Avalon
I had never met Clarke King before the Mayfair Music Convention, but I’d heard the stories. The small-town girl with the big voice. The sweetheart with the sunshine smile. The country darling who made grown men cry with a single note.
I didn’t buy it.
So I watched her. Three days of panels, rehearsals, and backstage chaos, and she was impossible to miss—blonde hair, cowboy boots, soft laugh, softer eyes. She moved through the convention like she didn’t know she was the most magnetic person in the room.
People adored her. They leaned in when she spoke. They smiled wider when she looked their way. She was too kind, too genuine, too… good.
No one is that good.
There had to be something underneath all that sweetness, and I wanted to know what it was.
So at 11:46 p.m., I knocked on her hotel door.
When she opened it, she glared at me like I’d personally offended her ancestors. Her hair was wrapped in a towel, her pajamas were soft cotton, and she looked warm and sleepy and absolutely not in the mood for me.
“What do you want?” she snapped, blocking the doorway with her knee.
10
Holding Hope · Regena Mercy
I shoved my hands into my jacket pockets and shrugged. “Wanted to see if you wanted to hang out.”
“Hang out?” Her brows pulled together. “Why would I want to hang out with you?” Fair question.
“Because we’re young music stars in a city that loves us,” I said, leaning on the doorframe. “And we leave tomorrow. Separate flights, separate lives. Might as well make the most of it.” I tilted my head, gave her my best troublemaker smile. “C’mon, Sweetheart. Let me in.”
Her whole body stiffened. “Don’t call me that. Only my fans call me Sweetheart.” “What makes you think I’m not a fan?”
She snorted. “You don’t strike me as a country music connoisseur.”
She wasn’t wrong. I didn’t have a single country song in any playlist I owned. “Maybe you’ve changed my mind,” I said.
She blinked, cheeks turning pink. “Are you flirting with me?”
“If I told you I was, would you tell me it was working?”
Her blush deepened. God, she was cute.
“You’re cocky, Avalon.”
“And you like it, Clarke.”
“I do not,” she said, but her voice betrayed her. “So what did you have in mind for this… hangout?”
I perked up. “Have you ever been to Teagan’s Place?”
She shook her head, towel unraveling slightly. “No. First time in Mayfair.” Her room was neat—boots with pink ribbons, laptop open, a stuffed white rabbit perched against the pillows. I picked it up.
“You still sleep with stuffed animals? What are you, twelve?”
She snatched it back. “He’s my good luck charm.”
Of course he was.
“Let me show you the coolest spot in town,” I said.
“So it’s not Teagan’s Place?”
“Nope. If you’re going to lose your Mayfair virginity, you have to do it right.” She snorted. “I have an early flight.”
“What time?”
“Eight.”
I laughed. She glared.
“There’s nothing wrong with liking to sleep in,” she said. “Eight a.m. is early for me.” “Whatever you say, Clarke.” I looked her over—frizzy hair, cherry-print socks, pajama shorts. “You can’t wear that where we’re going. They’d eat you alive.”
She planted her hands on her hips. “I don’t go out looking indecent.”
If that was supposed to be a jab at me, it didn’t land. I liked the way I dressed. My fans liked the way I dressed. Clarke King’s opinion didn’t matter.
“Then why did you leave me like that?” Her voice echoed in my head as I tried to find my own words.
How had I left her?
Asleep on her side, hands tucked under her cheek like a Victorian child in a painting. She’d looked perfect. She always did.
“I’m…”
Sorry wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.
“Do you know how small that made me feel?” Clarke’s voice cracked. “How embarrassing it was to leave that room alone?”
I hadn’t thought about that. God, I hadn’t thought about anything. I’d panicked. Everything had felt too real, too tangible. And if something was real, it could be broken. It could be ruined. My family could touch it—touch her—and I’d be damned if her light dimmed because of them.
But I couldn’t say that. I couldn’t form the words. So I stared at my hands and spun the anxiety ring on my middle finger until the gears soothed the tightness in my chest. “I’m not sure what you want from me,” I said quietly. “You won’t take my apology. You won’t take my money…”
I finally met her eyes. “What can I do to make this right?”
Clarke bit her bottom lip, trying to stop its trembling. “Since I’ve already agreed to do this, the next step is for you to show me you mean your apologies. I can maintain a professional partnership with you. But anything else… you’ll have to work for.”
Everything else.
