Page 77 of Knot Their Starlet

“Well, um, what did you think? This is only one of the songs I worked on. I thought it was the best, but maybe⁠—”

“What? No maybe’s, man,” Leo says, interrupting Beckham’s babbling. “That was awesome!”

“Seriously,” Eli agrees, clearing his throat and averting his gaze.

Interesting.

It’s obvious who Beckham drew inspiration from, both in his lyrics and in his creative spree last night.

Maybe that has something to do with the awkwardness I sense there. He’s seen the two of them interact. Maybe there’s something I should know about if Eli has feelings about it, considering how wholeheartedly devoted to Beck he is.

I should know about anything that could hurt Beckham. Not just because I’m personally invested in the success of his career, but because I’ve grown rather fond of him since signing him on.

“What did you think?” Beckham asks me, his eyes shining with anxious anticipation.

“I think we should head into that studio right now. I was wrong, Beckham. I do think we have a number one radio hit on our hands.”

“Wh—what? Wait, like the two of us? I thought—I thought you didn’t do that anymore.”

“I do today,” I say, standing from my seat.

He’s right. Ever since I became the owner of this record label, I’ve had far less time to dedicate to the art form. But I started out as a music producer, and seeing Beckham’s raw talent is leaving me itching to get behind the soundboard again.

“Really? Holy shit, thank you, Everett! This is... wow, was it really that good?”

I stop, my hand on the doorknob to the studio. I make sure he meets my gaze before offering him a firm nod.

“Yes.”

“O—oh,” he says, his voice taking on a breathless quality. He should sing the harmonies of the chorus like that.

“Great. Let’s get started on that demo.”

Some people shit on pop music, but it’s a skill-set on its own to make something with mass appeal. Something that resonates enough to make a lot of people feel things. You know how hard that is when there are so many people with such different lives?

But there’s something about Beckham, about his enthusiasm, about the way he writes, about the way he’s so open to feedback despite his earlier anxieties. Something that just makes him so easy to work with.

We’re done with the demo in two hours.

A record in my book. It normally takes a whole lot longer when I’m on the other side of this booth because of how particular I am about certain things. But Beckham and I seem to have found a groove.

“You’re the best boss ever,” Beckham says, tugging his headphones so they hang around his neck. “You’re so good at what you do.”

“So are you.” I nod as he steps out of the booth. “And that praise doesn’t come easily to me. It’s hard to produce a hit from someone without talent, and you have that talent in spades.”

“You—you really think this is gonna be a hit?”

“I do.” My expression grows serious as I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “Which is why I need to meet Andromeda Sterling soon.”

“What?” His steps falter.

Interesting.

Even more reason I should meet the girl.

“She’s obviously a fountain of inspiration for you, but being inspired to this level often means having big feelings.”

He just blinks at me, frozen like a deer in headlights.