Stage Smart: Forbidden Rock Star Romance (Work For It Book 8)

Prologue—One Year Earlier （Larinda’s Studio）

“Babe, ya can’t wear blue if I’m wearing blue. That’s rule number one in power couples’ couture. Ask Alonzo.”

No. Because for the seven millionth time, I don’t know Alonzo and have no interest in tracking down a stranger just to ask him a question like, “what’s rule number one in power couples’ couture?”

Also, pretty sure the answer isn’t, “you can’t both wear blue.”

I adjust the phone while gazing longingly at my computer monitor several feet away. Instead of arguing with Jarvis about—I’m not even sure—I could be at my desk reviewing the killer tracks I received from some producer friend of Nash’s.

Val Andrews.

Apparently, this guy is twenty-two and completely unknown, which is also all I know about him. Well, and he’s ridiculously talented. He seemed nice enough the few times we spoke on the phone, but he could be an ogre and I’d still be as excited as I am to meet him in about five minutes. The tracks he sent were incredible—way beyond what I expected, even beyond what I thought my music could become, if I’m honest. How he made this happen with limited direction and resources, I have no idea, but I’m giddy at the thought of what we’d accomplish together in an official capacity.

Well, I was, until my boyfriend called to inform me that the dress I bought seven months ago for the wedding of a movie-star friend was no longer an option since it would clash with his tux. Actually, no. It would clash with the pocket square of his tux, which is also blue, but not a coordinatingblue. I begged Jarvis to swap out his pocket square for something that would go with my tailored eight-thousand-dollar gown I’ve had ready for weeks but… a lapel pin? I don’t know. As usual with him, I got lost in the confusing web of Jarvis McKinnley’s ego. For some reason he’s right and I’m wrong, like always.

My phone buzzes against my ear, and I pull it away to see a text from my assistant, Steve.

They’re here.

Eek!!

“Okay. We’ll have to pick this up later, Jar. I have an important meeting.”

“But, Linda?—”

“I’m sorry, hon. I have to go.”

“The wedding is only a month away!”

And that wouldn’t be an issue if I could wear my dress and he wore a—I don’t know—black/white/green/violet/pretty much any other color pocket square.

“We’ll figure it out. Maybe Alonzo can find a coordinating blue pocket square.”

I’m not sure if his silence is due to the horror of considering a different pocket square or the suggestion that “Alonzo” would be the one in charge of securing it. I probably should find out who Alonzo is and what he does.

“I’m not arguing with you about this right now, Larinda!” he huffs out.

“Okay, perfect. Same. Have a great ni?—”

“Hold on! This meeting isn’t with that nobody producer, is it?”

Ugh.

“Yes. And he’s not a nobody.”

“No? Who’s heard of him? Nobody. So he’s a nobody.”

“Fine. Right now this second, he is, but he won’t be soon. You’ll see.”

“What I see is my girlfriend’s future being flushed down the toilet by some loser. I still don’t get why you’d pass on Rufus Ricard for a snot-nosed kid.”

“He’s not a loser, and I’m passing because Rufus Ricard makes my music sound like everyone else’s.”

“Hate to break it to you, sweet cheeks, that’s the formula that sells. You want to make money, you make the music that makes money.”

“Okay, well, maybe I’m tired of only worrying about the money if it means making the same thing as everyone else. Maybe there’s more to this. Maybe there’s more to me.”

His horrified gasp isn’t even a joke. He really gasps like that when someone offends him with words his own brain has never strung together.

“Well! I don’t?—”

“Oh no! What was that? You’re cutting out… Jarvis? Babe, you there? Huh. Guess I lost him.”

I hang up.

Whew. Interacting with that man is exhausting to say the least. It’s good our schedules don’t allow for much of that.

When I sense a presence hovering in the entrance to my studio, I glance back and bolt up from the couch.

“Nash!”

I rush in for a hug, but my friend directs me toward his companion instead.

My heart lurches in my chest. No introduction necessary.

“Oh my goodness! Val!” I throw my arms around the stranger who doesn’t seem like a stranger.

The guy tenses for a second, and I’m worried I’ve scared him until a beautiful grin lights up his face.

Wow.

Sea green eyes shine back at me, deep and mesmerizing in the studio lights. His hair is shoved under a ball cap, and a simple t-shirt contrasts beautifully with the intricate tattoos scattered over his arms and peeking through the collar of his shirt. He’s a lot taller than I expected. And… attractive.

You have a boyfriend, Larinda.

Sort of. But it doesn’t mean I can’t make an empirical observation. For example, I also notice his t-shirt has an ironic “I’m with the band” emblazoned on the soft gray fabric and there’s a small X tattoo beside his right eye. In addition, his irises are a hypnotic shade of gr… Wait, I already noticed that. See? I notice things. That’s me. The woman who notices stuff.

