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She inhales sharply. “What do I do?”

I put the phone back to my ear, as if somebody’s listening in on this empty street. “You should take the meeting.”

“Okay, but…then what? What do I say?” She’s panicking a little bit.

“It’s fine,” I say, keeping my voice soothing. “Jenna is good people. MET is a newer agency, but they’ve signed some talented indie voices and done good work for them. It’s not like ITA in terms of size, but you’d get more individualized attention, and they still have great connections. It’s actually…a really solid choice for a newer musician.”

She sniffs.

“Hey, baby, what’s wrong?” I say. “This is a good thing.”

“I know…but I’m overwhelmed.”

I pause, thinking this through. I’m in a weird spot right now because I’m not her agent, I’m not her boyfriend—not her anything. But I still feel incredibly responsible for what happened. Not to mention, I care deeply. However, I’m still an agent. If I call Jenna, she’s gonna think she tried to poach Serena by accident, and I’ll have to be upfront about what she is to me.

Still, I’m willing to do it.

“Let me call Jenna,” I say. “Get a feel for what they want.”

“Okay, that would be good,” she whispers.

“But I do want to make clear that I’m doing this as a friend,” I say. “I’m not your agent in any capacity.”

She’s quiet. Finally: “My friend?”

“You have another word for it?”

“No, sorry,” she amends quickly. “Go call Jenna, I’m fine. Thank you, I appreciate it.”

“I’ll call you back.”

She hangs up. It’s warmer than I initially thought, I need to go sit in my truck and turn the air on. Pacing down the street toward the lot where I parked, I scroll through my contacts before I locate Jenna Holland. We worked together on a client collaboration a few years ago. Jenna is a young, hungry agent with a great track record already. I was impressed by her, and also impressed by the structure of MET. It’s a woman-owned agency that primarily takes on women, which would be a great fit for Serena, who’s so green.

I hit the call button and climb into my truck.

“Jamie Iron?” she chirrups.

“Hey, Jenna, sorry to call out of the blue,” I say, turning on the air and leaning back, releasing the seat so I can stretch my legs.

“You’re good, I can talk,” she says brightly, her crisp British accent echoing. “I’m just heading out of work, in the lift, so don’t be shocked if the signal cuts out.”

“I appreciate that. I’m calling about Serena Maxwell.”

“Serena—Oh, shit. Is she your client?”

“No, no, she’s not.”

Silence.

“Then…what’s going on?”

I clear my throat. “I know her. She asked me to make sure the inquiry was legit.”

“Well, yes, it is,” she says, heels clacking in the background. “I actually saw one of her covers a few weeks ago. I’d been keeping an eye on her, then she had a video blow up a little and I wanted to at least speak with her. Be the first through the door. How do you know her?”

I click my tongue, thinking. “It’s sort of a horizontal relationship.”

“A what?”