All clean.All business.
So why did it feel personal?
She rubbed the back of her neck, staring at the words until they blurred.The whole idea had been born of logic: repair a weakening emotional connection before it costs the band its momentum.It was a textbook brand revitalization.She’d done it before, plenty of times.
But never with someone who looked at her like he saw her, not just the image she presented.
She shut her laptop with a sharp snap.
Across the room, a few framed photos rested on a shelf near the window, snapshots of the band laughing at rehearsals, all bright eyes and chaotic energy.In the middle of one photograph, Jami stood slightly apart from the others, smiling but not quite connected, as if he hadn’t realized the camera had found him.
She exhaled.He’s the story she told herself.Not you.
Still, her mind kept circling back to the sound of his voice earlier that day, rough velvet, low and serious when he’d asked:You sure you know what you’re asking?
She’d said:Yes.She always said yes to a challenge.
But this one?This one felt different.
The barn door creaked open, letting in a thin line of light.Carlene straightened automatically, half expecting Tony or one of the other members of the band.
Instead, it was Jami.
Barefoot again, in jeans and a soft T-shirt that clung to shoulders most men only dreamed of having.He carried two mugs of coffee, the rich smell drifting through the air.
“You’re still here,” he said, walking closer.
“I needed quiet to organize a few things.”
He set one mug in front of her.“Figured you might need this.”
She hesitated, then nodded a quiet thank-you.
He dropped onto the stool beside her, elbows braced on the bar, hair still damp from a late shower.“You always work this late?”
“When the job calls for it.”She lifted the mug, inhaling the steam.“You don’t get to the top by clocking out early.”
He smiled faintly.“Neither do musicians.”
Silence stretched for a few beats.Outside, the night hummed: cicadas, the distant splash of water from below the bluff, the soft whisper of wind in the palms.
Jami broke the quiet first.“So… fake girlfriend, huh?”
Carlene looked up sharply.“That’s not what I called it.”
“Close enough.”His grin was lazy, but his eyes were curious.“You really think that’ll work?”
“It’ll remind your audience what they love about you,” she said.“Emotion sells.Always has.”
He studied her for a moment.“You talk about it like it’s math.”
“It is math,” she replied.“Attention, engagement, conversion.Everything’s measurable.”
He tilted his head, eyes glinting.“And what’s your formula for hearts?”
That caught her off guard.She blinked.“Excuse me?”
“You can measure clicks and views,” he said, voice softer now.“But how do you measure what makes someone care?”
