by Terri Osburn
Without a word, Clay crossed to the cabinet on the far wall to withdraw a tall bottle and two glasses from a lower cupboard. After pouring a splash of dark liquid into each glass, he offered one to Naomi.
She accepted the drink, still awaiting the reprimand she deserved.
“You want to tell me what happened between you and Chance?”
Not the question she expected. “I told you. Michael provoked him, Chance snapped, and I convinced him to let Michael go.”
He shook his head. “I don’t mean on Saturday night. You two have a past, and that past is now interfering with the present. What don’t I know?”
Clay Benedict had a great deal of faith in Naomi’s abilities. He’d also shown her, especially today, unwavering support. She owed him at least an edited version of their history.
“Seven years ago, Chance and I dated. His career was just taking off, and I was in my first PR position as assistant to Martha Reynolds.” Naomi took a sip of the amber liquid before continuing. The scotch burned its way down, providing much-needed fortitude. “After six months, choices were made that ended our relationship.”
“If Martha was involved, I can guess what choice caused the problem.” Of course Clay would know Martha. He knew everyone in this town. “Go on.”
“I assumed after our meeting Friday night that Shelly disliked me because she knew that history. Or a version of it that cast me as the villain.” Dropping into the chair she’d occupied earlier, Naomi met Clay’s patient gaze. “Chance says he’s never told Shelly about . . . us. Strangely enough, I believe him.”
“Then what does she have against you?”
That was the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. “I truly have no idea.”
“Spill, Shelly. Why are you so hell-bent against Naomi Mallard?”
Pregnancy hormones were one thing. This was something else entirely, and Chance wasn’t leaving this conference room until he got some answers.
“I don’t like her,” Shelly replied, crossing her arms like a three-year-old refusing to eat her vegetables.
“Try again.”
Glossy lips thinned into a line. “She’s trying to push you too fast.”
Chance pointed out the absurdity of that statement. “I signed this deal nearly six months ago. Since then, I’ve completed rehab plus time in sober living without the slightest pressure from this label. Now tell me what’s really going on.”
Shelly ran her hands over her face. “Forget it. I’ll play nice from now on.” She rose from her chair. “I’ll let them know we’re ready to continue.”
“Not yet.” Chance put himself between his sister and the door. “What aren’t you telling me?”
A high heel tapped the floor as they faced off in silence. After several seconds, she marched back to her chair. “You remember when I said this baby’s father had moved on to someone else?”
Confused, Chance nodded. “What’s that got to do with Naomi?” Slender brows rose while she waited for him to catch on. As the light dawned, a streak of curses crossed his tongue. “You’re kidding me. Michael Swanson? Seriously, Shell? What the hell were you thinking?”
“I wasn’t thinking, okay? You weren’t the only one who had a tough year. Pierce was hassling me for more time with the kids. Izzy needed braces, and Tristan was still wetting the bed every night. With you off getting sober, I was left handling everything.” Her shoulders drooped in defeat. “I was overwhelmed and lonely. I guess that made me an easy target.”
Chance knew he’d made her life difficult over the years. He’d just never been sober enough to give a shit.
“Damn.”
She offered an exhausted smile. “I know.”
Returning to the chair beside her, he leaned his elbows on his knees. “You can’t be pissed at Naomi because Swanson is an asshole.”
“Being angry with her was a lot easier than being angry with myself.”
“If it makes you feel any better, after Saturday night, she won’t be seeing him anymore.”
Shelly spun her chair from side to side. “Because he had the nerve to mess with her Shooting Stars artist?”
Chance saw no need to discuss the marks Swanson had put on Naomi’s arm. Shelly already knew he was a jerk. No reason to make her feel worse. “He gave her another reason. Are we good now?”
“Yeah, we’re good.” Shelly rose and straightened her skirt. “How are we going to explain my sudden change of attitude?”
He shrugged. “We don’t. You’re willing to work with Naomi and that’s all they need to know.”