“We can’t even be friends?” I shoved my hands into my pockets.
I didn’t necessarily want friendship—I just wanted her to stop looking at me like she wanted to bury me behind the barn.
“Anything outside of co-writing your album has to be earned,” she said firmly.
Right.Changing her mind would be like anyone other than Arthur trying to pull Excalibur from the stone—pointless and exhausting.
“Hey,” I said, “you never told me why you changed your mind. What are you getting out of this?”
Clarke shrugged, turning back to her horse. “Melody likes you. So, if she wants you here, I guess I do too.”
Ah. Melody was the key. I could work with that.
I loved sixteen-year-olds. They were chaotic, dramatic, and easily bribed with food and compliments.
“What do I even do with a sixteen-year-old?”
I tossed clothes onto the spare bed like I was summoning answers from the denim gods. “What do they even like these days?”
Aunt Brie’s laugh crackled through my headphones. “Do you remember being sixteen? Nothing but fast cars and fast boys.”
I gagged. “Yeah, well, I don’t think recreating my high school years is the best way to win over Clarke. The girl is basically a nun.”
I flopped onto the pile of clothes. “I don’t think she’s said a single swear word since I met her.”
“She surprised you once,” Aunt Brie teased. “She did have sex with you in a photo booth.” I choked. “Okay, that surprised me too. I wasn’t expecting the night to go in any of the directions it went. I just wanted to get to know her.”
Silence.
Aunt Brie knew exactly how deep my interest in Clarke ran—deeper than I wanted to admit.
“Why don’t you try that again?” she said softly. “Show her you want to know her.” “Yes, but how? She doesn’t even want to be in the same room as me.” I tugged at a loose thread on the blanket. “We haven’t had a real conversation in four days. How are we supposed to write an album if we can’t talk?”
“You’re an observer,” Aunt Brie said. “Find something you have in common. Start there. And for the kid sister—check social media. Teenagers love themselves, each other, and Marvel movies.”
I snorted. “Noted.”
A knock sounded at the door.
I sat up. I hadn’t bothered closing it—Clarke avoided me like I was contagious—but there she was. Basket in hand. Flower-print scarf in her hair. Two braids. Sun-kissed skin. Looking like the human embodiment of a country love song.
“Lonny?” Aunt Brie said. “You still there?”
“Yeah—hey, I’ll call you later, okay? The rainbows over the bridge need feeding.” Our code.
Translation: I can’t talk right now. Listening ears.
“Love you,” she said.
“You too.”
I hung up and pulled off my headphones.
Clarke raised a brow. “The rainbows over the bridge have to be fed?”
I winced. “It’s nothing. I was talking to Aunt Brie. You remember her?”
Clarke’s gaze swept over me—slow, assessing, unreadable. “I remember everything from that night.”
I sighed. “Of course you did.”
“Anyway,” she said, rolling her eyes, “Mama wants me to take you into town. In case you need things.”
I nearly tripped trying to tie my boots and keep up with her long strides. “Perfect. I desperately need a pedicure.”
Clarke shot me a look of pure disgust. Okay, rude.
“We could get one together,” I offered. She ignored me.
We passed the barns, the goats, the dairy cows, the barn cats—including Vonnie, the one-eyed matriarch who looked like she’d fought God and won.
Then we reached the cars. A baby-blue 1969 Ford Bronco gleamed in the sun. “Jesus,” I breathed, running my hand along the frame. “She’s beautiful. Is she yours?”
“Yeah,” Clarke said. “But we’re not taking her.” She pointed to a rusted, yellow, square-body Chevy that looked like it had survived the apocalypse and then been left outside for another decade. “We’re taking Daisy.”
Daisy looked like a tetanus shot waiting to happen.
“How long has it been since someone drove this—” I yanked the handle. The door exploded open with a screech and launched me backward landing me flat on my ass. Clarke didn’t even pretend to hide her amusement. “I should’ve warned you about Daisy’s door.”
“Are you going to help me up?” I snapped. Where the hell was that damn Southern hospitality everyone raves about?
She smirked. “Your legs don’t seem broken.”
I stared at her, stunned. She walked away, dress swaying, boots clicking, looking like sin and sunshine and vengeance. And damn it—she looked good doing it.
If she thought a fall in the dirt would send me packing, she was sorely mistaken. Kennedy women don’t fold. If she wanted war, I wasn’t waving the white flag first.