Nashville
by Heart
a novel
TINA ANN FORKNER
Published by Velvet Morning Press
Copyright © 2016 by Tina Ann Forkner
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Cover design by Ellen Meyer and Vicki Lesage
Author photo by Cheri Kaufman
For my sister, Cheri Kaufman, and all who have followed their dreams to Nashville
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Epilogue
A Note from Tina Ann Forkner
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Chapter One
From the moment Gillian boarded the bus for Nashville, she was a cliché, but she was about to change all that. Today, she refused to be just another small town girl with a guitar slung across her back. If that meant altering her style a little, then so be it. It wasn’t like she was altering herself, right? Today, she was going to knock music manager Will Adams’ boots off—even though, ironically, she wished she’d kept her boots on, instead of these crazy high heels she’d paid for with her last paycheck.
“Ms. Heart?”
She wobbled around to face the receptionist, her confidence whirling right out of her chest. If she’d been able to do more than stumble across the room in her heels, she might have galloped right out of there.
“That’s me,” she said, offering a smile as shaky as her balance. “Gillian.”
The receptionist didn’t respond immediately. She was too busy appraising Gillian’s five-inch heels, shimmery silver top and the length of her skirt. Warmth flooded Gillian’s face, but she balanced herself with a hand on one of the lobby’s plush couches and forced herself to walk, albeit precariously, toward the reception desk. She didn’t even want to know what the lady was thinking as she waited for Gillian to wobble her way across the room. By the time she got there, she felt like a ten-year-old in her momma’s Sunday shoes. She attempted another smile, but when the lady frowned like one of those street mimes with painted-on emotions, Gillian couldn’t keep the act up any more. Slouching, she frowned too.
“I’m Josie, Will’s assistant.” She stuck out her hand for Gillian to shake.
“Gillian,” she repeated, shaking Josie’s hand.
“I’m so sorry, sweetie.” Josie’s accent was even thicker than Gillian’s. “Mr. Adams can’t see you.”
“What?” Gillian’s voice croaked as she self-consciously tugged at her skirt. She couldn’t help but squirm under the scrutiny of the receptionist’s gaze. “Why?”
“He’s having lunch with Audrey Smith, sweetie. Do you know who she is?”
“I’ve heard of her.” Who hadn’t heard of Audrey Smith, the newest and hottest star in country music?
“Audrey’s his new client, but she’s already got—”
“Three hit songs.”
Josie smiled. “It sounds like you know your country music.”
With effort, Gillian stood up straighter.
“Well,” she said, trying to sound jovial. “We did have radios in Gold Creek Gap.”
“Gold Creek Gap?” The assistant looked vaguely interested, or perhaps she was just pretending to be.
“Where I grew up.”
“I see. Well, listen, Gillian.” Josie walked toward the door and motioned for her to follow. “I hope this doesn’t sound all wrong, but while I’m not sure how you managed to get an appointment, I will let Mr. Adams know you came, honey. Does that help?”
“I talked to you on the phone,” Gillian mumbled, trying to remember their conversation the week before. But now she wondered: Had she misunderstood?
“I don’t recall that,” Josie said, smiling brightly. “I’m sorry.”
“Could we possibly reschedule?”
Josie blinked. “I’m so sorry. There’s been a mistake. Mr. Adams does have an unplanned appointment that came up today, but honey, he only sees people who are experienced in the industry. He doesn’t take on unknown talent.”
Ouch. Josie wasn’t smiling any more, and her pitying glance cut through Gillian. To hide the gathering tears, she stared down at her ridiculous shoes and felt her dreams evaporate. She heard Josie punch a button on the elevator door and waited for it to slide open. She couldn’t look at the woman who’d so easily seen right through her confident veneer to the naïve dreamer she really was.
“I believe it’s best to be honest,” Josie said quietly, while they waited. “So can I give you some advice, honey?” She stuck out a hand to hold the elevator doors open.
“Please.”
Catching her off guard, Josie lay a soft hand on her arm. The small act of kindness surprised Gillian, making her long suddenly for Gold Creek Gap, where everyone loved her and she never had to pretend. It took effort to look at Josie.
“I can tell you’re very pretty,” Josie said. “Underneath all that makeup.”
Gillian placed a hand on the wall for balance, but ended up grasping Josie’s outstretched hand instead. Josie let the elevator door close.
“Why don’t you take those silly shoes off, honey? You obviously don’t know how to walk in them.”
Gillian ignored the heat in her cheeks and kicked off the heels. Any pretense she was holding onto left in a puff of air from her lips as she groaned in pleasure at the sweet release of setting her toes free.
“I feel like such a phony,” she said. “Please know, this isn’t me, I just thought—”
“You wouldn’t be the first,” Josie said. “Girls like you are always trying to doll themselves up and be someone they’re not, but with you, I can see right through it.”
