I’m doing it for you, and Jess, and Wyatt. “I am Momma.”
Her mother eyed her, doubt written all over her face. “If you say so, mi hija.”
Ignoring her mother’s intimations, Avery leaned down to Wyatt. “How about some ice cream to celebrate Abuela’s good news?”
Wyatt jumped up and yelled, “Chocolate!”
Isabel laughed, taking her grandson’s hand in hers. “You don’t want to get back to the station?”
“I’ll get there, but this is more important.”
Isabel slid another look at her daughter. “Okay,” she said, suspicion lacing her voice. “Did you listen to the show?”
Avery’s fingers curled into a fist. “Yes.”
“And the ‘best of’ format worked?”
“Well, they deviated from the plan a little. They ran a previous interview first and then they let Matt do the last hour.”
Isabel stopped and looked at her daughter, eyes wide. She was clearly waiting for Avery’s freak out.
She shrugged. “He interviewed a songwriter—the one getting married to one of his bandmates. She’s a big get. And one I’m not sure I could have secured.”
“And?”
“And he did a good job.” She rolled her eyes. “Great, actually. Doesn’t look like I’m getting rid of him anytime soon.”
“Do you want to?”
Yes. No. Maybe. She wanted her show back. But having Matt around felt . . . what? Good? No, that wasn’t quite it. Comforting, maybe? Like slipping into a well-worn sweater. If that sweater looked like Thor and lit up her girl parts like a Christmas tree lighting in a Hallmark movie. One flick of a switch and, whoosh, she was ablaze.
Avery drew in a deep, bracing breath, scrubbing the thought from her mind. “Doesn’t matter. Not my choice,” she said, trying to end her mother’s line of questioning.
Isabel stopped at Avery’s car, her fingers curling around the passenger side door handle. “Are you going to tell him?”
Avery lifted Wyatt into his car seat. She didn’t need to ask her mother for clarification. She knew exactly what her mother was asking.
She should tell him. But he was leaving in three weeks. And it was ancient history. Probably better not to dredge it up.
“Wyatt wants chocolate ice cream. What flavor would you like, Momma?”
Isabel looked at her over the top of her glasses. “Amy-Lynn.”
Avery punched the ignition button. “I know, Momma. But that’s not something you drop on someone after not seeing them for almost a decade.”
Isabel shrugged. “You might feel better.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, I feel great.”
Isabel sighed and shook her head, but finally let the subject drop. “You should at least reach out and thank him for doing the show today. Thank him for me. These things are so much easier knowing one of my girls is waiting for me.”
“I can do that.”
Avery stared at her phone. She’d gotten Matt’s number in case of emergency—a show-related emergency. She needed to say thank you, but the petulant child inside her kept saying things like, “You need to say thank you for him going against your wishes?”
“Shut up,” she said to no one. She wanted to be better than all that, and normally she was. But this was Matt Taylor. And ‘complicated’ didn’t begin to describe her feelings toward the man.
“Get over yourself.” Had she always talked to herself this much?
Her finger hovered over the call button, but she chickened out at the last minute and hit the message button.
I caught your interview with Grace this morning. Nice job.
Send.
“C’mon Avery,” she chided herself.
She punched the screen, popping the cursor into the text message box. Can I take you out for a drink to say thank you?
She hit send before she could chicken out again.
She waited for the telltale three dots, but her screen remained quiet.
Matt stared at the screen. The compliment came first, and if that wasn’t shocking enough, she’d followed it up with an invitation to meet for drinks. He lifted his finger to type a response. And then pulled it back. How was it that the thought of meeting with her away from the station was the best and worst thing he could imagine?
Meeting at a bar felt like a date.
Should he suggest a coffee shop instead?
Or claim he was busy tonight?
Or maybe pull his head out of his ass and stop over-analyzing the situation?
He stared at the blinking blue cursor, unsure of his next move.
“Mattie,” Blake called from the stage. “You planning on joining us? Clock’s ticking.”
