by Terri Osburn
“Thank you for coming in today,” he said, offering his hand.
The woman offered her own and presented a firm shake. “Thank you for having me.”
He motioned for her to have a seat as the receptionist closed the door behind her. “Did Belinda offer you something to drink?”
Ms. Garcia nodded. “Yes, but I’m fine, thank you. So you’re looking for an A&R director?”
Right to the point. Clay liked her already. “That’s right. According to your resume, you started in radio and have worked as a talent scout for two small labels in town.”
“Technically, I started in my grandmother’s Tejano club in San Antonio. By the time I was fifteen, I was working the booking office and deciding who would play and who wouldn’t. I didn’t move to radio until I was nineteen, but I list that first since the club work was in a more unofficial capacity.”
“In other words, you weren’t legally old enough to work in that environment,” Clay surmised.
“Correct. But the experience contributed to what I do today.”
Clay leaned back, intrigued. “Which is?”
Ms. Garcia held his gaze. “I find stars. I’ve had an ear for a hit song since I was young—well before I started running the booking office—and I’ve put that talent to work tracking down artists who have what it takes to be successful. Those who possess the inexplicable quality that few are born with and even fewer learn to exploit. Once I find them, I give them the tools and support necessary for them to break out and be successful.”
She’d just reiterated every duty he and Naomi had listed on the director job description the week before. The one they hadn’t posted online. Emily Garcia knew her stuff, and Clay had every confidence she could back up her claims. But he had to be sure.
“Who have you discovered during your time in Nashville?”
Dark-red lips pursed. “I’ve had three relative success stories, but all have been limited by the resources afforded through my employers. Brandon Thompson scored a top fifty hit before the marketing budget ran out. Monica Whitcomb penned and recorded a song that, unbeknownst to myself and the label, she’d also given to another artist, who then recorded and took the song to number four the week before Ms. Whitcomb’s version was scheduled for release. The label proceeded to pull the plug on the artist’s deal.”
When she stopped there, Clay asked, “And the third?”
“A band,” she replied, her voice clipped. “They showed great potential, but the lead singer couldn’t set his ego aside long enough to take advantage of my expertise. That deal fell through as well, and now I’m in search of a more suitable position with a label who is committed to the artists they sign. One willing to dedicate the resources necessary to see those artists not only succeed but thrive in such a competitive market.”
So she’d actually had three failed attempts at signing new artists and had been relieved of her duties. Ms. Garcia talked a good game, but the track record didn’t back up the bravado. Enthusiasm waning, Clay asked one more question. “What do you think of Jesse Gold?”
Dark brows drew together. “Of the Honkytonk Daisies? Haven’t you already signed her?”
“I have. But I’d still like to hear what you think of her. Would you have recommended I sign her?”
Ms. Garcia tilted her head in contemplation. “Having never met her, I can only base my assessment on what I know of the duet, and what I’ve heard since the pair parted ways. I know she co-wrote many of the songs on the Honkytonk Daisies album, which had a moderate level of success. She has a good voice and a natural stage presence, two important skills in any performer. She also has a reputation for being difficult, though I’ve never heard this firsthand from anyone who has actually worked with her, so I’d be interested in testing the assertion.” Crossing her arms, she added, “Women are inordinately accused of being difficult as compared to men, especially in this industry, so I would have suggested setting a meeting to see if Ms. Gold has the composure and wherewithal to pursue a solo career.”
A good answer and one that put Clay squarely on the fence. Ms. Garcia’s history was questionable at best, but she managed to employ both common sense practicality and open-minded intuition in making a determination about Jesse. In doing so, she’d come to the same conclusion Clay had via the same thought process. Except for the fact that he’d actually met Jesse and been able to confirm his gut feeling that she would prove to be worth the investment.
“I like your approach.” Time to see if she’d done her homework. “How much do you know about Shooting Stars?”
Without hesitation, she said, “I know it’s your second label after founding and running Foxfire Records with Tony Rossi for nearly two decades. You operate with a small but capable staff, have achieved impressive success with the first two artists signed—Dylan Monroe and Chance Colburn—and because of those two choices, I know you’re willing to take calculated risks when it comes to choosing talent.”
Ms. Garcia balanced on the edge of her seat. “I would also like to think that you apply those same tactics when adding new members to the staff. I’m well aware of my track record, Mr. Benedict, but I also know that I am the person for this job. If you’ll give me the same chance you’ve afforded your artists, you won’t regret it.”
She’d beat him to the “Why should I hire you?” punch, and she made a valiant argument in the process. All of his artists so far had been calculated risks, and two of the three had paid off. The risk with Ms. Garcia would not be as high since Clay would still be making the final call on who was signed.
He appreciated her honesty and confidence in her own abilities, but there were two candidates yet to be interviewed and if either had a better track record, Ms. Garcia’s search for a more suitable position would continue.
Clay rose to his feet, buttoning his suit coat as he went. “Thank you. I appreciate you coming in today, and you’ll be hearing from us soon.”
