The man didn’t know what he asked.
“What holds you back from giving the band the best song either of us has ever played?”
“I’m afraid of her reaction. Afraid she’ll say the voice isn’t right for us.”
Caleb’s brows drew together, his gaze piercing. “It’s raw, vulnerable. The right voice for you. So stretch yourself. Trust yourself. Lead this band in a powerful new direction.”
Trust myself.
He had no idea how much she wanted to. To be more than a reasonably pretty face on a concert T-shirt. Not that Aunt Dahlia would permit the T-shirt…
“Run with it. Let’s play it right now. To become a serious leader, you need to take a risk when you see something good.”
“You’re pushing me way out there, Caleb.”
“Then think about this.” He leaned in and murmured in her ear, his voice deep, his warm breath tickling her cheek and sending shivers up her spine. “If your aunt rejects the song, record it solo.”
She swallowed hard as he moved back to a safer distance. “If I insist, it could bomb. If I go solo, it could bomb and hurt the band and my aunt. She wants this band to stay together as long as we’re both alive.”
“It’s not a marriage vow. Partnerships sometimes dissolve.”
Not in her world. Not with Aunt Dahlia.
“This is a once-in-a-lifetime song. No other song will do what this one will for you and your career. Even for your relationship with your aunt.”
“Why our relationship?”
“Because she thinks of you as a child. She sets your schedule, and you live with her, even though you hit twenty-one a few years ago. You had to sneak around like a teenager just to record a solo album.” Caleb moved closer, widened his stance. “She won’t let you date.”
Ariel laid her fingers over her parted lips. Did he mean—he wanted a date?
“If you let her continue to make all your decisions, you’ll end up living in your Tennessee mansion together for the rest of your lives, alone.” He backed away a step then turned toward the makeshift stage. “Think about it.”
She’d think about it, all right. Especially the date part.
Aunt Dahlia strode over to Ariel. “Open the meeting, then we’ll rehearse.”
“I want to talk to you first. See, I have a new?—”
“You’ll be fine. Just give it everything you’ve got.” She hurried back to Mr. Augo’s table at a near-gallop in her three-inch heels, her big hair bouncing.
She’d be fine? Not so sure about that.
Ariel grabbed her idea book and trudged to the center of the gathering.
The first topic on her agenda would bring pushback from her aunt, but they needed to talk about it anyway. “After our epic CMA win, we need to discuss ways to continue to improve musically and as a business.”
Ariel moved toward Aunt Dahlia and Mr. Augo’s table. “I know how you feel about merch. But we’re the only country band who ignores it.”
Aunt Dahlia let out a heavy sigh, her palm on her forehead. “Oh, Ariel…”
“Think of your ‘Miss Dahlia for President’ shirts we made during the last election. I saw them everywhere I went,” Paxton said in that squeaky alto voice you didn’t expect to hear in the music industry—not even from a band manager.
“You got 312 write-in votes just in Tennessee. How many people have done that?” Isaiah said. “It’s worth mild humiliation.”
She gave him her Miss-Dahlia-is-scolding-you look. “That’s because it’s not your face on everybody’s chest. I authorized those shirts only because my picture wasn’t on them.”
“Then let’s use the band’s name.” Paxton raised his strident voice. “Or put your faces on mugs and mouse pads and guitar picks.”