Matt looked up at his bandmates, waiting for him to block the last number of their upcoming tour. “Yeah. Just need a minute.” He turned his attention back to his phone. “Man up,” he muttered under his breath.
Sure, he typed. Tonight? He hit Send, wondering if his response was too presumptuous.
The dots jumped immediately.
Yes, tonight. How about happy hour? 4pm at Dahlia Lounge? They’ve got good drinks and excellent apps. Or somewhere else? Whatever you’d like.
Matt chuckled. She was text babbling. At least he wasn’t the only one nervous about meeting.
Dahlia’s is fine. See you there.
She sent him back the thumbs-up emoji. The Dahlia Lounge was a small bar. He’d been there many times. Had she? It suddenly seemed odd that they’d never run into each other before now. Nashville was a town of nearly 700,000 people, but it still had a lot of small-town elements to it. Especially for people in the industry. Maybe she truly did work all the time?
“Matt,” Andrew said. “Sometime today would be great.”
“Coming,” he said, depositing his phone in his back pocket and taking the stage stairs two at a time.
An hour later, with blocking complete, the guys suggested grabbing a beer. He declined.
“You have a better offer?” Blake asked.
His stomach executed a perfect somersault. Was it a better offer? Or was curiosity getting the better of him? He fisted his hand in his hair and rubbed the back of his neck. “Um, yeah, I guess I do.”
Blake waggled his eyebrows. “A hot date? And does she have a friend?”
Matt rolled his eyes. “No. And I don’t know.”
“A better offer that’s not a hot date?” Nick asked. “That seems like an oxymoron to me. Hey, Andrew and Joe, Mattie says he’s got another commitment tonight that’s better than sharing a beer with us, but it’s not a hot date. Sound weird to you?”
Great, now everyone was waiting for him to explain something he himself didn’t understand.
“A commitment on a Friday night that’s not a date? You’re right, Nick, sounds fishy,” Joe said with a smile.
These guys were clearly enjoying Matt’s obvious discomfort. But if the situation were reversed, he’d likely be doing the same thing.
“Fine,” Matt said. “I’m meeting Avery.”
“Oo-ooh,” they chorused.
“Seriously. What is this? Feels like middle school all over again.”
“They’re just jealous,” Andrew said, as if he hadn’t just been in the center of all the ribbing.
“I’m not jealous,” Joe said. “I’m headed home to the prettiest woman in Nashville.”
“Fine, it’s just them then,” Andrew said, pointing at Nick and Blake.
“I’m not jealous,” Blake said, his chin tipping up.
“So, you have a hot date tonight?” Matt said, unable to stop himself.
“No,” Blake grumbled.
“Nick?” Matt asked, a smirk pulling at the corners of his lips.
Nick raised a single bushy eyebrow. “Avery’s finally warming up to you, then?” the baritone asked, completely sidestepping Matt’s question.
That’s a good question. Was she? “Maybe. Not sure. She texted that the interview with Grace was good, b
ut I can’t help wondering if she wants to get to together to yell at me for not letting the station just run ‘best of’ stuff.”
“Uncharted territory,” Blake said with a grin.
“Sorry?” Matt said.
“Not knowing where you stand with a woman,” Blake said, his smile growing. “Can I come along to watch?”
Matt blew out a breath. “You need to get a life.”
Blake laughed. “Where are you meeting her, Mattie? We could get a beer there, right, guys?”
They all nodded, the bastards. “You know that dive bar on Elm Street?”
Blake’s eyes widened. “I do.”
“That’s not it,” Matt called as he bounded down the stairs.
Chapter Nine
Matt walked into the Dahlia Lounge a couple of minutes before four and scanned the interior. He was happy she hadn’t suggested the bars or honky-tonks on Broadway. He enjoyed the hustle and bustle of the popular joints occasionally, but they weren’t conducive to talking.