“Is that a compliment?” Gillian flashed a half-hearted smile.
“Sure is. Wipe off half that makeup and try wearing a pair of boots to your next audition.”
Gillian touched her cheek, absently rubbing the makeup away already. She felt ridiculous, and at twenty-five years old, it seemed like Josie, who must have only been a few years her elder, was decades ahead when it came to business know-how.
“And if you play an instrument, bring it,” Josie said. “This is Nashville.”
“Got it,” Gillian said, wishing she’d brought her momma’s guitar. She watched Josie push the button again. The doors slid open, and if she could’ve crawled into the elevator and died, she might’ve been better off, but something about Josie’s kind tone froze her in place. She took a deep breath. She didn’t want to leave on a bad note, just in case she was ever invited back. Although she was pretty sure that’d never happen.
“Anything else?” Gillian tried not to look desperate.
“Don’t give up, h
oney. Maybe try back in a few months, when you have some more experience under your belt.”
“Gotcha.” She felt like her three years in Nashville counted for something, but of course, there she was being turned away again. Maybe she was wrong. “Thanks for the advice.”
Josie offered a small smile and waved goodbye. As soon as the elevator doors closed, Gillian’s hands flew to her face. She kept it together until the elevator stopped and the doors slid open. Not bothering to look around, she hurried through the lobby, shoes in hand, and ducked into the ladies’ room. That’s when she wilted.
“Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry.” But she did.
Staring wide-eyed into the mirror, she dropped the shoes and fanned her already wet lashes with both hands. Why had she dressed like this? She’d given Josie the impression she was as fake as her new eyelashes. Gillian couldn’t blame the sweet receptionist, but the realization that she had looked ridiculous made her feel like an even bigger fool. Ducking into a stall, she plopped down on the toilet lid and buried her face in her hands.
Momma would be disappointed.
What’d she been thinking? That she looked good dressed that way? And that Will Adams, one of the busiest music managers in the industry, would actually give her the time of day?
But yes, as outrageous as it was, that’s exactly what she’d thought. She still remembered when the receptionist, it must have been Josie, actually returned her call. Gillian had spilled her iced tea all over herself trying to get a pen to write down the appointment. After that, she’d stressed for days, spending way too much time picking out her clothes. She’d practiced her best songs over and over, ready to impress Will Adams, but apparently it was all a fluke. And she’d forgotten her guitar.
Now, she’d have to go to her shift at the café where her friends, almost all struggling musicians and singers themselves, waited to hear how it went. She’d have to tell them she was a big fat failure. Again.
“No, not a failure,” she whispered in an effort to recover her pride, thinking of what her momma would say. This is just a setback.
Oh, how she wanted to call her momma right then, but she resisted. One day, she’d call home with a big announcement, like a record deal, but never with news that she was a fake and a failure.
Desperately wiping at her lipstick with a wad of toilet paper, she stifled a sob. She’d stupidly bought the kind that stayed on for hours. That was an extra thirty dollars she couldn’t get back. In fact, the mere thought of all the money she’d wasted on what was supposed to be a sexy, sophisticated country look made her feel like she’d just lost everything in Vegas. She glanced down at her bare legs sticking out from what she now realized was an incredibly short skirt. Wearing it had seemed like such a good idea at the time.
“Gee Manetti, I look like a Vegas showgirl.”
She was glad no one was in the bathroom to hear her arguments with herself. On someone else, the skirt might have been perfect, but not on her. She looked like a little girl playing dress-up. With a deep sigh, she stared at her ridiculous reflection for a few more seconds, then straightened to her full height. Her height was one thing she’d always had going for her. Josie was right. She didn’t need those heels.
“The show must go on.”
She smoothed her hair, tugged her skirt down—not that it helped any—slipped her feet back into her shoes, because they were all she had, and exited the bathroom in a hurry.
“Howdy.”
Now self-conscious of her outfit, she ducked her head and barely glanced at the man standing beside the door. Hopefully she could get past him and out of the building with just a mumbled hello.
“It’s raining,” he announced. “Reckon we should wait it out?”
She glimpsed the glass doors, and sure enough, sheets of rain showered the sidewalk outside. The drops pelted the glass, filling the lobby with a low roar. She must have been too upset to hear it in the bathroom.
“Good gravy.” She shook her head in frustration and stomped her foot, which was a bad idea that made her start to wobble again. Regaining her balance, she planted her fists on her hips. Of course. Of course, this would be her day. It’d barely been overcast when she’d taken the bus to Music Row that morning, so she hadn’t bothered with an umbrella.
“Are you lost?”
Now, why would he think she was lost?
“No. I’m fine, thanks.”
“Have a nice day then.”
She glanced at him. Heavens, he was handsome.
