She rolled over and blinked until the swirls in the textured ceiling came into focus. If setting her alarm wasn’t part of her bedtime routine, she’d likely never turn it on again.
After her father died, a routinized schedule had been a necessity. She needed to maintain her 4.0 GPA to get a college scholarship. She picked up a job at the local grocery store to help Momma cover the bills. She designed spreadsheets to manage her father’s military benefits. She set her alarm clock ten minutes early to rouse her rule-phobic sister.
She stepped into the vacancy her father’s death created.
She quickly learned that following a carefully crafted agenda ensured no surprises.
How’d that work out for you yesterday, a little voice mocked.
Yes, Matt Taylor was unexpected—and about as welcome as any other surprise in her life.
She threw back the sheet and twisted to an upright position. There was no room in her schedule to think about the man who’d danced (unbidden) through her dreams last night. She would deal with him when—if—he showed up at the station this morning.
5:25. She’d checked off all her morning duties and still arrived at work five minutes early. That had to be a good sign, right?
A rap sounded on the car window, and her hand flew to her heart. Turning, a face both familiar and foreign stared at her.
Fifteen days, she reminded herself. Only sixty hours of studio time and then they’d go their separate ways. Again.
It was just a small deviation from her plan. Nothing more.
She motioned for him to step back and swung the car door open. “I guess this means you signed the contract?” she said instead of the easy, nonplussed ‘good morning’ she’d planned. This would not work if her mouth continued to have a mind of its own.
The smile faded from his face. “I did.”
She collected her bags from the backseat. Why is he here? Why?
“For my band,” he said.
She spun on him. Had she said that out loud?
“Let me take those.” He reached for her bags and slung them over his shoulder.
Guilt swamped her. He had every reason to hate her, and yet he was being as kind as ever. Kindness she didn’t deserve. Panic coiled through her chest. Calm down, Avery. Passing out in the parking lot is not a good way to start the day.
“Hey, you okay?” he asked, leaning down to look into her eyes.
No. No. No. She couldn’t bear his sympathy. Say something. You speak for a living.
She cleared her throat. Or tried to. “I’m just tearing up from the smell of your hat.”
He bit back a smile and squeezed the brim of his ball cap. “That’s blasphemy. My lucky hat does not stink.”
She looked up—way up. The stitching that once read ‘Marla Wildcats’ had frayed. Only six letters remained. ‘La Cats.’ Like he was some fancy French foreign exchange student instead of a boy athlete from the middle-of-nowhere, Oklahoma.
“Are you telling me that’s not the same hat you wore when your baseball team went to the state finals in high school?”
Matt placed a hand over his heart, feigning indignation. “It is. But I have learned how to do laundry since then, Mac.”
She smirked and shot him a look. “There is not a detergent strong enough to rinse out eighteen-year-old flop sweat. Boy flop sweat.”
“Just for that”—he whipped the hat from his head and squashed it over her hair— “you need to smell it up close.”
She laughed as it slipped down over her eyes. “Matt, take it off!”
“Not until you admit it doesn’t stink.”
She inhaled a deep breath. It didn’t stink. It smelled like her memories. Cinnamon. Leather. Sunshine. Matt.
“Say it,” he goaded.
Her smile faltered. She pulled off the hat and handed it back to him. “Matt, what are we doing?”
He settled the hat back on his head. “I don’t know about you, but I’m defending my honor. No part of me stinks.”
“No, Matt, how is this going to work?” She grabbed his forearm, and his gaze flashed to where her hand rested. Her fingers buzzed, and she withdrew her hand before the tingle worked itself up her arm and into her heart. “We can pretend all we want, but this”—she motioned between them— “will not be easy. I’ve worked so hard for this opportunity. I can’t afford any distractions. I can’t let anything screw it up.”
His blue eyes turned to ice. The laughter replaced with instant irritation. “Anything? Don’t you mean anyone? It’s been nine years, Amy-Lynn, maybe give the man I am now a chance to prove himself before assuming he’s the same boy you discarded.”