He meandered to a table toward the back with windows facing the street and looked over the menu. Or pretended to. The words swam in front of his eyes. Questions stacked up in his head like cars in a demolition derby.
He’d jumped from wanting to know ‘why was he here’ and ‘what did she really want’ to the questions he’d been tossing around for days. What had her life been like for the past nine years? How did she find herself in Nashville? How long had she worked at the station? Was she in a relationship? Was she married?
Wait.
Could she be married? To someone else? His stomach dropped. He’d asked her to be his wife.
“Hey,” came a soft voice, interrupting his thoughts.
He looked up to see her standing tentatively at the edge of the table.
“Are you married?” he blurted, instead of a greeting.
She laughed. “I remember you being much more tactful.”
The server set a beer on the table and winked at him.
“Now, that hasn’t changed,” Amy-Lynn said as the young woman sashayed away, an intentional swing in her curvy hips.
Matt grunted.
“What? Is it hard having women falling at your feet?”
“It’s harder than you think,” he mumbled.
“What?”
He looked back at her. “Nothing.”
She slid into the bench seat opposite him and grabbed the plastic-coated menu from behind the napkins, not looking at him. “No, I’m not married. And,” she said, raising a finger to stop his next question, “I’m not dating anyone.”
“Why not?”
“My job and my family are my priorities. No time to date. You?”
He shook his head. “Not presently.”
The server returned with an overflowing basket of fries.
“I didn’t order these,” Matt said to the woman.
“On the house.”
Her smile dimmed as she turned to Amy-Lynn. “What can I getcha?”
She ordered a drink and chicken wings, taking a fry from the free basket. “I forgot about the benefits of being with Matt Taylor.”
An eyebrow popped up. “Excuse me?”
“The fries,” she said, pink creeping across her face. “So, how are your mom and dad?” she asked, quickly changing the subject. She grabbed for the bottle of ketchup and pounded the bottom. Nothing came out.
He watched her for a beat, wondering if he should ask her more about the ‘benefits of being with Matt Taylor,’ but he didn’t want to make her more uncomfortable—or look like he needed his ego stroked. “Here, let me.” He reached for the bottle, gave it one swift hit with the palm of his hand, and the ketchup flowed out.
She rolled her eyes and shook her head.
“Another benefit of being with Matt Taylor?” he asked, unable to stop himself.
She pulled a face. “Your parents?” she repeated. “Are they good?”
He bit back a smile. Turned out, she still got flustered easily—and he still loved teasing her. “Still in Marla. Filling their time bragging about their kids and grandkids.”
“Having a famous musician in the family is certainly something to talk about.”
His smile faded. “I don’t think I qualify as famous.”
“All the emails the station has gotten say otherwise.” She dragged a french fry through the ketchup now covering her plate and popped it in her mouth.
Matt pulled a long draw from his beer. “I doubt my parents would be interested in electronic marriage proposals. They pay no more attention to me now than they did when we were teenagers.”
She waved her hand in the air. “Oh, come on, they love you like crazy.”
“I don’t deny that. It’s just they were tired by the time I came along. They let me do whatever I wanted. And what I wanted was for them to notice me. I made a lot of unnecessary trouble, hoping to get their attention.”
“That’s right”—she smiled and snapped her fingers— “what was it the old ladies called you?”
“Beautiful, but feral,” he grumbled.
“Ha! That’s right! Does that description still fit?”
He smoothed his hands down his chest. “You tell me.”
She blushed a deep red. “I meant the feral part.”
He looked down at the table. “Depends on who you ask.”
She cocked her head to the side. “What does that mean?”
“It means things aren’t always as they seem.” He studied his beer. That might have been cryptic, but it was as close to his truth as he’d let anyone see in a long time. Likely the last time was when the same woman sat across the table from him.
“One rum and coke,” the server said, sliding Amy-Lynn’s drink across the table. “How are the fries?” she said, turning to Matt once again.
