I contemplate doing something about it, but I’m too amped. I wouldn’t want to turn up with cuts on my face. Instead, I wet my fingers and run them through my hair. I straighten my shirt and do up another button. It tightens across my shoulders, making me feel too contained. I undo it again. I let out a puff of air. I might look like I’m an out-of-towner instead of one of those slicked-back city boys, but as I said, I’m not here for some fashion contest.
And anyway, this thing has been thrust on me from out of the blue, the reason why I’m here, standing in this hotel bathroom. I mean, I didn’t exactly have the time—or the inclination—to get a makeover.
Before I leave, I check I’ve got everything, and then sling my guitar over my shoulder. Back down I go to the lobby, where I stride past the reception desk, pausing only to flash Courtney a brief smile in response to her wave. Out on the street, I wait on the curb and try to flag myself a cab.
“May I help you with that, sir?”
I turn to see the man in the red jacket with gold buttons and top hat who had sized me up when I arrived.
“I’m good, thanks.” At twenty-four, I’m used to doing things for myself, not having some guy in a fancy suit help me out.
Where I’m from, it’s what we call being an adult.
I return my attention to finding myself a ride. I raise my hand as a series of yellow cabs zip by without stopping for me. I curse under my breath.
“Please, allow me.” Without waiting for my response, Red Suit Guy flags down one of those elusive yellow cabs. It rolls to a stop right in front of me. He pulls the back door open. “Sir.”
There’s nothing for me to do but thank him, slide my guitar onto the back seat, and climb in. I pull a couple of bucks out of my back pocket and thank him as I hand them to him.
“How are you, sir?” I say to the driver once I’m settled.
“Where to?”
Not big on small talk then.
“Hewitt Recording Studios, thanks.”
Without uttering another word, he pulls out into traffic. A couple of drivers sound their horns, but my guy simply ignores them. All par for the course in busy Manhattan, I guess.
We crawl through the streets with the other vehicles, stopping at lights. Silence from my driver gives me time to think. And I need to think. The last twenty-four hours have been the craziest of my life.
“A recording studio, huh?” The cab driver’s eyes flick over my reflection in the rearview mirror. So much for thinking time. “You recording an album or something?”
I glance at my guitar on the seat beside me. “Something like that.”
“What’s your name? Would I have heard of you?”
I shake my head. I preferred it when he said nothing. “I’m not famous.”
“You part of a country band? You got that look. Muscly, dirty blond hair, needing a shave. Keith Urban-like.”
Keith Urban? “Yeah, sure.” It’s easier to let him believe what he wants, but I think I’ll leave the plaid shirt behind next time.
I pull my phone out of my pocket and start to scroll through a random news site. I’m not looking for anything in particular, I just don’t want to share my story with some random guy—not when I’m still trying to wrap my head around it myself.
I flick over to the Entertainment section and my eyes land on Rex Randall. I flex my jaw as I skim the article. He’s here in New York with his new wife, preparing for his big comeback tour, which he’s kicking off with a concert at Madison Square Garden next Saturday night. There’s a photo of him on some red carpet, hair a little too suspiciously un-gray for a man of his age, dressed in an expensive suit. His arm is slung around a manufactured-looking blonde, young enough to be his daughter, as the cliché goes. She’s wearing what amounts to not much more than a tea towel for a skirt and a bikini top. I can almost hear my grandma tutting.
The caption reads: Rex Randall and his third wife, Letitia Jones, at the Grammys earlier this year. “She’s my soulmate,” Rex says of his new bride.
I tap my fingers on the windowsill. Soulmate my ass.
I shift on the vinyl seat, and my foot kicks something poking out from under the seat in front of me. I lean down and pick it up off the floor. It’s a bright yellow bag with a picture of a smiling green frog wearing a crown. I hold the bag up. “This yours?”
The driver looks at the reflection in the rearview mirror. “Aw, crap. That’s all I need. Another item for the Lost and Found. What’s in the bag? It’s not some nasty sandwich or something, is it? I can’t stand food stinking out my car. What people don’t seem to understand is this is my workplace, you know?”