She pulled her keycard from her pocket and flashed it in front of the reader. “I did not discard you.”
Liar. She had. It didn’t matter if she did it for all the right reasons. She had discarded him.
She attempted to temper her voice. “I only meant you haven’t done this before.” That’s not at all what she meant, but she needed something, anything, to hold on to before she succumbed to the black hole of a panic attack.
Matt stopped and turned into her. Her heart kicked against her rib cage. Had he always been this tall? He sucked in a breath and his chest inched closer to her face. Or this muscular?
“I was here yesterday and did just fine. I’m a performer, Amy-Lynn. I studied acting in college, which you know. I think I can get through your little show without making an ass of myself.”
“My little show?” Who knew anger stopped a panic attack—and lust—in its tracks? “I’ll have you know I built this ‘little show’ from nothing—all while stepping around giant, steaming piles of misogyny and you have the—"
“Hey, there are my two stars,” Celeste called, walking down the hall. “Whoa,” she said, reaching them. “I don’t know what’s going on here, but you cannot take this energy into the studio. We need more of yesterday’s magic, not this . . . this . . . whatever this is.” She fluttered her hands between them. “Ma-gic,” she reiterated, pointing a finger at each of them.
Avery sucked in a deep breath and dropped her eyes to the floor. She couldn’t regain her equilibrium while looking at him.
Could they make the magic Celeste demanded?
They had once.
Sixteen-year-old Matt Taylor personified magic. He’d saved her from being the ‘new girl.’ Then he opened his heart to her. Wrapped in his embrace, she’d never felt safer. He’d given her exactly what she needed at the time—a place where she could be herself, where she didn’t have to be the second adult in the household.
Avery sighed and rubbed the space between her collarbones.
Celeste was right. They couldn’t take this energy into the studio. They weren’t lovers anymore—hadn’t been in a long time. They were colleagues. Two adults chasing success. She threw her shoulders back and channeled the scrappy, determined woman who pushed aside all the naysayers.
“Truce?” she asked, holding out her hand to Matt. There was so much at stake, and fighting would only make it harder.
He narrowed his eyes at her. Like he thought she was playing some sort of game, but eventually covered her fingers with his own. “Truce.”
She nodded and turned toward the studio.
“Amy-Lynn,” he said.
She stopped but didn’t turn around. “Yes?”
“I won’t screw up,” he said, barely over a whisper. “You’re safe with me. You’ve always been safe with me.”
She squeezed her eyes shut. But you wouldn’t have been if we’d stayed together. I would have dragged you down. Shaking her hair back, she turned, forcing a smile that she hoped hid the swirling cocktail of emotions currently coursing through her veins.
“C’mon Calico Jack. Let’s do this thing.”
He cocked his head. “Calico Jack?”
She nodded. “Isn’t that the character you played at the Dollywood dinner theater?”
A slow smile curved his lips northward. “Mac, have you been Googlin
g me?”
Yes. At least four times a year for the last nine years. “No.” She moved a step ahead so he couldn’t read her expression. “You mentioned it in your interview.”
His smile grew. “I most certainly did not.”
Shit. Shit. Shit. She lifted her shoulders nonchalantly while willing her stomach to stop its Olympic-level backflips. “After yesterday’s show, Momma asked what you’d been up to, so I pulled up a couple of things for her. That must have been where I saw it. Though I swear you mentioned it.” Another lie. Momma had done nothing of the sort.
His lips twitched. “That’s pretty old info. I’m surprised it still came up.”
He knew she was lying. He’d always been able to read her better than anyone. She braced for him to call her out.
“How is Isabel?”
Her head popped up. “What?”
“Momma Isabel? How is she?”
Momma Isabel. No one called her that. Except Matt. She needed to get into the clean, orderly confines of her studio. This trip down Memory Lane was killing her.
“Oh. Momma. Right. She’s good. Considering.”
He opened the glass and metal door leading into the studio, holding it for her. “Considering what?”
