“I’d like to watch you write more often.”
Just then the door opened, saving him from making more of a fool of himself.
They were in a converted house at the end of Music Row, the offices of a group of songwriters that Liana apparently worked with when she was in Nashville.
Her idea of a few days off and his were pretty different, not that he was complaining. She’d explained that it was good for Track to hear she was working Music Row, that she wasn’t scared. Yes, he controlled her next record. But he didn’t control the songs she might write for someone else. And frankly, she was to the point where she might just give away a song to make a point.
Plus it was pretty cool to see the inner workings of the music industry—especially a side that made her light up from the inside out.
When Caleb Anderson walked through the door, Dean’s enthusiasm dimmed for just a second, but he kicked himself. Liana only had eyes for him this summer. It was fine.
The younger man wasn’t alone, either. Behind him was West, and an older woman who looked vaguely familiar. When she introduced herself as Karen McAster, he realized she’d had a couple of hits in the late 90s—which dated himself as much as her.
Interesting.
She took charge of the writing session, flipping on the monitor on the production board. A dizzying array of colours and lines of recorded music filled the screen. With a few taps on the keyboard, a bit of a song started playing.
Everyone nodded along, making notes or grabbing an instrument.
Dean was surprised—again, he really needed to check all assumptions at the door—when Liana picked up a guitar. “How about this lick instead?” she said, singing back some of the lyrics, changing the melody a bit as she played along.
She kept playing as Caleb took over the vocals, and her fingers flew over the strings. They worked on four songs, finishing one, and it was an impressive flow of work.
Dean kept his question about the guitar to himself until they took a break two hours in. “You never play on the road,” he said when they were alone.
She shrugged. “I have. Not this tour.”
He didn’t push the inquiry further, because his curiosity didn’t trump her right to privacy.Maybe later,he found himself thinking, knowing he meant after the tour, when he’d be gone.
When the other songwriters came back, he took lunch orders and headed out to make himself useful.
But he didn’t get that far, because he ran right into Track Gantley at the bottom of the stairwell heading back to the parking lot behind the house.
The singer sneered at him. “You look lost.”
Dean stared past him, projecting an air ofget the fuck out of my way. “Excuse me.”Do not engage. Do not—
“What are you doing here, besides panting after Liana?”
“At the moment, I’m in charge of fetching lunch.” He dragged his gaze lazily up to Track’s face. “You’re in my way.”
“You’re a bad influence on her.”
Well, that was direct. And wrong. Dean cleared his throat. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“It’s not going to work.”
Dean shook his head. “I really need to get lunch, so if you’ll excuse me.”
“She’s refused to meet with us while she’s in town. Her latest album is unacceptable and—”
“I’m going to stop you there and remind you that I’m not someone who’s privy to the contractual details of your agreement with Ms. Hansen, and as such probably should not be told your opinion of her work that is under said contract.” Dean bit down, hard, to keep any other, choicer words from spilling out.
That didn’t stop Track from continuing his bizarre attack. “You don’t know what you’re doing. What you’re messing with.”
“I’m not doing anything other than being a good friend to Liana.”
“You keep telling yourself that. But I see how you look at her. You’re no better than any other shark out there.”
