by Terri Osburn
“Fine,” she said, conceding, “we’ll wait. I miss you, though. Sleeping alone sucks.”
“Tell you what. I’ll do my best to make a quick trip home. First chance I get, okay?”
The promise lifted her spirits. “I’ll take that. But don’t be surprised if I tackle you at the front door.”
He chuckled, and Jesse grinned at his response. Not having him around the last two months had been more difficult than usual since this time she’d had nothing better to do than stare at the walls and stress. First about not having a deal, and then about not having a producer.
“I’m looking forward to it, baby,” he purred, and she could almost see the sexy grin dance across his full lips. “Now I really have to go. Kick ass in the studio and remember, you’ve got this.”
Ryan had been repeating those words since the day of Taylor’s betrayal. His positivity was one of the only things that had kept her going.
“Have a good show tonight,” she said, walking toward Silas. “And don’t let those fan girls turn your head.”
“Never, babe. Talk to you later.”
With a beep, he was gone, and Jesse returned the cell to her back pocket. Resigned to another night alone, she crossed the lot to Silas’s Lincoln Continental and on the way spotted Ash talking to Chance Colburn inside the building. He looked completely at ease, as if he were talking to an ordinary person and not a former winner of the coveted Entertainer of the Year award.
When he caught sight of her through the glass, his face curved into a tender smile that did funny things to her heart, so Jesse turned away, aware of the danger that lay ahead. Making an album with him would be the easy part. Not falling back in love with him would be the real test.
Three
“Are you kidding me right now?” Ronnie asked, looking up from the studio console.
Though they’d been divorced for years, Veronica “Ronnie” Shepherd was still Ash’s best friend. At the end of their brief marriage, they’d both agreed that friendship was where they should have stopped. Ronnie started producing albums four years ago, so she was the first person he went to see after leaving the Shooting Stars office.
“I’m as shocked as you are,” he replied, spinning his chair from side to side.
Not that he didn’t deserve the job. Ash had been producing his own demos for years, and working with Chance had given him access to the best equipment and engineer in town. But, as Silas Fillmore had pointed out, taking the helm on a debut album was very different from producing three songs for an established artist.
“I can’t believe she agreed to this.” Besides being his ex, Ronnie was also the only person in town who knew the ugly details of Ash’s past.
Still a little shell-shocked, he nodded. “She was pissed the moment she saw me, which made sense, but not for the reason I expected.”
The brunette shifted to tuck long legs beneath her bottom. “What other reason could she have? You’ve kept your distance like they wanted.”
“That’s the problem. Turns out, Jesse had no idea they cut me off.”
Brown eyes went wide. “Really?”
After a dozen years of constant guilt, learning that Jesse didn’t blame him for Tommy’s death was going to take more than a couple of hours to process.
How different would his life be if he’d refused to believe her parents? If Ash had fought harder, as Jesse put it. He might never have moved to Nashville, at least not when he did.
Ash and Tommy had roomed together at Kennesaw State north of Atlanta, having both secured scholarships to play baseball for the school. After the accident, Ash couldn’t make himself go back. His life had changed on December 23 and by the end of Christmas break, he’d withdrawn from school. In desperate need to be anywhere but their hometown, he’d packed up an old clunker bought from a high school buddy and headed for Nashville.
In Music City, Ash was able to start over without being constantly assaulted by memories of his dead best friend. Not that he would ever forget him, but he’d needed a clean start where people didn’t know him as the boy who’d been driving.
Within months, he’d found himself welcomed into the songwriting community. Moderate successes followed relatively quickly with an unexpected result—the more accolades he earned, the more miserable Ash became as if what happened in the past made him undeserving of anything good. While staring at his first substantial royalty check, he’d heard Tommy’s voice in his ear.
You did good, buddy. I’m proud of you. Now stop being such a shit and go celebrate.
Following his best friend’s orders, Ash had hit the town hard that night, and many nights after. The combination of youth, regret, and heartache was as strong as the cocktails he was drinking, and soon a few beers on the weekend rolled into a few bottles through the week.
Lucky for Ash, Ronnie had put her foot down and pulled him out of the drunken spiral.
“Yeah, really,” Ash said.
Lips pursed, Ronnie asked, “Why didn’t she contact you? Jesse could have found a way to get in touch if she really wanted to.”
Possibly, but Ronnie didn’t know Jesse like he did. “She took my silence as rejection. If I didn’t want her in my life, then she didn’t want me in hers either.”
Ronnie looked slightly appeased. “I’ve heard she’s difficult to work with. No offense, but that’s probably why they couldn’t find anyone else to take the job.”
Word traveled fast. One of the many ways in which Music Row was like a small town. “Clay used the term challenging.”
“You up for that?” she asked, apprehensive on his behalf.
Ash leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “Jesse isn’t challenging so much as . . . determined.” At twelve years old, she’d practiced for hours to learn every chord he taught her. Ash would take an artist with that kind of dedication any day. “If we can funnel even half of her passion into this album, she’ll be unstoppable.”
