Chapter 8 Trying Too Hard
TRYING TOO HARD
MORGAN
IDGAF By Dua Lipa
I’ve been staring at the same paragraph for ten minutes, but all I can think about is the other night—the way Dylan looked behind the drum kit, how his hands felt on my hips, the taste of his kiss…
My phone buzzes—Ava’s name lighting up the screen like a lifeline to sanity.
“Please tell me you have good news,” I answer, leaning back in my chair.
“Honey, I just spent six hours watching models fight over the last rice cake in craft services,” Ava groans. “Distract me with your drama.”
I laugh despite myself. “I may have done something stupid.”
“Ooh, my favorite kind of confession. Spill.”
I bite my lip, the kiss flooding back. “I kissed Dylan.”
“What?” Ava’s shriek makes me pull the phone away from my ear. “Dylan Kernish-Grant? Mr. Thirty-Under-Thirty? The guy trying to buy your company? That Dylan?”
“Yes, that Dylan,” I sigh, slumping further in my chair. “It just… happened.”
“Things like that don’t just happen, Morgan. Details. Now.”
I make sure my office door is closed before continuing. “I went to confront him about the showcase and found him at his studio…”
“Wait, what? Back up.”
“This industry showcase—apparently we’re planning it together—reluctantly, I might add.
It’s targeting high-profile investors and celebs who could bring in serious capital.
” I tap my pen against the spreadsheet on my desk.
“With our current burn rate, Left Turn needs a significant investment within the next quarter or we’ll have to start cutting staff.
This showcase could be the difference between saving Dad’s legacy and watching it crumble. ”
I glance at the sketch tucked under my business plan—a costume design I’d absentmindedly drawn during yesterday’s budget meeting.
“So now I have to work with Dylan, which is just…” I trail off, not sure how to finish.
“Complicated?” Ava supplies.
“Impossible,” I correct her. “He’s infuriating and arrogant and thinks he knows what’s best for everyone.”
“Sounds like someone’s getting under your skin—or maybe your panties.”
I’m glad she can’t see my face flush. “Oh my God, not the point,” I laugh.
“It is so the point. You deserve to have a little fun,” she says suggestively.
“I gotta go, I have a meeting with a potential investor today,” I interrupt her. “This guy, Harrison, controls one of the biggest private investment portfolios in the industry. If I can convince him to back Left Turn, it could buy us the runway we need to rebuild without having to let anyone go.”
“I miss you.”
“Of course you do. I’m fabulous.” She pauses, then adds more seriously, “You’ve got this, Morgan. And if Harrison doesn’t see your value, he’s an idiot who doesn’t deserve your company anyway. Call me later?”
After we hang up, I look at the showcase plans with fresh determination. I can’t afford to blow this meeting.
* * *
The host leads me through the elegant dining room, weaving between tables draped in crisp white linens.
Crystal glasses catch the soft lighting, creating tiny prisms that dance across the walls.
I adjust my emerald wrap dress—one of the few designs I’d brought with me from New York—and try to focus on the upcoming investor meeting instead of my nerves.
“Your party hasn’t arrived yet, Ms. Clemson,” the host says, pulling out my chair. “Would you like to order a drink while you wait?”
“Water for now, thank you.” I need a clear head. Harrison represents more than just money—he’s the difference between keeping our small A&R team intact or having to let three people go by the end of the month.
I scan the wine list anyway—just in case—and a familiar laugh cuts through the ambient chatter.
My head snaps up, and there he is. Dylan, looking unfairly good in a vintage band tee under an unbuttoned designer dress shirt, paired with dark tight jeans and worn Converse, sitting across from Ivy Nova at a corner table.
She’s saying something that makes him lean forward, completely engaged, and the sight makes my stomach twist.
The waiter sets down my water, but I barely notice.
Ivy tosses her sleek blonde hair over her shoulder, and even from here I can see why she’s poised to be the next big thing.
She radiates star quality—the kind my father had an uncanny ability to spot before anyone else.
For a moment, I can almost hear his voice: “She’s got it, Morgan. The real thing.”
Before I can talk myself out of it, I’m on my feet and walking toward their table. Dylan’s back is to me, giving me the element of surprise.
“Ivy Nova,” I say, causing them both to look up. “I’m Morgan Clemson, CEO of Left Turn Records. I had to tell you how much I love your music.”
Ivy’s face lights up with a genuine smile. “Thank you! That means a lot.”
