“I can’t tell you how grateful I am for the opportunity to work with you, Mr. Taylor?—”
“Please don’t call me that,” he cuts in. “Boone is fine.”
“Oh. Sure thing.” I give him a friendly smile, but he doesn’t see it, too focused on the latch.
The door clanks open against the metal siding, and Boone’s booted steps thunk against the bricked floor as he heads down the row of stalls. The horses snort and neigh, offering a warmer welcome than their owner. I resist the urge to stop and say hi and trail after him instead, guitar in hand and bag slung over my shoulder. Not that I expected any help.
At the end of a short back hallway, Boone unclips a ring of keys from his jeans, unlocks a door, and surprises me by holding it open. I murmur a thanks and step inside.
It looks a bit like an apartment, where you step straight into the living area. A big, comfy-looking couch, a couple of mismatched chairs, and a rug that takes up most of the floor.
“Bathroom’s through there.” He tips his head toward a black door at the far end. Then he gestures to the space beyond a wall of glass. “And clearly, that’s the studio.”
There’s a console crowded with soundboards and screens, and a booth beyond it with a mic hanging over a worn wood stool, the walls lined with sound-dampening panels.
“Nice space,” I say, though I’m a bit… underwhelmed. I mean, thisis notthe studio of a multimillionaire. More like something a college kid would throw together in their off-campus apartment.
Not at all what I expected. But I’m adaptable. And I’m in good company. If this place was good enough for Gabriella Rose, it’s sure as heck good enough for Summer Starling.
“It’s not.” He huffs a sound that’s not quite a scoff, but definitely not a laugh. “But it serves its purpose.”
He gestures toward the couch. I’m guessing that’s his version of telling me to sit. When he drops into one of the armchairs, I follow suit. “I’d say so. How many chart-toppers have been recorded here?” I ask, though it’s more compliment than question.
“Don’t know.” He sounds like he genuinely doesn’t.
“Twelve number ones and thirty-something top tens,” I answer my own question.
His gaze finally lifts to mine, brows pulling together. “You researched me?” He doesnotsound thrilled by that.
“Only what I could find on Wiki,” I admit. He strikes me as the type who can sniff out bullshit from a mile away.
He dips his chin, eyes dropping to my guitar case. “You play?”
Welp, the research doesn’t go both ways. That’s okay—I like talking about myself.
“Yeah. Self-taught. I’m no Chet Atkins, but I get by.”
He adjusts his cap, nudging the bill, but it looks exactly the same when his hand drops. A glint of gold on his finger catches my attention. Hmm, I don’t recall seeing anything about a spouse online.
“Would you mind me asking why you decided to take me on?” I try not to sound like I care what the answer is.
I have my manager’s side of the story, but Boone’s disinterest makes me doubt how accurate it is.
Kendra said he likes a project, and apparently I’m his newest one. His people saw me on the show and told her I’d be a good fit. She didn’t give me many details, just the timeline, the address, and when to show up. Starting a week before Christmas felt a little strange, but I didn’t ask questions. I was taught not to look a gift horse in the mouth, and this is just about the best gift I’ve ever received.
“Well, you already asked,” he says, not putting much feeling behind it.
I laugh, a little too high-pitched. “Guess you’re right.”
He rubs his palms down his jeans and peers up again. His eyes are a muddy green, faint lines at the corners. He could pass for Riley Green’s older brother. My research said he’s only forty, but he reads older. He looks like a man who used to smile more than he does now.
His gaze drifts past me and goes unfocused, surprising me by actually answering. “I trust Josh to set up my work.”
I have no clue who Josh is, but I’m guessing he’s part of “his people,” and I’m eternally grateful he took a chance on me.
“Thank you?—”
“You already said that,” he cuts me off.