“And you’ll be the most sought-after new producer in town.” Eyes narrowed, she added, “I’m not sure how I feel about you cutting in on my territory.”
“Considering your trophy case full of awards, I think you’ll be all right.” Ash rose from the chair. He had a songwriting session two streets over in ten minutes. “I’m not going to lie, I might be in over my head with this one. You available if I need to phone a friend?”
“I’ve got you, homie.” She held up a hand for a high-five, and Ash pulled it to his lips to place a kiss on her knuckles. “You’re a hopeless romantic, Shepherd,” Ronnie scoffed, leaning back in her chair.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” Still holding her hand, he bent and kissed her cheek. “Being a romantic helped me win that single of the year award back in May. How else could I have written a song called ‘Hugs and Kisses’?”
“That song is about two people kept apart by war.”
“But it’s still romantic,” Ash argued. On his way to the door, he added, “Let me know if I need to come mow on Sunday.”
Ronnie had let Ash have the house after their divorce, and in exchange, he took care of the yardwork at her new place. At least until she found someone else to do it for her.
“I’ll check when I get home,” she said before pressing a button on the board and filling the room with an upbeat banjo solo.
Strolling toward the studio exit, Ash felt better about the task ahead. Reconnecting with Jesse aside, this project was the break he needed to really shape the music that came out of this town. Writing the songs was one thing. Producing them meant controlling the final sound, and that’s where the real creativity came in.
If Jesse couldn’t be with her boyfriend tonight, then being with her friends was the next best thing.
Lunch with Silas had been fun. He knew everyone in town, which meant lots of visitors to their table. Each offered their congratulations after Silas bragged about his young client and how she was going to rule the airwaves.
Jesse hoped that was true.
> She’d spent a couple of hours during the afternoon flipping through notebooks filled with every song she’d ever written. The early stuff was crap, of course, but you never knew when there might be a flicker of genius in a chorus or verse. Lyrics could be improved upon. Melodies sped up or slowed down, turning a dud into a viable tune.
By five o’clock, she’d showered and dressed for dinner, which Dana had insisted on hosting, and Reggie and his wife, Phoenix, had managed to find a last-minute babysitter for their twins, Tatiana and Arquette. The four-year-old girls adored Jesse, partially because she was the only adult who fit inside their playhouse. Even Silas had agreed to come. The elderly manager was often asleep by eight o’clock, so his willingness to stay up past his bedtime meant a lot to Jesse.
While brushing her damp hair back into a ponytail, she’d gotten the crazy idea to invite Ash but wasn’t sure how to contact him. Naomi Colburn would probably have his number. Not only was she Jesse’s new publicist and Clay Benedict’s right-hand person, but Ash had worked with her husband and had even attended their wedding last month.
At least that’s what Jesse had heard. The couple set the whole thing up as a Labor Day party, and then surprised their guests with the unexpected nuptials. The press had been thwarted, and the guests were still talking about the romantically sappy ceremony.
Jesse wasn’t much of a romantic. Flowers died. Candlelight wasn’t nearly bright enough to see what you were eating. And candy caused cavities and added bulk to her backside, neither of which Jesse needed more of. A root canal the year before had been traumatic enough to put her off the sweets, and she hoped not to resemble a baby whale in her first music video.
After firing off a quick text to Naomi, she completed her makeup routine of eyeliner and mascara—the only makeup she wore when not in the spotlight—and dug through the guest bedroom closet for her favorite boots. Ryan’s sizable wardrobe had occupied the entire master closet well before Jesse moved in, so her more meager choices had been relegated to the only spare closet in the house. They’d discussed getting a bigger place, but their busy schedules never coincided enough to explore the options.
Thankfully, Jesse had been smart with her money, partially thanks to Silas and his conservative accountant who took penny-pinching to new heights, and her own frugal nature. Most of what she’d made with the Daisies still sat in the bank, and the signing bonus offered by Shooting Stars had padded her account nicely. When Ryan came home in a month, they’d narrow down a target location and put a real estate agent to work finding their perfect new home.
Jesse’s cell phone dinged from the other room, and she hurried back, boots in hand, to find Ash’s number in a text from Naomi. She sent back a grateful reply and dialed up her new producer, oddly nervous, considering their history.
“Hello?” Ash answered.
“Hey, Ash. It’s me. Jesse.”
“Oh.”
He didn’t sound all that happy to hear from her. “I’m sorry to bother you.”
“No,” he said. “The area code just threw me off. I haven’t seen that one in a long time.”
Jesse still used the number she’d gotten years ago while living at home. Keeping in touch with his mom should have meant seeing the area code regularly.
“Your mom doesn’t call you?” she asked, unable to muzzle her curiosity.
“She lives here, and we don’t have much reason to go back.”
That explained why their paths never crossed back in Eton, despite her looking for him around every corner.
Tucking the phone against her shoulder, she pulled on a sock. “We’re having a little get-together tonight to celebrate finally heading into the studio, and I thought you might want to join us. It’s nothing fancy. Just dinner and drinks at my bass player’s house.” The nerves were making her ramble. “If you have other plans—”
“Are you sure you want me crashing your party?” he asked.
