“Nothing has even started—”
“Oh, yes it has. You’ve got the look. TheI’m going to get my heart broken by a woman who’s going to marry one of those Animos Society assholeslook. TheI’m going to get my heart ripped out and stepped on by a girl whose father wouldn’t let me lick his bootslook. The—”
“Enough.”
Angie was right, of course. She had no reason to look his way or feel anything about him. That didn’t mean he wanted her to continue.
“Are you sure she was lookingatyou and not down her nose at you?”
He didn’t answer her. Not when he knew she was probably right.
“Danny Boy, she’s off-limits. And you should know that.”
“She was looking at me,” he said, sounding more like he was trying to convince himself than her. “She felt it, too. Probably.”
“She was looking at you because she knows she could have you and throw you away. Pretty little rich girls think they can get everything they want.”
Again, he didn’t answer. He wanted her to be wrong, but every self-preservation instinct in him told him she was exactly right.
“You’re going to get hurt. You know all of them are like, engaged from the time they’re born, right? Have to keep all their money locked up away from us poors and our dirty fingernails. She might as well have ‘Private Property’ tattooed on her forehead.”
“Please, don’t talk about her like that. We don’t even know her.”
“Which is exactly why I’m advising you to be cautious. I don’t want to see you get hurt.”
The woman living inside of Ashbrooke Manor could have been the biggest brat on the planet. She could have been some future duke’s private property, a rotten woman who would sooner use his favorite shirt as a dinner napkin before she would deign to speak to him. But… Her eyes haunted him. They were sweet. Curious. But there was a sadness, too. A trapped quality he couldn’t quite understand.
Lost. Just like her brother had said.
“I don’t think she’s going to hurt me.”
Angie tossed her hands in exasperation. “You know what? I hope she’s great. I hope she’s all your little romantic heart can take, the muse of your dreams, because you need a new song for this week.”
“Does this have something to do with the news you’ve been dangling in front of me since you walked in that door?” Daniel asked, thankful for the reprieve.
“Yep.” Angie snapped thepsound as she held out her hands as if for silence. “Alanis Trent is coming to the show.”
Daniel nearly dropped his stack of books. “Alanis Trent? The record producer?”
“One and the same.”
“To seeme?”
“No, I ran in here to tell you she was coming to see someone else.” She scoffed and rolled her eyes. “Yes, you. She dropped a client recently and she’s looking for someone to replace him. Someone with sweet, soulful eyes that all the American girls will lose their heads over. Your old songs are good and she was impressed with the recordings on my phone—”
“How’d you get her to listen to recordings of me on your phone?”
“One of my flames got me into a party. We got chatty, a little flirty, and she asked me if I knew any up-and-comers she should take a look at. She says she likes your old work but wants to hear something fresh. Something she can make into a hit.”
Unbelievable. He’d been dragging himself to London whenever he could scrape the money for bus fare, toiling away at open mic nights, when what he needed to do was flirt with a producer.
Still, his mind struggled to put together a coherent sentence amidst the shock and nerves and gratitude flooding him.
“Angie, I don’t know what to say.”
“Say you’re going to write me that hit song.”
“I will,” he promised.