Dylan’s expression is harder to read—surprise mixed with something else. Annoyance maybe? But there’s a flicker of something warmer catching me off guard. He opens his mouth to speak but I cut him off.
“My daughter absolutely adores your songs,” I continue, pulling out my phone and taking a seat. “She dances to them every night. Would you like to see?”
“Of course!” Ivy says enthusiastically, and I pull up the video from last night.
“Oh my god, she’s precious!” Ivy coos, leaning closer to watch. “And her dress is gorgeous. Where did you get it?”
“I actually made it,” I say, keeping my tone casual but inside my pride swells. “Something I threw together.”
“Wait, you designed that?” Ivy’s eyes light up. “It’s amazing. I’m always looking for unique pieces for performances.” She looks over my dress with approval. “Did you make this too? I don’t recognize the designer.”
I run a hand over the emerald silk. “Yes, I did.”
“Seriously, you should show me more of your work. I’d love to see it.”
I offer a polite smile, thrown off a bit that she likes my designs.
All these ideas start to take shape—perfect for her: a metallic bodysuit that would catch the light during her high-energy choruses, or a flowing cape creating drama for her ballads—but then I remember exactly why I’m here: to secure my father’s legacy.
I push the sketches forming in my mind aside. This isn’t New York, and I’m not that person anymore. Dad’s company needs me focused on one thing only.
I regain my focus. “I used to be in fashion. I wanted to say I admire your artistry. Your energy—it’s incredible.”
Ivy beams. “That means so much coming from another woman in the industry.”
“Morgan.” Dylan’s voice carries a warning, but I ignore him.
“Left Turn is building something different,” I say, turning my attention to Ivy.
“We’re focused on real artist development, not just flashy numbers.
You’d fit beautifully into what we’re doing.
We’ve got a state-of-the-art studio my father built specifically for vocal artists with your range, and our marketing team specializes in genuine audience connection, not just algorithm-chasing. ”
“Actually,” Dylan cuts in, “I was just telling Ivy about the New Artist Showcase lineup. We’re talking major venues, prime slots…”
I cut in, unable to stop myself. “We haven’t agreed on it yet,” I remind him. “It’s all backed by spreadsheets and market projections, right? Because to you, they’re just numbers on a chart.”
Dylan narrows his eyes at me. “It’s called being strategic. You might want to try it sometime or you wouldn’t…”
“And you might want to remember artists are people—not quarterly returns. At Left Turn, we invest in their growth, their story.”
“And before you rudely interrupted, I was telling Ivy about our strategic rollout with targeted regional promotion leading up to a livestreamed finale. We’ve seen a thirty percent uptick in audience engagement after implementing influencer-driven content, and there’s potential to double her reach with cross-genre collaborations and select brand partnerships. ”
Just like that, Ivy’s attention shifts to Dylan.
He’s good—I’ll give him that. Every word is calculated to paint the perfect picture of success.
I can practically see her streaming numbers climbing, the kind of concrete results James would use to stop talking about layoffs and start planning expansion.
I lean forward slightly, not bothering to hide the edge in my voice. “How generous of you to lay out your whole strategy in front of me.”
“If you bothered to get back to me on scheduling a meeting to discuss the showcase…” which is true because I’ve been avoiding him after our unexpected kiss at the studio the other night. “Besides, I figured you’d steal it anyway.”
“Hmm, like you tried to steal one of my artists?” I try to turn my attention to Ivy.
“You’re the one interrupting my dinner.”
“Maybe I didn’t want Ivy to fall for another one of your rehearsed sales pitches.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Should I have led with toddler dance videos and humble-bragged my way through a fashion consultation?”
I blink at him, smile tight. “Says the guy who probably handed her a contract between courses. Did you wine and dine every artist you’ve signed, or am I just lucky enough to witness the charm offensive in action?”
He smirks, tilting his head. “Oh? You think I’m charming?”
The question throws me for half a second, and I scramble for footing. “I think your ego’s big enough without me feeding it.”
His smile widens like he’s won something. I hate how smug he looks—and how flustered I feel.
Ivy raises her hands, laughing. “Okay, okay. I’m going to run to the ladies’ room before this escalates into a full-on lovers’ quarrel. Try not to kill each other while I’m gone. Or kiss. Honestly, I’m not sure which direction it’s heading.”
I open my mouth to respond, but she’s already sliding out of her seat and gliding away, leaving an awkward—and charged—silence behind.