She dropped her bag on her chair and rustled through it, trying to find the notes for this morning’s interview. “Um,” she said, studying the bottom of her bag and questioning how much to tell him.
Not everything has to be a secret, Avery.
She looked up and met his gaze. “Yeah. So. She was diagnosed with MS a few years ago. Thankfully, most of the symptoms are mild and manageable, though it has affected her eyesight. Not great for a tailor.”
“I’m sorry. That must be tough—especially after everything else she’s been through.”
His gentle words felt like a warm hug. She missed having someone who understood. Someone she could talk to. She’d done such an effective job burying her past that none of her current friends knew about her father. Who was she kidding? She didn’t have friends. She had acquaintances. That’s what happens when all you do is work.
“Thanks,” she murmured.
“My mom said she left Marla a few years ago. Does she live here in Nashville now?”
Avery nodded. “She lives with me.”
His eyebrows rose. “With you?”
“Yes.” She’s my responsibility. Taking care of her is the least I can do after all the pain I’ve caused her.
“That seems—"
“Avery, love,” Ajay called, through the intercom, interrupting whatever Matt was going to say. “Luke Wallen is patched in. He’s standing by and ready to go when you are.”
Avery motioned for Matt to take a seat. “Luke Wallen is—"
Matt shook his head. “Give me some credit. I know who Luke Wallen is. I read the notes you sent me last night. And I’ve been in the industry for a while now and Luke Wallen has hardly been inconspicuous. I’m ready.”
He’d read the notes? Color her impressed. The Matt Taylor she knew played things loose, flying by the seat of his pants, charming his way out of, and into, any situation. Was he right? Was she not giving him a fair shot?
Maybe. Maybe not. She needed a little reassurance. “Dazzle me. What was Luke’s first hit?”
He shot her a look that clearly said challenge accepted. “Anybody but Her.”
She nodded. “Where did he go to college?”
The corners of his lips pulled up. “Trick question. He came to Nashville right out of high school and co-wrote a few songs before releasing his first solo EP. Are you dazzled?”
Always.
She’d have to be dead not to be dazzled by every part of him.
She smirked and quickly pulled her lips back into a flat line. “Maybe not dazzled, but less worried.”
“Tough crowd.” He smiled at her—and damn if the tingles didn’t start again.
“Fifty-nine seconds,” Ajay announced through the intercom.
She nodded through the window between the studio and production booth. Her fingers twitched. She tried to quench the need to straighten everything on her desktop. She didn’t want Matt to notice, but this is what she always did immediately before the show started.
She looked up through her lashes. His head was down over the production notes Ajay had left on the desk. She quickly moved her mug two inches from the microphone arm. Straightened her pens, blue, black, green. When everything was in its proper place, she picked up her headphones and rotated them three times in her hands before sliding them over her ears.
“Matt . . .” she said.
“That’s Calico Jack to you,” he said, not raising his head.
“Ajay said—”
“I heard him.”
He looked up and his soft expression nearly melted her. Tears stung behind her eyes. He hadn’t tuned out. He’d given her the space she needed. The space he knew she needed.
She swallowed back the emotion. “It’s almost time to go live. Get your headphones adjusted. After Ajay plays the intro, I’ll jump on, welcome listeners, talk a little about Luke, and then let listeners know that you’ll be co-hosting—for a while. And then you jump in and say something.”
“Like what?”
She shook her head. “You wanted this gig and said you were ready. I don’t have time to spoon-feed you. Just turn on the famous Matt Taylor charm.”
“Aye, matey.”
“Yes, like that—but without the pirate dialect. And remember, whatever you do, don’t call me Amy-Lynn on air.”
Matt rolled his eyes as Ajay counted down from five in her ear.
The familiar intro played in her headphones, calming her. “Good morning, country music fans. I’m Avery Lind, and I’m so happy to be here with you. Whether you’re on the road, getting ready for work, or feeding the baby, we’ve got a great show for you. In a few minutes, we’re going to chat with the incomparable Luke Wallen. He’s just released another chart-topping hit. We’ll talk to him about that and why he’s donating all the proceeds of the song to World Central Kitchen.
