He blinks. “Professionally,” he repeats, like he’s trying it on for size. “Wow. That's the most Nashville sentence I’ve ever heard.”
At the next table, someone laughs a little too loudly. Another woman leans over to her friend and whispers, eyes glaring our way.
Nancy clocks it immediately. “Great. We’re already a spectator sport.”
I set my phone down, pulse steady. “It’s controlled. Planned. Contained.”
Paige grins. “Famous last words.”
I smile tightly. “This is a strategy. Not a story.”
“Sure,” Nancy says. “Respectfully. So what’s the actual plan if you get chosen?”
Paige slaps her palm on the table like she’s calling a meeting to order. “We're not using the word plan. We’re using the word destiny.”
“We're absolutely using the word plan,” I say.
Nancy nods. “Thank you. Great. Plan. If you get chosen, what happens?”
“I go on stage,” I say, like I’m reading from a spreadsheet. “I ask a few questions. I pick the player who makes the most sense. Everyone claps. The charity gets money. My artist gets eyeballs. End of story.”
Paige smiles, all teeth. “You can’t say eyeballs at dinner.”
“I can and I will,” I tell her. “It’s a measurable goal.”
Nancy doesn’t blink. “What happens if they like you?”
“That’s not part of it.”
“It becomes part of it if they like you,” she says.
Paige leans in, stage-whispering like we’re in a documentary. “I would like her. I already like her. I’m obsessed.”
“Breathe,” Nancy says.
Paige inhales dramatically. “Fine. I’m breathing. But also, it’s one night. Free press. A Valentine’s theme. This is very you-coded… ambition.”
I peer at her. “I don’t know what that means.”
“It means you’re allergic to fun unless it comes with analytics,” Paige says.
Nancy’s gaze pins me again. “And what happens if you like them?”
I laugh once. Sharp. Controlled. “I won’t.”
At the next table, the whispering woman giggles like I’ve just said something charming. I hate it.
Paige points at her. “See? Even random ladies are already rooting for you.”
“I don’t need rooting,” I say. “I need turnout.”
Nancy’s voice drops. “Sloane.”
I look at her.
I sit up straighter. “Look. This is marketing. Not romance. Not vulnerability. Not… whatever you’re trying to drag out of me.”
Paige’s eyes gleam. “The word you’re searching for is feelings.”