Ignoring the obvious dismissal, she stood and stepped closer to the desk. “I know what it looks like, Mr. Benedict, but the acts I chose I would choose again today without hesitation. Most of them, anyway. I still believe that they have what it takes, but sadly, I cannot say the same for the labels with whom I’ve chosen to work. When I saw this opportunity, I knew that this is where I need to be. I hope you’ll come to believe that as well.”
The words implied a desperation not reflected in the woman’s eyes. There Clay saw unflinching determination, a trait he recognized well. Without the same belief in himself, he wouldn’t be where he was today.
“You’ve pled a solid case, and I can assure you that I haven’t ruled you out. But there are other candidates vying for the position, and no decision will be made until all interviews have been conducted.”
Expression tight, she nodded. “I understand. Thank you again for this opportunity.”
Though nothing in her demeanor changed, Clay sensed a thread of resignation as she crossed to the door. “Ms. Garcia,” he said, and waited for her to turn his way. “You’ve set a high bar for the other candidates. They’ll need stellar credentials in order to outpace you for the position.”
Intelligent brown eyes held his gaze. “Credentials aren’t everything, Mr. Benedict, and instinct can’t be gleaned from a resume. I hope you’ll remember that.”
The response put a smile on his face. “Duly noted.”
Shoulders high, she left the office, and Clay remained standing behind his desk. Regardless of what Emily Garcia had achieved thus far, he had a sneaking suspicion that she would one day run this town. If that was the case, she would need a worthy mentor. He knew immediately he wanted that role.
Returning to his seat, he pressed the intercom button on the desk phone. When Belinda picked up, he said, “Cancel the other interviews, please. A decision has been made.”
Drifting to consciousness, Jesse stretched her arms above her head and smacked her knuckles on a hard surface. Jerking them back down, she gripped the unfamiliar blankets
as her eyes scanned the dimly lit room. Nothing looked familiar.
Fending off panic, she brushed the hair from her face. Dark curtains blocked the sun, making it difficult to tell what time it was. Sitting up, Jesse spotted her bag near the door, and reality came rushing back.
Ryan’s drunken homecoming.
Finding the text messages.
Showing up at Ash’s door in a rain storm.
And then another memory hit, and she pressed fleece-covered hands to her warming cheeks. Jesse had tried to seduce Ash. Part of her was relieved that he’d turned her down, while another felt insulted. Once upon a time, they’d created many elaborate ways to sneak off together. Now he’d had no trouble patting her on the head and sending her down the hall like some child with a silly crush.
Jesse pulled the covers over her head, chanting, “Stupid, stupid, stupid.”
Eyes shut tight, she breathed through the ache in her chest, suffocating in mounting layers of humiliation. How had her life become such a colossal mess? On top of having to collect her meager possessions from Ryan’s house, there was the minor problem of where the heck to put them.
She was, for all intents and purposes, homeless.
Another moment of panic set in. Would Ryan still be there? She didn’t dare call him. That was out of the question. He’d presumably catch a flight to Boston at some point, but would he be gone by now? Desperate to know the time, she looked around for a clock and didn’t see one.
Climbing from the bed, she tiptoed across the room to rummage through her bag for her phone, which was dead. Ryan had called several times as she’d searched for a place to land so she’d silenced the ringer and shoved the thing in the bag to avoid answering it. The sad truth was, Jesse didn’t trust herself not to be sweet-talked into going back to him. A pathetic truth, but if she’d learned anything in the last twenty-four hours, it was that she had to stop lying to herself.
In her heart she knew that Ryan’s betrayal was painful, but not surprising.
Digging deeper into the bag, she realized she’d forgotten to grab her charger. Ryan had most likely called around looking for her, and that meant several of her friends could quite possibly be freaking the heck out right now. Would he call her parents? They’d never liked him much, and she had no recollection of ever giving him their number. Why would she? Jesse rarely talked to them, and she’d long ago stopped using them as an emergency contact.
No, her parents should still be blissfully ignorant of the mess their daughter was in. A blanket text to the right contacts should put everyone else’s fears to rest, but the phone had to be charged for her to do that. Her only option was to use the car charger in the Jeep, but that would require leaving the room. Which would mean facing Ash. Gut turning at the prospect, she carried the bag into the bathroom. If she was going to suffer the indignity of her actions, Jesse would not do so looking like the star of a Honey, I Shrunk The Kids reboot.
Another quick search of the bag revealed one more essential item she’d forgotten—a toothbrush. Thankfully, she found a travel-size bottle of mouthwash under the sink and gave her teeth a good rinse. She quickly changed into her own clothes, and then looked in the mirror.
“Good morning, Medusa.”
This was why Jesse never went to bed with wet hair. Returning to the bag for the hairbrush she’d gratefully remembered, she tamed her fiery locks into a ponytail as best she could while she struggled with what to say to Ash. She obviously hadn’t been thinking straight and could only pray that her bumbling attempt at seduction hadn’t ruined their tenuous working relationship. Despite her personal life being a complete shambles, she had no intention of letting her professional one go the same way.
Settling on a simple plan—thank him for putting her up, apologize for the intrusion, and promise to return tomorrow when she’d, hopefully, secured some temporary lodging—Jesse stepped into the hall and caught the faint sounds of a guitar coming from the studio. The melody sounded familiar, and she realized it was one of hers.