“Hi, Larinda. Nice to meet you,” he says. Even the tone of his voice is an enigmatic mix of boy-next-door sweet and rough-rocker sexy. Who is this person? What’s his story? Six words in and he’s already more interesting than Jarvis.

That’s not nice.

No, it’s not. True, though.

“You didn’t tell me he was so cute,” I joke. “Look at you. You’re freaking adorable. Geez.”

Understatement, but it seems like a safe compromise between how I’m supposed to be feeling and what’s really happening in my belly right now. When he blushes—blushes!—I’m forcing away all kinds of fizzy bubbles inside. Who the heck is sweet and genuine enough to be embarrassed anymore? No one in my world, that’s for sure.

Val’s shy smile is something I know I’m going to want to see again. And again.

Maybe this is a bad idea. You cannot afford a crush on your producer. For. So. Many. Reasons.

I force away thoughts of DJ Master Klau$ and how much I’m already going to have to fight my label to let me work with this young unknown.

Work. Yes. Let’s get those green eyes staring at a screen and not at me like I’m a puzzle they want to solve. It’s not a reaction I’m accustomed to—but one I like way too much, apparently.

Waving toward the desk, I force my brain back to business mode.

“I know you converted the midi tracks to .wav files so I could listen,” I begin, “but I told my people to grab all the plugins you use so you don’t have to do that anymore. We’ll also stick with SoundStage 4 as our DAW to make things easy.”

I’m not sure how to interpret Val’s surprise. Did he assume I’m a ditzy popstar like everyone else? Why does that thought bother me more than it usually does?

“Is that why you asked what software I was using?” he asks.

“Yes. I figured it’ll be a lot easier to collaborate if we’re all using the same stuff now that we’re working together full-time.”

His eyes go wide. Shocked him again, I guess. Nash too, based on my friend’s uncertain glance between me and Val. I’m just full of surprises tonight.

“So you listened to what he sent?” Nash asks.

Is he serious?

I grab another chair to join them in front of the monitors. “Of course. Why do you think we’re here?”

“To show you what he sent,” Nash says.

Now I’m the one gaping in disbelief.

“You actually think I wouldn’t listen the second you sent the link?” I say through a laugh. Heck, I didn’t even read the entire text before opening the folder to see what they’d done with my music.

“So you… liked it?” Val asks.

Hang on. Do they really not know what this meeting is? What exactly did Steve tell them when he set it up?

“Liked it?” I nudge the chair beside me in a subtle invitation to my (hopefully) soon-to-be producer.

After scooping my composition book off the desk, I turn to the first page where I scribbled my thoughts on “Too Many Reasons.”

“These are my notes,” I say. “You’re here to review them and start making final decisions so we can get these tracks mastered and released.”

The next page in my notebook has me even more excited. “Oh, and I loved your idea of adding a rock element to ‘Crimson Crush.’ We are totally doing that. The label freaked when I told them we’re using a new producer and mixing some things up for this album, but screw them.”

I laugh at the memory of Rena’s and the team’s faces when I informed them Rufus Ricard would be free to work with another artist since I’d be going in a different direction.

“You told your label about him?” Nash asks.

Why is that so newsworthy? Nash knows how this game works.

“Um. Duh. They kind of have to know I’m using someone else from now on. Contracts and rights and all that?”

What’s with all the hesitation, anyway? To be honest, my excitement is starting to slip. I was so sure about this partnership that I stood up to my label for maybe the first time in my career. It was one of the hardest things I’ve done, and now these two are acting like they’re not sure they want this? I force away a twinge at the blow to my enthusiasm—and hope.

“Okay, so let’s start with what you did for… you know what? Let’s start with ‘Crimson Crush.’ Let me just pull that up.”

Maybe if we jump right into my favorite of the tracks, we can pump life back into this potential collaboration.

The silence is loud as I open a window to find the song, my pulse pounding with nerves. I just don’t get it. Everything in Val’s demeanor and what he’s done with my music made it seem like we were on the same page. Without even meeting him, I felt like he understood me better than I understand myself because of the way he was able to pull genius out of my ideas. And now he’s just standing there like…

Like we never talked about officially working together. Of course!

“Oh, shoot!” I say, relieved and kicking myself as I turn to Val. “We didn’t talk about the money part! No wonder you’re confused. So I’m not sure what you usually get, but I was hoping you’d be okay with ten per track.”

“Ten?” he asks. “Per track?”

Is he disappointed? His work definitely deserves more, but I already have an uphill battle convincing the powers that be to take a chance on this guy—especially after what happened a couple years ago.

