my name to get stuff here faster.
She pulls out her phone and starts making a list before I’ve finished the sentence.
I leave her to it and go back to my office.
I can hear her on the phone with a supplier a few minutes later, her voice friendly and specific, asking about lead times on acoustic panels, confirming dimensions.
I pull up my email and scroll past the unread messages from Mira, from the label, and from a booking agent I haven’t spoken to in months. I close the laptop. I sit in the quiet of my office and listen to Bex as she starts to change my life.
By lunch, construction has started.
Paige shows up after school. I hear her before I see her.
My daughter has one volume, and quiet is not a part of her range.
She comes through the studio door with her backpack over one shoulder and a coffee she grabbed on the way.
She’s wearing her hair pulled back in a ponytail and has on one of my old 4225 West tour shirts, the black one with the setlist cities on the back, tied in a knot at her waist. She and her mother have been raiding my closet for years. I own nothing.
She drops the backpack on the floor of my office and leans in the doorway.
“Let me run the social for this,” she says.
She doesn’t say hello first.
“You already run accounts for Sinful Distraction and half of Elle’s roster,” I tell her. “You have school, cheer practice, and you asked if you can work at Ralph’s. You’re starting to make me think you’re desperate for money, which I know isn’t the case. Are you on drugs?”
Paige rolls her eyes. “I’m good at social media.”
At least one of us is.
“I’m an employee,” I tell her. “You’ll need to talk to Bex. She’s the boss.”
Paige stares at me, with her hands on her hips. I shake my head and call out, “Bex, can you come in here?”
Bex comes into my office. There’s dust on her jeans and her shirt is covered in sawdust. I could’ve sworn there was a crew in here working for her, and her not for them.
“Bex,” I say. “This is Paige. She handles the social media accounts for FMG Records, and she would like to talk to you.” I purposely leave out that Paige is my daughter. If she wants this, she needs to earn it on her own skill and not name recognition.
Paige doesn’t waste a second and opens her laptop, much to my surprise. She lays it out for Bex: teaser clips before the show launches, audiograms with waveforms, behind-the-scenes content from the studio build, a full engagement strategy with hashtag structure and platform-specific formatting.
“You post the full clip on one platform, the first fifteen seconds on another, and a still image with the quote on a third,” she says. “Different bait for different fish. The algorithm rewards native content. Cross-posting is lazy and the reach dies.”
I lean forward, captivated by all of this and wondering how the heck she came up with a plan when I haven’t even discussed this with her.
She tells us she can build anticipation before a single episode airs.
She tells us she knows the audience because she’s already managing multiple artist accounts, and she’s tracked what people share, what they save, what they come back for.
She built Sinful Distraction’s online presence turning it into the kind of following that labels use as leverage in negotiations.
Paige turns toward Bex. “I know you have your own teams but hiring me saves you money. Plus, I already live in Beaumont so you’re not asking someone to uproot their lives or move here.”
Bex looks from Paige to me. “She’s my daughter,” I finally say. “She’s employed by FMG Records and is still in high school.”
“I don’t care whose daughter she is. She knows what she’s talking about. And she’s right, hiring her or someone local saves money.”
Paige grins and it hits me how much she looks like Josie at that age. “I’m not the boss,” I say as I put my hands up in surrender.
“I am and you’re hired,” Bex says much to Paige’s excitement. “We need a logo. Is that something you can do?”
Paige nods, thanks her, and then sits down with her laptop.
I’m going to need a bigger studio at this rate.
Within minutes, Paige is showing Bex her screen and the two have their heads together talking about how they want something that says romance but has to be masculine.
While they design, I email Elle and ask her if we have any available offices in this building and ask her how she feels about expanding.