“You’ll have to ask my date. She’s tried them, I haven’t yet.”
“You should try them,” the server said before turning back toward the kitchen. “They’re delicious.”
Amy-Lynn smirked. “No using me as a human shield, Mr. Taylor.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, this is not a date.”
Matt cocked a single eyebrow. “Then what is it?” He’d really like to know.
“One colleague thanking another.” She held up her glass. “Thank you for filling in for me today—and bringing in Grace O’Connor. Celeste says the response was good.”
He lifted his half-empty pint and clinked her glass. “To colleagues,” he said. “You checked up on me?”
She didn’t even flinch. “Of course. I’ve spent nine years crafting a following. The listeners trust me to deliver a specific product. I need to know everything that goes on and how people are reacting to it.”
Because she still didn’t trust him. Didn’t believe in him. Even after today. His lips tightened into a thin line. “Even I couldn’t ruin nine years of work in one day.”
She sighed and rubbed the center of her clavicle. “I don’t want to fight. I’m particular about my show. It has nothing to do with you.”
He bounced a fist off his thigh. “Sure.”
“Matt, you have nine shows left. I’d like it if we could get along. It would make everything so much easier. How about we put the past behind us and focus on the show? Can we do that?”
“Maybe.” For tonight. He grinned at her, but it was his performer’s grin. He didn’t want to bury the past, not before he had the answers he’d been craving for nearly a decade. “Another drink?”
She stared into the cup. He could see her warring with herself. “I guess I could have one more. It’s Friday. I don’t have to get up for the show tomorrow.”
He signaled the server for another round before turning his attention back to Amy-Lynn. “When’s the last time you let go? Just let everything wash away for a while?”
She looked at him and a sadness passed over her eyes. “I don’t know. 1995, maybe?”
He laughed, choking on his beer. “When you were five
? Was that a joke, Mac?”
She flinched at the name but said nothing. He wondered if it wasn’t so much the name as him saying it.
“Hey, I’m capable of producing a joke on rare occasions.” She gave him a self-deprecating—and real—smile.
Time to test his theory. “Do your mom and Jess call you Avery?”
She chewed on the end of her straw. “No. They still call me Amy-Lynn.” She shrugged. “People at work call me Avery.”
“What do your friends call you?”
She squirmed in her seat. “Depends on when they met me.”
Matt gazed at her, knowing he should probably let this line of questioning go. But for whatever reason, he needed the answer. “But you’d prefer I call you Avery?”
She looked at him from under her lashes. “Yes,” she said, barely over a whisper.
“What about Mac? Can I call you that?” He was really pushing things, and he wasn’t entirely sure why.
“Avery, please,” she said, this time with a little more force.
It didn’t take a genius to know she was trying to put some distance between them. But the bigger question was why? If she didn’t have any feelings left for him, what did it matter what he called her? Maybe she wasn’t as unaffected as she pretended.
She cleared her throat, swung her hair over her shoulders, and wiped the condensation from the ridges of her plastic cup. “So, you joined Storyhill seven years ago?”
His eyebrows rose. The subject change was jarring, but he put that aside, happy she was still sitting across from him, not hustling toward the nearest exit. “How did you know that?”
She looked away and shrugged. “It doesn’t take a genius to figure it out. I know when you graduated college, and you said you worked at Dollywood for a couple of years, I did the math.”
No way was he letting her off the hook that easily. “Have you been following my career, Avery Lind?”
Her head snapped up. “You called me Avery.”
“You just asked me to.”
She leaned back to allow the server to place the plate of chicken wings in front of her. “Doesn’t mean I actually thought you’d do it.”
He reached across the table and ran his fingers over her knuckles and damn if fireworks didn’t pop and crackle over them. She flinched but didn’t pull her hand away. “Maybe it’s because I already know Amy-Lynn and I’d like to learn more about Avery. Would that be okay?”
Don't Let the Music Die (The Storyhill Musicians Book 2) Page 9