I wonder how often people leave things in his cab, especially stinky sandwiches, as I open the bag to find a single shoe. I pull it out and examine it. It’s one of those sky-high-heeled shoes women in Bond movies wear—sexy as all hell. I hold the shoe up. “You sure this isn’t yours?” I shoot him a grin.
My driver glances in his mirror once more and shakes his head. “I bet that belongs to the girl I just dropped off.” He comes to a stop. “That’ll be $23.90.”
“How much?”
“$23.90,” he repeats evenly.
Crap. At this rate, I’ll burn through my meager cash reserves in no time. I pull some notes out of my wallet and hand them to him. I look down at the shoe. “What’s gonna happen to the shoe?”
“It’ll go to Lost and Found, just like everything else, and eventually end up in some landfill somewhere. That’s how these things work.”
I frown at the shoe in my hands. As sexy as it is, I’ll just have to leave it to its landfill fate. I slip it back into the bag and place it on the seat.
I grab my guitar and climb out of the car. Something drops at my feet as I push the door shut. I look down to see the yellow bag. Quickly, I pick it up and knock on the window. “Hey!” I call out to the driver. Whether he ignores me or he doesn’t hear my call I’ll never know. He’s already pulling away from the curb, out into the traffic. I watch as the car speeds off down the street.
I find myself standing on an unfamiliar city street once more, only this time I’m holding a bag with a single shoe in my hands.
What the hell am I gonna do with this? I don’t have time to even think about it right now. Not with what lies ahead.
I look up and read the sign on the building beside me. Hewitt Recording Studio. My guitar over my shoulder and the shoe in my hands, I stride across the sidewalk, climb a few steps, and pass through the entranceway. Standing by a set of escalators, I pull my phone out of my back pocket and scroll through my emails. I find my instructions, and although I’ve read them at least ten times in the last twelve hours, I scan them one more time.
“You have got to be Cole Grant.”
I look up from my phone to see a guy about forty or so, dressed head-to-toe in black, his dark hair tied up in one of those man bun things. It’s obvious he’s trying to pull off that hipster look, only on a guy his age, it looks like he’s trying too damn hard.
I frown at him. “How’d you know my name?”
He runs his eyes over me. “I don’t know.” He shrugs. “I guess you look like it.” He extends his hand and I shake it. “I’m Nashville.”
“Good to meet you, Nashville.” I squint at him. “Are you from Nashville?”
He shoots me a look like I’m some sort of imbecile. “No, man. It’s just my name.”
I nod. “Right. Good to know.”
“Rex is upstairs. He’s in the studio, and then he’s got a press conference with his supporting act, the Pop Princesses,” Nashville tells me as he steps onto the escalator. “You’ll have to wait until he’s ready, but you’re good with that, right? Your being here wasn’t exactly planned for today.”
He doesn’t need to tell me that. Hell, I’m totally blindsided by this thing myself.
I follow him onto the escalator. “Yeah, I’m good with that.” As we glide upwards, I work hard at not letting my nerves get the better of me.
/> This is it, this is the moment when I get to meet him, the man Grandpop told me about only yesterday. The man who’s been etched on my mind. The man my mom lied to me about my entire life.
I’m about to meet my father.
Chapter 3
Gabriella
There’s nothing for it, I’m going to have to come clean and tell Sylvia I lost the shoe. None of the taxi companies I called know anything about it, and right now, finding it feels as likely as getting a parking space in The Village on a Saturday. I’ve chewed my nail down so low, next rip, there’ll be blood. I exhale a long breath.
I’m royally screwed.
I make my way through the doors at the recording studio and step onto the escalator. My phone rings. Keen for any distraction to delay the wrath of Sylvia raining down on me in its full, nasty glory, I pull my phone out of my purse to see who it is. I smile as I look at the screen and pick up.
“Hey, BFF, what’s happening?” I step off at the top of the escalator.
“You still up for tonight? Don’t say you can’t come. It’s our tradition, and you haven’t been in weeks!” Izzy says.
“I know, I’m sorry. Sylvia’s been super demanding lately.”
“Forget Sylvia. She can go boil in her own cauldron for all I care. Raffy and I are so much more important than some temporary stepmom, anyway.” I smile down the phone. My friends are the best.