“Right.” She laughed. “How did I forget your basic rules of operation? The whole world is on a need-to-know basis with you, and no one ever needs to know anything.”
The policy didn’t typically extend to his manager, so Clay offered a quick update. “That reminds me. I wrote a song this weekend.”
She sat up straight. “Chance, that’s great. Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“You were too busy being a bitch.”
A right hook caught him in the arm. “Not funny. I’m not going to feel bad when I’m eight months along and yelling at you for no reason.”
“And that would be different how?” She shot him a warning look, and Chance took the hint. “All right. Let them know we’re ready. My bad reputation isn’t going to polish itself.”
Chapter 8
“How do you not have Instagram on your phone?”
Naomi asked this question for the second time as they lingered in a promotions office of the Eagle 101.5 radio station. Thanks to Charley Layton, Dylan Monroe’s significant other and midday Eagle jock, they’d gotten Chance a Wednesday booking on the nationally syndicated Ruby Barnett Country Crew morning show.
The interview, set for seven forty-five, required they arrive a full thirty minutes early. Naomi had always been a morning person, so hopping out of bed at six hadn’t been a problem.
Chance looked as if he’d rolled out of bed ten minutes ago. Hair disheveled in a devil-may-care way, shirt slightly wrinkled, and dark circles beneath chocolate brown eyes would have made anyone else look like a slacker. Not Chance. He owned this look, and had for a long time.
In fact, the image before her bore a striking resemblance to the man she’d dated seven years ago. Right after they’d spent the morning engaged in an energetic tumble in the sheets. Naomi took a sip of her hot coffee to drown the memory.
Dressed in black from head to toe, he leaned against an empty desk, unshaven and ankles crossed. “I only have the phone because Shelly makes me carry it.”
Still not an answer to her question. And she didn’t feel like talking about Shelly. The woman had done a complete one-eighty in their Monday meeting, with no explanation or apology. Simply acted as if she’d never attempted to put Naomi out of a job.
“You need to be active on social media. Be accessible to the fans.”
Chance flashed a rare grin. “I used to drink with the fans. Does that qualify as accessible?”
Naomi resisted the urge to point out how well that had gone for him. She’d lined up six interviews in addition to this morning’s, and intended to tag along on every single one. Though she believed Chance was ready, she didn’t trust him not to say something they’d both regret. That meant lots of time together, and passing that time exchanging insults wouldn’t do anyone a lick of good.
“According to Shelly, you have all of the accounts. Give me your phone and I’ll download the app.”
She’d expected him to argue, but instead, he handed over the cell. “Knock yourself out, but if you think I’m going to start taking selfies, you’re wrong.”
“You sound like an old man.” Naomi pressed the button to open the screen. “What’s your pass code?”
“0586.”
Naomi rolled her eyes. “Birth month and year. Sure. No one could hack that.”
“Drunks aren’t known for having good memories. Shelly picked the one thing I wasn’t likely to forget.”
; There she was again. Shelly this. Shelly that. Naomi still believed the manager’s immediate dislike for her stemmed from being in love with her client. After contemplating all of the plausible reasons for the sudden turnaround, only that option remained.
Chance had obviously assured his manager that he’d never have anything to do with Naomi. At least not romantically. Not that she wanted him to entertain such notions, but the idea still stung. What had he said exactly? That she wasn’t his type? That he didn’t like bossy women? Or would that have offended more than appeased the commanding blonde?
“Is there anything Shelly doesn’t do for you?” she asked, clicking the “Buy” button in the App Store. “And stop calling yourself a drunk. You have a disease, and you’re beating it. Give yourself a little credit.”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were paying me a compliment.”
The statement dripped of sarcasm, so Naomi offered the same. “Don’t worry. I won’t make a habit of it.”
The verbal sparring ceased while Naomi searched the email in her phone for Chance’s Instagram log-in. Once she was in, she couldn’t believe her eyes.
“Four pictures in three years? That’s all you’ve shared?”
Chance grunted. “I’m surprised there’s that many. Shelly must have put them up there.”