“I know that’s not ideal,” I rush out. “But I think we have the best chance of convincing the label to get on board if we go in low to start. After this album, they should be fine bumping it up to fifteen or twenty, especially if it does well, which I know it will. Please say you’re okay with that. Pleeeease.”

Still no response. Crap, crap, crap.

A bead of panic pulses in my stomach. What if he walks? How could I be so na?ve not to have considered that possibility? I just assumed… gah! If he goes, so does the incredible future of my music I’ve already been fantasizing about.

This is what happens when you go rogue and try to make your own choices!

“Can he get any of that up front?” Nash asks. “Say, thirty-five?”

Wait, there’s still a chance?!

“I’m sure we can do that,” I say as evenly as possible. “If we can get you an advance, you’ll accept ten per song?” I ask Val. That’s not a huge payout, but if we do the entire album, that’s… I quickly run through the list of tracks in my head. “Okay, well, if there are twelve songs, that’s one-twenty, right? So maybe we can do half up front? What about sixty?”

“You… you want to pay me sixty?” he says, still looking uncertain.

“Sixty thousand dollars, yes. Then the rest after we complete the project.”

I hold my breath while he and Nash exchange a long look. I can’t be sure, but it seems like their expressions are moving in my favor.

Please, please, please say that’s okay.

I hadn’t even realized how much I wanted this—needed it—until this moment. My career has always been more about the business than the music, even though that’s not what I wanted. I just never thought it could be the other way around, and neither had anyone else.

Until now.

Until this stranger heard something no one else could.

Please, Val. Give me a chance.

“I… um… think that would be okay,” he says.

“Really? Eek!” I clasp my hands together—mostly to keep from tackling him and scaring him away. “Perfect. Then let’s get started. I had this idea for the intro. You know how you had that cello? What if we make it more of a full orchestra sound so it will really be dramatic when the guitars come in?”

Val’s smile erases any lingering doubts. He sees my vision immediately, and suddenly, I see more than a new direction for my music. These ideas came from somewhere inside me, plucked from a newly discovered treasure trove of creativity buried beneath years of being forced into a mold. Maybe there’s a whole other piece of myself waiting to be freed and explored.

“Yes, and I know exactly which one to use,” he says, taking control of the mouse to pull up the plugin libraries. “Wait until you hear this.”

Val

“Whoa. Stop.”

I freeze at my sister’s weird greeting. The fact that she’s even awake at two in the morning is concerning. I thought she evaporated into antimatter after 9:30.

When Nash pokes his head up from our couch, I have my answer. Guess he came over for a booty call after he left me at Larinda’s studio.

Ew.

“Hello to you too,” I mumble, dropping my laptop bag on the kitchen table.

Her gaze sifts over my face. “What’s wrong with you? What’s wrong with him?” she directs at her boyfriend. I also notice he now wears a similar expression to the one he had the entire time he observed Larinda and me tonight. As much as I loved being alone with her after he left halfway through our session, I loved not having that smug look hovering inches away from me even more.

“He’s in love,” Nash says.

“What? No, I’m not.”

“Oh shit,” Paige says through a gasp. “He is! Guess it went well with Larinda?”

I roll my eyes. “I’m not in love. And even if I was, it’s not like it could ever happen. She’s basically my boss, not to mention an A-list superstar with an A-list superstar boyfriend.”

“She and Jarvis will be broken up in a week. Don’t worry.”

“Not worried.” I grab a soda from the fridge and pop the lid.

“Well, hate to break it to you, little bro, but you’re legit glowing,” Paige says.

“Glowing? No way.”

“Uh, yeah, you are. I’ve watched you drift around in your dark cloud for twenty-two years. Trust me. I’m very familiar with your angsty default setting, and I have never seen you like this. Never.”

“She’s right, dude. Your melancholy is about twelve shades brighter right now.”

“Whatever,” I mutter. “I’m tired. If you’re doing your weird orgasm competition tonight, don’t be too loud.”

I ignore their irritating amusement as I escape down the hall to the bathroom. They’re being ridiculous. I get that I’m not exactly a bundle of joy—or even on the joy spectrum—but in love? How does a person even look in love? That makes no sense.

I lock myself in the bathroom to regain my cool—and stop cold.

Staring back at me from the vanity mirror is a total stranger. Paige was right. There’s something in that guy’s face I don’t recognize. It’s a… fine, it’s a glow. A ray of light.

It’s… hope.

I take a deep breath and study the rare tug of a smile I can’t seem to shut down no matter how hard I try to tilt it back where it belongs.

Okay, so maybe I am glowing. Maybe a few layers of cynic have been burned away to reveal a hint of something brighter.

I guess that’s what happens when your dark cloud crashes into the fucking sun.