“It isn’t crashing if you’re invited.” Sitting up, she took the phone in hand and tried swaying him with a little honesty. “The truth is, I’m never going to make it to Monday. I’ve been dreaming of this opportunity for so long that waiting another forty-eight hours is going to drive me nuts. You’ll get a good, home-cooked meal, and we can talk shop. What do you say?”
She held her breath waiting for his answer. This was probably out of bounds from a professional standpoint, but if they were going to work together, they needed to connect on new ground. As long as she thought of him as the boy he once was, Jesse would never wedge him out of her heart for good. And that’s exactly what she needed to do to survive the next three months.
“All right, sure. What time?”
“Six thirty. I’ll text you the address.”
“Sounds good.” Ash hesitated, as if unsure of what to say next. “I’ll see you then.”
“Yes,” she said, feeling like an awkward teen all over again. “I’ll see you then.”
Jesse ended the call, sent the promised text, and tossed the phone on the bed so she could finish putting on her socks. By the time she reached for a boot, the phone dinged with a reply that simply said Thanks.
She stared at the phone and doubts crept in. What if he didn’t like her songs and changed his mind about doing the project? She should have worked on more songs over the last two months so she’d be more prepared for this moment.
“Get a grip, woman,” Jesse mumbled to herself. “You couldn’t be more prepared if you had another year.”
Four
When the call popped up on his screen, Ash’s heart lodged in his throat.
Jesse’s number was only a few digits off from Tommy’s old one, and he’d nearly answered with his best friend’s name. That would have been an uncomfortable way to start their second conversation in ten years.
Ash checked his GPS to make sure he hadn’t missed a turn. He’d had casual plans for the evening, but nothing he couldn’t back out of. He, too, was anxious to get this project underway, and the more they talked about concepts and expectations, the more comfortable he’d feel creating a plan of attack.
Working with Chance had been a breeze. With a signature sound established long ago, he knew exactly what he wanted and how to get it. He’d been open to input, but producing the three singles had been a team effort, with Ash probably receiving more credit than he deserved.
Working with Jesse would be a much different experience. Not that Chance’s album hadn’t come with plenty of pressure—tasked with relaunching his career after a very public downfall—but the job ahead had the potential to decide Jesse’s fate in the industry. The days of an artist being granted the time and support required to develop and build a following were long gone. Now you had to burst onto the airwaves with instant buzz, an overnight success that in reality was many years in the making.
The Honkytonk Daisies had established a respectable following and would have likely continued to gain momentum had they been given the chance. Jesse had been the majority songwriter on the Daisies’ album, which meant their sound stemmed from her sensibilities, and that gave Ash a solid place to start.
The GPS said to turn left ahead, and Ash followed the order, pulling into a suburban neighborhood of large brick homes and tailored lawns. The houses weren’t completely cookie-cutter, but close. There were a ton of these sorts of neighborhoods surrounding the city, most in areas like this—little towns in bordering counties populated by folks looking for a more family-friendly area to settle down. Many endured the grueling commute for good, if overpopulated, schools, manicured parks, and generic shopping centers that offered box stores and chain restaurants.
Budding families got more space close enough to enjoy the benefits of Nashville, yet far enough away to avoid the bright lights and noise of the city. But the lights and noise were what Ash loved.
Unless you were down on Broadway, where the tourists and locals gathered to sample the latest microbrew or scoot their boots while an underappreciated dreamer belted out cover tu
nes, Ash’s adopted city was actually pretty normal. He knew his neighbors, held cookouts on the weekends, and attended a sporting event now and then.
The only difference was that most of his neighbors also worked in the music industry—which turned cookouts into jam sessions—and sporting events typically came with box seats courtesy of this label or that publishing company.
Nashville might not be small-town America, but the city was more down-to-earth than an outsider probably expected, due in no small part to the transplants who brought their small-town ideals with them.
Locating the house number, Ash pulled into the long driveway to park behind a burgundy Jeep—the type of vehicle he would never own again. Phone and keys were slipped into his jacket pockets before he grabbed the bottle of wine from the passenger seat and made his way to the porch, noting the quiet setting. No horns blowing in the distance. No neon as far as the eye could see.
“I don’t know how people live this way,” he muttered, reaching for the doorbell.
Seconds later, the door swung open, and a young girl with dark eyes and a head full of tight curls stared him up and down.
“Who are you?” she asked, nose crinkled as if she were greeting a skunk instead of a freshly-showered man.
Great. He’d gone to the wrong house. Ash stepped back. “I’m sorry. I must have gotten the address wrong.”
“Hold on!” yelled a voice from somewhere behind the child. A blonde woman pulled the door open wider, and the smell of grilled peppers filled the night air. “You must be Ash?” she asked with a European accent. Her pale skin and sunshine-colored hair stood in stark contrast to the child’s warm brown tones.
Relieved, he nodded. “I am. Is this Dana’s place?”
“Technically, it’s my place, but Dana lives here.” She extended a hand. “I’m Ingrid, and this is Angelica. She belongs to our neighbor, who had to make a quick run to the store.”