Leaving her bag in the hall, she opened the door and stepped inside to find Ash strumming away with headphones covering his ears. Eyes closed, he was lost in the song, adding a yearning tone she hadn’t come close to in the original version. It was a lonesome sound, and it complemented the lyrics perfectly.
When he finished recording, Ash removed the headphones, and Jesse said, “I thought you didn’t like my songs.”
He spun around, clearly surprised to no longer be alone. “And I thought you were going to sleep all day. Do you feel better?”
Jesse still didn’t know what time it was. “How late is it? Why didn’t you wake me up?”
He set the guitar in a stand to his left. “You had a tough night and needed the sleep.” Rising from his chair, he closed the distance between them, and his nearness sent butterflies flitting around in her stomach. He was the only man who had ever had that effect on her. “I’ll make you something to eat.”
“I’m okay,” she said, stepping back at the same moment her stomach growled loudly. One more betrayal she didn’t need. “I don’t want to put you out any more than I already have.”
With a gentle smile, he ignored her words. “You need food. Come on.”
Seeing the futility in arguing, she followed him to the kitchen and took a seat on one of the island stools. Ash went to work, drawing a small frying pan and a sauce pan from a lower cupboard before retrieving a can of tomato soup and a loaf of bread from the pantry. Next, he snagged a package of cheese from the fridge.
Jesse recognized the plan immediately.
“You remember that, too,” she said, unable to keep the shock from her voice. First her favorite sandwich. Now her favorite gloomy-day meal.
Ash never broke stride. “I figured you could use some comfort food. The canned stuff isn’t as good as Granny’s homemade, but it’s the best I can do today.”
With a sigh, Jesse watched him work, graceful and efficient as he whipped the meal together. No man had ever cooked for her, not even her own father. When Ash paused long enough to offer a friendly grin, a tiny voice in the back of her brain whispered if you leave this house, you’re an idiot.
Sixteen
“I can’t stay here,” Jesse said as Ash poured the soup into the pan.
Exactly what he’d expected her to say. “You’re welcome for as long as you need a place, but that’s up to you.”
“About last night . . .”
“You mean this morning?” he said, trying to keep things light. He knew she was likely embarrassed, and he wanted to put her at ease. “Don’t worry about it.”
“I don’t know what I was thinking.”
Ash sighed. “You were hurt and tired, that’s all.”
“I made a fool of myself and put you in an awkward position.” Face in her hands, she mumbled, “I feel like an idiot.”
Ash leaned on the island, but she kept her head down. “Jesse, come on. Look at me.” The ponytail swayed as she shook her head. “You’re being a little hard on yourself, don’t you think?” That got her attention and she lifted just enough for him to see her eyes. “You took a big hit last night. He hurt you, and you reached out for comfort. There’s no harm in that. I’m just glad it was with me.”
Dark brows drew together. “Glad it was with you?”
He stirred the soup. “Coming here was better than ending up in some bar looking for a one-night stand. There aren’t many men who would turn down that kind of an offer from a beautiful woman.”
“And yet you had no problem saying no,” Jesse snapped. “For your information, I’ve never been desperate enough to have sex with a stranger.”
At some point, he’d taken a wrong turn, but Ash had no idea where. “I never said you were desperate. You just weren’t thinking straight.”
“Clearly,” she snorted.
Was she pissed because he’d turned her down? “Luckily, I was thinking for both of us and made sure you didn’t do anything you’d regret.”
Jesse left her stool and slung the heavy bag over her shoulder. “Too late.” Without another word, she stormed toward the door.
“Hey! Where are you going?”
“I have to get my stuff and find a place to stay. I’ll be back tomorrow.”
Ash reached the door before she did and cut off her exit. “Do you really think I’d leave you to deal with this on your own?”
“You’ve done enough.”
“Let me rephrase that,” he said. “There isn’t a chance in hell I’m letting you handle this alone. So sit down and eat something, and then we’ll get your things. I assume there’s more than what’s in that bag.”
She hesitated, jaw tight. “I… I don’t know if he’s still there. But you don’t—”
“I know I don’t. You said he has a show tonight. Do you think he’d skip it?”
Jesse shook her head. “No. He’ll catch a flight to Boston whether he finds me or not.” Her voice cracked when she mentioned the city, and he remembered what she’d said about the text messages on Dimitri’s phone. Someone was waiting for him in Boston.
Saving his anger for when he found the shithead in a dark alley, Ash took the bag from her shoulder, dropped it by the door, and nodded for her to return to the kitchen. “He’ll need to catch a flight soon, if he hasn’t already. We can wait until this evening to make sure he’s gone.”
“I guess that could work.” As he returned to the kitchen, Jesse surprised him with a question out of left field. “Why did you get divorced?”
“Like I told Grimelda, Ronnie and I were better as friends. We just figured that out a little later than we should have.”
“But you said that you still love her.”
Ash dropped the first sandwich into the pan, and it sizzled loudly. “There’s a difference between loving someone and being in love with them.” He pulled a spatula from the utensil jar and leaned his hip on the counter. “Ronnie and I love each other, but we were never really in love.”