This would not do. “I get not posting pictures in the last year, but why not before that?”
Brown eyes looked her way. “I doubt pictures from my life prior to a year ago would have been to your liking.”
Point taken. She searched the photos in the phone for anything worth sharing. To her surprise, six of the nine pictures were of a large brown tabby.
“Whose cat is this?”
Without glancing at the phone, he said, “Mine. His name is Willie.”
“Of course it is.” Naomi scrolled through. The cat on a couch. The cat in a window. The cat sprawled out in front of a stone fireplace. “You really like this cat.”
Chance’s voice tightened. “He makes the rooms less empty.”
A confession she hadn’t expected. Not counting the rage he’d unleashed on Michael Swanson, this was the most emotion he’d expressed since strolling back into her life. Maybe there was more than stoic pride and cynicism lurking in that solid frame after all.
“Good morning, y’all.” Payton Cheswick burst into the room like a pinup popping out of a cardboard cake. “How are you doing, Naomi?” She’d met the flamboyant sidekick to Ruby Barnett on several occasions, and despite the number of people he must have encountered in his line of work, he never forgot her name.
“Morning, Payton,” she said, unable to offer a handshake due to holding a phone in one hand and a coffee in the other.
Payton floated over to Chance. “Mr. Colburn, we’re honored to have you with us today, and relieved to hear you’re making music again. The fans would have been crushed if you hadn’t come back.”
From the way Payton was eying his guest, Naomi doubted he was thinking about anyone’s fans at the moment. Chance either didn’t notice or didn’t mind being the object of Payton’s fantasy.
“I appreciate y’all giving me some airtime.”
Payton giggled before he caught himself. “Anytime, Mr. Colburn. Any time at all.” With two claps, he spun toward the door. “Here we go, then. Come join the Country Crew.”
The radio personality led the way, while Naomi attempted to hang back and let Chance go first. Instead, he settled a hand on the small of her back, urging her forward. The heat of his touch penetrated her satin blouse, setting off sparks along her spine. She longed to lean into the contact, but sense returned when Chance cleared his throat.
“You good, Nay?” His breath against her temple ignited a shiver of awareness as a strong hand caressed her waist.
Unable to speak, Naomi nodded and picked up her pace, putting much-needed distance between them.
Chance hadn’t meant to touch her.
Naomi had lit him up with a hand on his thigh at the Songbird, and her reaction at the time had been more regret than arousal. At least that’s how he’d interpreted things. Maybe he’d been wrong.
On their way to the radio booth, she stayed at least three steps ahead of him, body appearing tense and jittery. The red light flashing above the door meant they had to wait to enter. As soon as the coast was clear, Payton swung the door open and ushered them inside.
Chance expected some last-minute crack, like “Don’t screw this up,” but Naomi held her tongue and took a seat in a corner chair. He hadn’t been on Ruby’s show in more than eighteen months. In that time, they’d revamped the studio into something that looked more like a NASA control room than a radio station.
“Hey there, Chance,” Ruby Barnett bellowed, pink can headphones hanging around her neck and a pair of tiny round glasses perched on the end of her nose. “How’s it hanging, buddy?”
The bawdy greeting was par for the course with Ruby. “Low and to the left, just like always. You’ve got some new digs, Rube.”
“Hell, yeah. And they say bitchin’ won’t get you anywhere.” She pointed to the left of the three monitors in front of her. “Have a seat, darling. We’re back on in five. I’ve got to admit, you’re lookin’ better than you did the last time I saw you.”
Chance didn’t doubt that. “In person or in the papers?”
Her smile nearly blinded him. “Both.” Standing to peer over a monitor, she said, “Hello, Ms. Naomi. What are you doing over there in the corner? Somebody put you in time-out?”
Naomi waved. “Morning, Ruby. Just staying out of the way.”