She stopped, wobbled again, and accidentally smiled just a little. Very handsome. And he definitely wasn’t the doorman in those jeans. She frowned, unwilling to interact with a stranger—even this one—at this very complicated and frustrating moment.
“Forget something?” he asked.
Caught off guard, she shook her head and turned toward the safety of the ladies’ room. Then she tripped. Gasping, she tried to catch herself, but instead a pair of strong hands grasped her waist, jerking her upright.
“Whoa.” He gripped her arm with one strong hand while reaching down to retrieve her dropped purse. She glanced quickly at his ring finger. Single. Her eyes locked with his.
Holy cow. Who in the world has eyes so blue? They drew her into a mesmerizing tide of crystal clear allure. He smiled, and after what she’d just endured, it would have been nice to be swept away by a handsome stranger, but that would be ridiculous. Finally realizing she was staring, she tore her eyes away and stared down at his boots.
“You OK?” he asked.
Catching a whiff of some kind of leathery scent that reminded her of her dad, she dared another peek. He was smiling with a self-assured expression that might have come across as cocky if not for the way he looked at her, like she was the only one who mattered in that instant. That was like her dad too, which wasn’t necessarily a good thing, but she couldn’t seem to make herself say goodbye and walk away.
“I’m fine,” she said, still teetering around like a puppet on a string.
He held the purse out. “You’d better take this. It’s not really my style.”
She nearly dropped it again. “Thanks.”
Great. As if the morning could get any worse. Now she was making a fool of herself in front of a man who was too attractive to be real, except that she could still feel his hand grasping her arm. If only she could again take off the stilt shoes that were throwing her off balance, but that would be awkward—plus, she needed them on to get home.
“Gotcha,” he said, gently tightening his grip when she stumbled again. When he lightly took her other arm in his, she found herself locked in his gaze. She stood there, knowing she should leave before she did something nonsensical, like cry or laugh out loud. She wasn’t sure which one the situation warranted. He smiled again, flashing almost perfect teeth, except one slightly crooked eye tooth that you wouldn’t even notice unless you were this close to him. She took a breath, admitting to herself that she kind of liked the position she found herself in, even though the circumstances of how she got there weren’t all that desirable, and he was a total stranger.
She took another good look at him. A stranger who was familiar.
Maybe it was his confident air, or maybe he was a famous country singer. Who knew in Nashville? He even had a scruffy Keith Urban quality that kept throwing her off.
“Steady, there.” His low drawl resounded in her ears in a pure Tennessee accent. Well, he wasn’t Australian, so definitely not Keith Urban. Her world rocked sideways even though he held her steady. She felt anything but as he stared at her with that crooked smile.
She noted his glance down, eyes quickly taking in her outfit from the wobbly shoes, grazing up her long legs and silky blouse before resting on her stained-red mouth, and, finally, her misty eyes. She looked away, wishing she could dash back into the safety of the bathroom, but he still held her. It was a good thing, too, with how off-kilter she was at the moment.
She really wished she’d worn her boots. One thi
ng was for sure, Cinderella was wrong about the impression a fancy pair of shoes can make. She was now swaying like a bad line dancer.
“I’ve got you.” He definitely did. Gathering her dignity, she hoped he couldn’t see how he made blood rush to her head.
“You need to sit down or something, darlin’?”
So, he was one of those guys. The kind who called women darlin’, as if there was already some kind of connection between them. She hated the type, at least usually. There didn’t seem to be anything especially creepy about this guy though. His voice echoed concern.
She opened her mouth, and for the first time since she’d come to Nashville, she was speechless. Really? Now? Since thinking of something to say was impossible, she snapped it shut before she resembled Loretta, her pet goldfish.
“No… thanks. I’m OK,” she finally said, regaining her balance. He cautiously let go, then offered his hand to shake.
“Will Adams. And you are?”
She blinked. The Will Adams she’d come here to meet? Her heart drummed, and she could’ve sworn she heard a clang in her ears. Will Adams. Get yourself together, girl, she told herself, and she did.
“Gillian.” She stuck out her hand as calmly as she could, thinking maybe her luck was turning around—or getting worse. At this point it was hard to tell. He responded by wrapping his fingers around hers. They were warm, and he didn’t immediately let go, which gave her time to study his face. His relative success in the music business, and pictures she’d seen of him, had led her to assume he was at least in his forties. Up close, she could see he was only five or six years her senior, maybe around thirty or so.
“Do you have a last name, Gillian?” His gaze locked on hers.
“Heart.”
He squinted, apparently pondering her name. His fingers, still wrapped gently around hers, made her forget for a split second why she was there.
“Gillian Heart,” he said. “Nice to meet you. Are you lost?”
“Lost?” Yes, but no. She shook her head. She wasn’t lost, even though he obviously didn’t remember cancelling their appointment not fifteen minutes ago.
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