Trusting Your Heart: Clean Contemporary Romantic Comedy, Interracial Teacher BWWM Romance (Flower Shop Romance Book 4)

by Marisa Logan

  He smiled, then stood up to go. I stood up as well and he took my hands in his. “I'm not sure how this goes now,” he said. “If this were a first date, I'd go for the kiss. If you're going to be a client, a handshake would be more professional.”

  “How about a hug?” I offered. “That's a safe middle ground.”

  “It is indeed.”

  He hugged me, and the moment lingered on. I clung to him and closed my eyes. He had strong arms, and he was tall enough that he practically enveloped me. It wasn't a friendly hug. Friend hugs are all shoulders, without your middles touching, and plenty of patting on the back to keep it from getting too intimate. This hug was firm and close, with my small breasts pressed up tight against Ashe's chest. It made me feel warm.

  He pulled away and smiled at me. “I'll talk to you soon.” He touched my hand, and for just a moment I thought he was going to go for the kiss after all. For just a moment, I wanted him to. But he turned and left, leaving me there with a half-finished milkshake and a business card.

  I studied the card, trying to puzzle out what the little logo represented. I was hoping that it represented my future. Whether that was my romantic future, my professional future, or both, I couldn't be sure.

  All I could be sure about was that this day had started something that was about to change my entire life.

  Chapter 5

  I didn't call Ashe for a few days. I kept thinking about it, but warring voices in the back of my head kept getting in the way. One voice tried to tell me he was just using the promise of fame to get into my panties. Another told me that I just wasn't good enough, that my meager online fame had been a fluke and I'd fail if I tried for the real thing.

  But really, I was just being shy.

  I kept Ashe's business card clipped to my fridge with a magnet. Every time I came into the kitchen for something, the card stared at me. I wondered after a few days if he'd forgotten about me already. How long could a girl wait to call a guy before he moved on? I wasn't sure if I meant that from a romantic point of view, or a business one.

  I ended up doing what I always do: I channeled my confusion and emotions into a new song. I put the multitrack recording on hold for awhile, which was fine anyway since it can be a tedious process. Recording just one part of a song usually required playing multiple takes. Recording half a dozen parts meant I was getting sick of playing the same song over and over.

  I took my guitar and sat out on my balcony. I lived in a small apartment complex, mostly lower-middle class, and I had plenty of neighbors with a lot of kids. As soon as I started strumming my guitar, a small group of kids came over and sat on the ground below my balcony to listen. They called me “The Guitar Lady,” and when they saw me around the complex, checking my mail or carrying home groceries, they always asked me when I was going to play for them again.

  I really just did it because I liked to play outside, where I could enjoy the fresh air. But kids made a good audience. They liked everything I played, no matter what it was.

  I strummed my guitar, playing around with the emotions inside of me and trying to find the right chords for them. There was no pattern to the song yet. It was a freestyle form, dancing around the storm inside of me without touching it yet.

  Eventually, a pattern started to form in the chords. It wasn't something I was fully conscious of. I couldn't have told you which notes I played or how I made them come together. I'd figure that part out later, when I replayed the song from memory and worked on recording the notes in a music book. For now, though, it was about losing myself in the moment and embracing the music inside of me.

  Words came after I'd played through the melody a few times. I was making them up as I went along, and I knew I'd revise and refine the lyrics later on. But the first time a song comes, it comes as inspiration. Sometimes it's broken, incomplete inspiration. I'll stumble here and there searching for the right word. But it comes no matter what, and I let it out, sitting there under the sun with my preteen audience watching me from down below.

  I sang the words as they came to me, settling into the flow of the song. I started over a few times when things got jumbled, but the words kept coming smoother with each attempt. Eventually I made it through the whole song and wrapped it up with one final verse.

  “I never asked for your embrace,” I sang, my eyes closed, the sunshine caressing my face. “Never asked for your fame or for your...guidance. I never asked to see...your handsome face. Never...but now I can't deny it. I never asked to want...to feel your touch again. Never knew I'd crave your...No, ugh.”