“Oh, darling, you’re never in the way. You have your hands full with this Texas boy, now don’t ya?” A bright red curl that matched the color on her lips danced over one twinkling eye. “Has sobriety made a gentleman out of him, or is he still up to his old troublemaking ways?”
“He’s fully reformed,” Naomi said, looking as if she wanted nothing more than to melt into the chair.
Ruby dropped back onto her high stool. “That’s not what I hear, honey.”
Naomi had suggested they offer an approved list of questions he’d be willing to answer, but Chance had nixed the idea. He’d never been a coward before. No sense in starting now.
Chance accepted the headphones Payton offered. “Thanks, Payton. Ruby, you know better than to listen to gossip.”
“Pictures don’t lie, darling. And Swanson is making sure everyone and their mama sees you pinning him to that wall.” She leaned forward in anticipation of a juicy tidbit. “Did you really lift him off the floor with one hand?”
Chance knew when not to incriminate himself. “Is that what he’s telling people?”
“Heck, no. He claims you attacked him from behind with the help of a friend. But I have sources who say otherwise.”
A ballsy claim by Swanson, considering the size of the audience that witnessed the exchange.
“The only friend I had with me was Archie, and you know he wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
A truth Chance had learned ten years ago, when a biker took issue with his woman cozying up to what he’d dubbed the pansy singer at the bar. When Chance had looked around for some help, he’d found the bass player behind the bar hollering, “You’re on your own, buddy!” At least he was an honest coward.
“Everybody knows Archie’s a lover, not a fighter.” Grinning like a fox in the henhouse, she winked at Chance. “I knew my sources were right.”
“One minute, Ruby.” Payton took his seat and flipped the page on a packet in front of him.
“Down to business, then. What are we going to talk about today? Are we digging in, or ignoring the drunk elephant in the room?”
Naomi piped up from the corner. “We’d like to focus on the future instead of the past.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” the hostess bellowed.
“Anything you want,” Chance replied. “I don’t promise to answer, but you’re welcome to ask.”
His publi
cist disagreed as she bolted from her seat. “Chance’s past has been covered to the point that there’s nothing left to discuss. Fans want to know how he’s doing today. They need to hear that he’s healthy and ready to give them new music.”
“You’re right. Everyone has talked about Chance’s past,” Ruby said. “Except for Chance.” Sliding her headphones into place, she motioned for her guest to do the same. “Don’t worry, sweetie. He’s a big boy. He can handle it.”
Naomi clearly had her doubts, but she returned to her chair, jaw clenched in annoyance.
The fact was, if he refused to discuss his public failings, people would never let them go. He had to own his mistakes, not run from them. Or so Harmon constantly reminded him.
“Here we go,” Ruby announced, pulling her microphone forward.
Doing the same, Chance braced for the test ahead.
Why did he have to make her job so difficult? This would be fine if the interview were for print. Or recorded and edited for later release. In those cases, Naomi might be able to control what made the final cut. But this was a nationally syndicated live show, and there was no way of knowing what would come out of Chance’s mouth.
“Welcome back, guys and gals. Ruby Barnett and your Country Crew are very excited to bring you a special guest today. I told you this was going to be good, and when Ruby makes a promise, she delivers.”
Naomi didn’t necessarily dislike Ruby, but she did have a low tolerance for people who referred to themselves in the third person. Loud and obnoxious were also at the bottom of her list. Two words that described Ruby exactly.
“Sitting across from me is none other than two-time CMA winner and notorious bad boy, Chance Colburn.”
Not the description provided on Naomi’s preapproved bio. Chance hadn’t even spoken yet and this was going downhill.
“Long time no see, Chance baby. You’re looking good over there.”
“Thanks, Ruby. And thanks for having me on today.”
“You know you’re always welcome in my studio, hot stuff.” Ruby adjusted her headphones and pulled the microphone closer. “Friends, Mr. Colburn has given me permission to ask him anything I want. And since I don’t believe in beating around the musical bush, I’ll start with the question we’ve all been dying to ask. Were you really wearing nothing but chaps when the police picked you up last year?”
