“Are you nervous about your first day?” I ask, even though I should’ve left five minutes ago.
“Oh, heck. It’s obvious, isn’t it?” She sighs, each word a little dimmer.
“You’re gonna kill it.” I haven’t actually heard her sing, but I’d put money on her impressing the hell out of this guy.
“If you get stuck at the studio, or with plans, or whatever, don’t hesitate to call Tara about the cat,” I offer. Not like that’s the whole reason she’s here or anything.
“Miles, it’s literallymy jobto take care of Gracie,” she reminds me. “I’m going to take care of her. Don’t worry.”
“I know you will. It’s not… Yeah.” I clear my throat. “Yeah. Right.”
I scratch Grace’s head one more time, my fingers buried in her fur, as my gaze catches on Summer’s. “Text or call if you need anything, okay?”
“Yeah. I will.” She catches her bottom lip between her teeth.
It takes more restraint than I knew I had not to reach out and free it.
She goes back to the couch, and I grab my duffel and head for the door before I can say,or do, anything else I shouldn’t.
Friends.
Friends.
Friends.
Friends.
TEN
I rapmy knuckles against the wooden door again.
This house rivals Miles’s. It’s so far beyond what I grew up with, but if I can make this happen, I’m gonna make sure my mama never has to worry again. Not that she’d ever let me buy her something this fancy.
She’d be happy with a three-bedroom in a good neighborhood, one with afternoon sun and a yard big enough for the garden she’s always wanted. I’m determined to give it to her.
When no one answers, I peek through the panes of glass flanking the door. There’s a layer of grime on the window that I have to swipe away to see through.
I can only make out the foyer. It’s grand, with two spiral staircases on either side of the open space. There’s a large table in the middle, but it’s draped in a white sheet. From what I can see of the living room, all the furniture there is covered, too. Does anyone live here? It reminds me of a house readied for long-term storage.
A loud metallic slam makes me jump, heart in my throat. I turn, searching for the source.
Farther back on the lot, near the tree line that borders the left side of the property, sits a silver Airstream trailer.And I’mguessing the man striding toward me is who I’m here for: Boone Taylor.
A four-time Grammy winner whose songs have spent more than a hundred weeks at the top of the charts. And in recent years, the producer behind dozens of #1 hits.
I’m hoping he’ll help me get my first one. My manager swears it’s a done deal, that the man’s last forty songs have been chart-toppers.
He’s too far away for me to make out his features, but he’s wearing a ball cap, worn denim, and a gray Henley. He has facial hair, maybe a mustache? And as he gets closer, I catch a scowl.
“Morning!” I call out.
He answers with a grunt, then adds, “This way,” turning back in the direction he came but veering right, expecting me to follow.
I do.
All the way to a long barn with a paddock.
“Next time, follow the road around the house and down. You can park here,” he mutters.