  I stopped, clenched my eyes tight shut, searching for the words. I started playing again. “I never asked to want...to feel your touch again. Never knew I'd crave your closeness. Never...and I know I may be shy, but...I'll never know unless I...try it.”

  The kids below giggled. They always did when I sang about closeness or touching, even if my lyrics were never dirty. I flashed them a smile and sang the song through from the beginning, without the stumbles this time. I sang it a third time just to cement the words in my mind. Then I got up, smiling at the tiny applause I got from down below, and went inside to play the song in front of the camera and record it for later.

  Once I'd had more time to let it simmer in my mind, I'd write down the lyrics, tweak and revise them, then see if I wanted to do a proper recording to upload online. The song needed work before then, of course. But I thought I had something here.

  Once I had one good recording of the song so that I knew I wouldn't lose it, I went into the kitchen, grabbed Ashe's card off the fridge, and dialed his number. While the phone rang I wandered into the living room and sat down on my big fluffy couch, letting the cushions envelop me. I held my breath while I waited for him to answer.

  “Hello, Maddie,” he said as soon as he picked up. He sounded excited to hear from me. At least, I thought so? “How is my favorite new singer this afternoon?”

  Favorite? I thought. Is he serious or is this flirting? I didn't have much experience with flirting. I also couldn't seem to find my voice. “I'm...I'm fine,” I squeaked.

  “Good. That's good.” There was a long pause. “So, have you had time to think about what I said?”

  I wasn't sure if he meant the dating part, the business part, or both. “I've thought about it.”

  He waited for me to say more, but I wasn't sure what to say. It's funny, really. I can pour my feelings into a song just fine, but then I clam up when I try to talk to the person the song was about.

  “So what do you think?” he finally asked.

  “I think I'd like to try it,” I said. “The...the music thing. I mean, hiring you as my agent.”

  “That's good. That's excellent.”

  I thought I heard disappointment in his tone. Had he been hoping I was calling for a date? Had I been hoping that's what I was calling for?

  “Here's what I want to do,” Ashe said. “I want to bring you down to a recording studio. I'm sure you have some recordings of your own, but I want to get something really professional. High quality. Something I can show to prospective record labels, see if they like it. Do you have something you could play for us?”

  I froze, thinking about the song I just came up with. It wasn't ready, though, and I would die before I sang it in front of Ashe. My other songs, though, were all already online as The Faceless Soprano. “Does it matter if...if I've already put the song online? Like, will that hurt my chances?”

  “Like, on YouTube or something?” he asked. “It doesn't matter. If it's good, they'll want you. Depending on the contract, a record label might insist on new songs, so they can be guaranteed a share of the royalties. But for your first pitch, all that matters is that we find something they'll like. Something that makes them want more of you.”

  I felt my face heating up. “You think they'll want me?”

  “I know they will, baby doll.” I could hear the grin in his voice. “Trust me, Maddie. You stick with me, and I'm going to make you a star.”
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  “O-okay,” I said, barely whispering. My gut churned with fear at what was happening. It all seemed too fast. Did I want to be a star?

  Of course I did. I wouldn't have spent years posting as The Faceless Soprano if I didn't want the fame, the attention. It was just the fear of attaching my own face to my fame that made me want to run and hide and bury my guitar somewhere deep underground. I couldn't stand to face the possibility of failure.

  But I'd already taken the first step, and I got the feeling Ashe wasn't going to let me back down now. We chatted for awhile about the specifics, making an appointment for my first official recording and going over what I'd need to bring along. By the time I hung up, I was almost feeling good about this. Almost.

  Though at the same time, part of me was disappointed that Ashe and I only had an appointment, instead of a date.

  Chapter 6

  I pulled up to the recording studio about an hour before my appointment. I didn't mean to be so early, but I'd been so nervous that I had to channel the energy into getting dressed and ready for the day. Then I'd tried sitting around the apartment until it was time to leave, but I couldn't sit still.