Dylan turns to me with a glare. “Look, you scared her away! Good job, Clemson. And really? Using Hazel to close a deal? That’s low—even for you. Fucking cute, though.”
“Please. She loved me.” I pause, then add, “And Hazel genuinely loves her music.”
Before he can retort, the host appears at my elbow. “Ms. Clemson, your date has arrived.”
I start to correct her, but I catch the way Dylan’s head snaps up, his words faltering mid-sentence. Something hot and satisfied sparks inside me at his reaction.
“Excuse me,” I say and slide out of my chair.
Dylan’s eyes follow me as I leave, and I make sure to put an extra sway in my hips. I only make it halfway across the restaurant before I hear footsteps behind me.
“I thought you didn’t date,” Dylan says, his voice low and tight as he catches up to me.
I turn slowly, savoring his obvious discomfort. Is that jealousy? The thought sends an unexpected thrill through me.
“Things change.” I shrug, enjoying the way his jaw clenches.
“Must’ve changed a lot since you had me pinned to the soundboard,” he whispers. His eyes darken with the memory.
“Temporary insanity.” I tilt my chin. “It won’t happen again.”
“We’ll see,” he says, voice rough and far too confident. The heat in his tone makes something flutter deep in my stomach, and I have to swallow hard as the memory of his mouth on mine floods in uninvited.
He tilts his head. “So, who’s the lucky guy, then?”
“None of your business,” I say sweetly.
Dylan follows my gaze to Mr. Harrison, the investor, being led to my table, and his expression shifts from jealousy to amused recognition, like he’s only now figured out the punchline to a joke I didn’t mean to tell.
“Gerald Harrison,” he says, a smirk playing at his lips. “Interesting choice for a date.”
“I never said it was,” I point out.
He steps closer, and suddenly the restaurant feels too warm. “I find it endearing that you wanted to make me jealous.”
“Please,” I scoff, ignoring the way my pulse jumps when he looks at me. “I couldn’t care less what you think. And if I wanted your opinion, I’d ask for it—which I won’t.”
His eyes travel down my body, lingering on the way the emerald silk hugs my curves. “With a dress like that, I’m sure you’d have no problem finding dates.” There’s something different in his tone now—not only the flirtatious edge, but genuine appreciation.
The compliment catches me completely off guard. I’d expected more antagonism, not… whatever this is. I turn away, unsure how to handle a Dylan who sees beyond our rivalry.
Dylan reaches out and gently touches my arm, stopping me. His touch is light, but it sends a jolt up my spine.
“Harrison’s old school,” Dylan says, tone shifting to something more serious.
“He responds well to tradition. Play up your father’s legacy, but don’t lean too hard on emotion.
Have specific details ready about your artist development pipeline—he’ll ask about projected returns early in the conversation. ”
He hesitates, then adds, “Harrison has a bit of a reputation, and the way you look in that dress…” His eyes flick briefly over the emerald silk. “Just remind him it’s strictly business.”
I study his face, searching for any sign that this is a tactic, but all I see is genuine concern.
It’s disarming, this momentary truce between us.
A small voice reminds me that Harrison’s investment could mean the difference between keeping my staff employed or having to let people go.
The pressure sits heavy on my shoulders.
“I appreciate the advice,” I say, surprised by how much I mean it. “Why are you helping me?”
“Contrary to what you believe, I want to see you succeed.” There’s a sincerity in his eyes making me pause. For a moment, I glimpse something beyond the cocky businessman—someone who actually cares about the music, about the artists. It reminds me of my father in a way, causing my chest to tighten.
“Besides,” he adds with an insufferably confident grin, “I like to win, but when it’s easy, it’s not much of a challenge, now is it?”
I roll my eyes, but there’s something almost playful in our exchange now. “You’re impossible.”
“And you, Morgan Clemson, are a very tempting challenge,” he rasps. “One day, you’ll realize we could accomplish a lot more working together than working against each other.”
The way he says ‘together’ makes me think of things that have nothing to do with business plans or record labels. I force myself to remember that this man is trying to buy my father’s company out from under me.
I turn to go, then pause. He didn’t have to help me—he could’ve let me walk into that meeting blind. Maybe it’s this moment of uncharacteristic generosity that softens something in me. Or I want to get under his skin the way he always seems to get under mine.
“Dylan?”
“Hmm?”
“That designer shirt makes it seem like you’re trying too hard.” I throw the words over my shoulder as I walk away, knowing his eyes are following me.
I hear him chuckle, and it takes everything in me not to look back.