“But before we do that, you might have noticed that I keep saying ‘we.’” She paused, mustering every bit of her acting ability. “After receiving such a positive response yesterday, Ajay and I invited Matt Taylor to join us for a few more shows.”
She pointed at Matt, held down her mute button, and let out a giant breath. She’d done it . . . and to her ears it sounded like she sold it. Was she getting too good at lying?
The question reverberated in the silence. Wait, why was there silence? She looked up and Matt wasn’t talking. Dead air was her worst nightmare. Okay, maybe not the worst, but it ranked in the top five. She circled her hand frantically.
His eyes widened, and she lifted her finger from the mute button.
“Matt is clearly still overwhelmed thinking about the number of marriage proposals he received yesterday. Is that right, Matt?”
“Yes, that’s it, Am—" He squeezed his eyes shut and tapped his fist against his forehead. “Avery,” he enunciated. “That and getting the chance to talk to Luke Wallen. He’s been such an inspiration. Storyhill covered one of his songs a few months back and it’s one of our most watched YouTube videos. Did you know his father packed his truck, pressed the keys into his hand, and told him to get out and go to Nashville?”
She did not know that. She scanned the pages in front of her. That factoid was nowhere to be seen. She looked up as Matt tapped his temple. She shook her head. One piece of trivia did not compensate for dead air.
“I think that’s a great place to start.” See? She could play well with others . . . when her back was up against the wall. “Luke, welcome to the show. Don’t know if you were listening, but Matt just mentioned that you have your father to thank for your success. Is it true that he basically threw you out?”
Luke Wallen’s deep laugh rumbled through her headphones, and her anxiety fell from full boil to a gentle simmer.
Matt sucked in a coupl
e of quick breaths, trying to replace the air siphoned from his lungs during that first segment. He’d been so cocky, telling her not to worry, that he had it all under control. Except he didn’t.
He talked to the audience at every Storyhill performance. Stage fright had never been an issue. Until today. She’d pointed to him, and he’d sat there, his mouth gaping like a fish out of water. Hopefully, the guys weren’t listening or he’d never hear the end of it.
If he screwed up on stage, the audience laughed. They were there for the music, not his funny anecdotes. But here? This was different. And much harder than he originally thought. Yesterday Amy-Lynn and Ajay had pressed all the buttons—basically leading him by the nose through the show. Maybe a good guest didn’t translate into a good co-host.
No. He would prove to her he was a worthy partner . . . professionally.
He turned his attention back to her. She was fluid, graceful, and clearly in her element. That shouldn’t surprise him. From the time he’d met her, one thing had been consistent: when she set her mind to something, she didn’t stop until she was the best.
Shit. She was pointing at him again. The universal sign for ‘Speak, stupid.’ What had Luke just said? Something about Storyhill’s cover?
“Thanks,” he pushed out, hoping he heard correctly. “Means a lot coming from you. Where’d you get the inspiration for the song?” he asked, praying Amy-Lynn hadn’t already asked that question.
She tapped her fist against her forehead. Not a good sign.
“Luke, Matt asked where the inspiration came from.”
She scrawled a note on an index card and held it up. ‘Turn your mic on.’
He closed his eyes. The ‘dumb ass’ was implied. Luke answered and Matt jumped in—with his mic on—“Sorry, Luke, forgot to turn the mic on.” He deployed his (over) practiced self-deprecating laugh. “Reminds me of some of my first times performing live. You got any of those stories, Luke?”
Based on Amy-Lynn’s expression, he’d saved himself. Barely.
She expertly wrapped the interview, and the on-air light flashed off. She pulled her headphones down around her neck. “Not as easy as it looks, is it?”
He flashed his puppy dog eyes. “Am I fired?”
Don't Let the Music Die (The Storyhill Musicians Book 2) Page 6