  I got out of my car and pulled my guitar from the backseat. It was a bit chilly out, so I'd dressed for the weather in a slim pair of jeans and a baby blue sweater. I peered up at the building through my sunglasses, trying to work up the courage to go in. It was a tall office building that housed several law offices, a couple of accounting firms, and a local radio station on the top floor. The recording studio was part of the radio station, though it wasn't likely that any of my songs would end up on the radio today.

  I didn't really care about being on the radio, but at the same time, I did. Anyone and their mother could put songs up on YouTube, so in a way, it didn't hold the same prestige. I always complained about how people treated mainstream music, the rock and pop and rap played on the radio, like it was better than indie music. But deep down, I think every indie artist wanted to hear themselves on the radio someday. We just tried to deny it.

  I locked my car, hoping it would be safe while I was inside. I'd brought my keyboard and my violin as well, just in case Ashe wanted me to play something other than the guitar. I felt nervous leaving the keyboard in particular down in the car. No one would ever steal a violin, but the keyboard was pretty expensive. There was a security office inside the building, however, and I was sure they kept an eye out for suspicious characters in the parking lot.

  I walked inside and got in the elevator alongside a woman carrying a stack of folders and a pizza guy bringing someone's lunch. They both got off on the lower floors, leaving me alone with my butterflies as I made my way to the top.

  When the doors opened, I found myself staring at a secretary's desk. Emblazoned on the front of the desk was a logo and the words “WVNT: The Tri-State Area's Hottest Place for New Music!” A woman about my age sat behind the desk, typing something into her phone. She set the phone aside and looked up as I entered, flashing me a professional smile.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Yeah, I, umm...” I coughed, shuffling my feet. I took off my sunglasses and stuffed them into my purse. “I'm here to meet Ashe Ross? I have an appointment...”

  She glanced at a notebook in front of her, then nodded. “Yes, Ms. Wright? You're a bit early. I think they're still with another appointment. You can have a seat.” She gestured to a line of chairs off to the side. “And help yourself to coffee, if you like.”

  I thanked her and sat down, with my guitar case resting on the seat next to me. I didn't know what to do with myself while I waited, so I pulled out my phone and checked the @FacelessSoprano Twitter feed. I don't know what prompted me to tell Twitter what was going on, but I had to let it out and tell someone about my big scary news.

  At a radio station for a professional recording, I tweeted. Might land a record contract? Wish me luck. #FacelessSoprano

  Almost immediately, the responses started flooding my mentions:

  OMG, are u serious? I luv u!

  Good luck! We believe in you!

  Record companies are for sellouts. Say goodbye to your soul.

  Good for you! You deserve it!

  Tweet a pic of ur tits plz.

  I blocked and reported the last asshole (you always got a few trolls when you were a woman with any hint of fame). I sent my thanks to a few of the others, though as usual, there were too many responses for me to reply to them all. I was still buried in my phone when a shadow loomed over me as someone approached. I shivered, feeling like the heat had been sapped from the room. It was an effort to raise my head, as if that shadow had a weight of its own. A crushing depth that I couldn't describe.

  I looked up, and the sensation vanished. Ashe stood there, a grin on his face. “Maddie, so nice to see you again. Find the place okay?”

  I got up and held out my hand. He spread his arms for a hug. Then he held his hand out to me just as I spread my arms for a hug. We laughed, and finally he hugged me, though it was brief and mostly platonic. Mostly.

  I lugged my guitar along as Ashe led me back to the studio. He offered to carry it, but I refused. Partially because I can be stubborn about letting a man do things for me. But mostly because I didn't like people touching my instruments. Not since Danny Delaney dropped my violin in the eighth grade and cracked it.

  Ashe led me into a room filled with recording equipment. The walls were padded to prevent echoes, and lights and microphones hung from metal arms overhead. There was a large glass panel on one side of the room, looking into the control room. “Maddie, I'd like you to meet Clyde.” He nodded to the young man in the control room. “Clyde will be working the board while you play.”

  I smiled at Clyde, though he barely acknowledged me. He was too busy playing with the settings on the control board. He looked like a hipster, with large glasses and a t-shirt with the name of some indie band I was vaguely familiar with. “Can I get a voice check?” he asked me.

  “A what?” I looked up at the microphone, frowning.

  “That'll do.” He turned back to whatever he was doing. I was pretty familiar with the workings of music recording, but it was impossible to tell from out here just what Clyde was up to. I was sure he knew more about it than I did, though. I hadn't even gone to school for this sort of thing. I was entirely self-taught.

  “Have you decided what you're going to sing?” Ashe asked. He put a hand on my shoulder, and while it was a casual gesture, there was something personal about it. Almost intimate.

  I blushed and lowered my eyes. “Yeah,” I said. “I've got a song in mind.”

  “All right, then let's get started. We've only got about two hours before we have to give up the studio to the next appointment, and we want to get plenty of takes in.”

  I nodded and set down my guitar case, then opened the clasps and pulled it out. Ashe brought me a stool and positioned it under one of the overhead mics. He helped me with a set of headphones, then once everything was in place he went into the control room with Clyde and shut the door. They spoke to me over a speaker and we went over a few sound checks, then Ashe said, “Whenever you're ready, dear.”

  I watched Ashe through the window, letting his black eyes penetrate me. For a moment, I wanted to sing the new song I'd come up with after meeting him. But it was still unrefined, and I needed to play something that I knew was good. Something that would help me get this contract. I decided to stick with my original plan and play “Sweet Tears on my Face.” It had always been my most popular song. I'd written it after my father died, and I usually couldn't sing it without crying, but that just meant I was putting real emotion into it.

  I started strumming the guitar, closing my eyes and letting the music move through me. There was a long, slow buildup to the melody, then at first my voice came in only as a low hum. Finally, the rhythm picked up, and I started to sing.

  The comments section on YouTube, when I made myself look at it, was always filled with questions and theorie
s about what the song was really about. It was full of metaphors that people took to be about anything from a breakup to a virgin on her wedding day to a spirit coming back from the grave. But really, it was just a memory. One of my oldest memories, from when I was a little girl.

  I sang about being lost, about running through the woods, tears streaming from my eyes. About how big the world was when I was so small. The clouds parting overhead and the sun glaring down at me, blinding, hurting my tired eyes. Everything spinning, spinning, spinning, until I felt that the world was out of control.

  Then I sang about my father finding me. In the song, I never called him by name, so fans theorized the mystery figure might be a lover, a soldier, or maybe Satan come to claim my little soul. But it was just Dad. He scooped me up, held me close, and kissed the sweet tears from my face.

  My voice choked up near the end, as it always did. “And I remember the last time I felt your sweet kisses,” I sang, opening my eyes. “So long ago. But maybe one day, maybe someday, maybe some way, maybe I'll see you again. And those sweet tears will fall down my face...once again.”

  The studio was silent when I finished. I looked through the window at Clyde and Ashe. They were both staring at me. Ashe had a look of thrill on his face, his dark eyes wide and eager. Clyde's jaw was hanging open.

  Clyde pulled off his headphones. He didn't blink. He leaned forward and said into the microphone, “You're The Faceless Soprano!”

  “Oh,” I whispered, my breath catching in my chest. I hadn't stopped to think that he'd have heard of me. “Yeah. I guess I am.”

  From the grin spreading on Ashe's face, I knew The Faceless Soprano wasn't going to be able to keep her face secret any longer.

  Chapter 7

  “We'll do a marketing campaign centered around your big reveal,” Ashe said. He moved his hands as he talked, gesturing as if he could already see the things he was describing. “'Who is The Faceless Soprano?' We'll plaster it on billboards. Play it on TV. Get everyone asking the same question. Then we'll have the big reveal somewhere live, maybe on a daytime talk show. Maybe on Ellen. Do you like Ellen? She's a peach, really she is.”