“She may be temporary if I have anything to do with it, but right now, she’s standing in the way of me making it as a singer. She’s still not letting me perform with the Pop Princesses, and they’re getting known as a twosome. It’s now or never. Sylvia’s chosen never.”
“All the more reason to come and sing with us, babe. I know it’s not a paid gig and it’s only an open mic night, but you’ve got to come. It’ll be good for you, and we miss you, babe. Say you’ll be there. The Mandolin at the usual time?”
“As I said, I’ll try to—”
“Say it!”
I smile into the receiver. Izzy is not one to take no for an answer. Voted “Most Likely to Succeed” at St. Martha’s, she recently graduated from NYU and is launching herself into her new career. “Okay. I’ll be there, I promise. I’ve been working on a new song.”
“Awesome! I can’t wait to hear it. See you at The Mandolin at nine. Love you!”
“Love you back.” I hang up and my phone beeps.
Where the hell are you?
A friendly text from Sylvia, the type she specializes in. I type out a quick response.
Just arrived.
I pause as the dots blink at me, telling me Sylvia isn’t quite done with me yet.
One Diet Coke, one green smoothie with extra kale, one hot green tea.
The Coke and hot tea are no problem, but I know the green smoothie is for Britney, and she won’t be happy unless I get it from Greens, a chain of health stores specializing in over-priced, disgusting looking goop in a cup. The type of place where they charge $15 for something that looks like it was scraped off the bottom of a car.
I let out a sigh as I trudge to the “down” escalator and send a text back to Sylvia.
I’m on it.
I add a poop emoji, a dagger, and a vomit face in a neat little row then think better of it and delete them before I press “send.” The last thing I want to do today is rock that Sylvia-shaped boat. I’ve done it before; it ain’t pretty.
I do a search on my phone for the closest Greens. There’s one two blocks away. I curse the humidity as I trudge out the doors and down the steps. Twenty-three minutes and more texts from Sylvia demanding a cucumber for Kylie to slice up and put over her beady little pig eyes (Bitter? Me?), I arrive back at the studio, my arms heavily laden with their orders.
At the top of the escalator, I balance the cardboard tray of drinks with the cucumber under my arm. I maneuver myself so I can push the door handle down with my elbow to open the door. It’s awkward and I bite my lip as I concentrate hard on not dropping anything. I lean my back firmly against the heavy door and push my way through it.
That’s when it happens.
Without warning, the door flies open behind me. Shocked, I stagger back, trying in vain to regain my balance. “Holy crap!” I stumble as my hands flail, desperate to find something—anything—to grab onto.
I find nothing.
The tray of drinks becomes secondary to the urgent need to stop myself from propelling through the air. Just as I’m certain I’m in for a painful slap against the hard, unforgiving ground, my back collides with something firm, warm, and unexpected. Well, that’s a weird feeling wall. My hands shoot up in the air. The wall jerks, a low, surprised grunt emanating from its mouth.
Wait, mouth? Walls don’t have mouths, and they sure as heck don’t jerk.
The wall lurches back, taking me with it, my legs entwined with what I’m rapidly realizing must be a pair of legs. As if in slow motion, I watch the can of Diet Coke, the hot tea, and the smoothie, catapult from my hands and sail through the air. I know they’re heading straight for me. Me and the wall of person behind me.
Strong, solid arms wrap around my middle, steadying me, preventing us both from falling further. I have only a fraction of a second before the drinks hit. All I can do is scrunch my eyes shut as the smoothie lands with a slop against my face. One of the cans of Coke crashes painfully on my head, and I cry out as the hot tea splatters down my jeans, burning my skin beneath.
Another arm steadies me. “Miss? Are you okay?” A deep, gentle Southern voice from the manly wall behind me reverberates through my body. It’s soft and smooth, like liquid honey.
I wipe some of the kale goop from my face and tilt my head against his chest. I look up into a pair of the most gorgeous brown eyes I’ve ever seen. They’re gazing down at me, the skin around the edges crinkled in concern. In a flash, I picture myself turning to face him, running my fingers through his hair as his lips brush tantalizingly against my skin.
Wait, what?
And then wham! All thought of how gorgeous this guy is evaporates into the ether as the mortification of what’s happened hits me right in the gut. As incredible as it feels, all I want to do is crawl from his arms and run away and hide, like, now.
I feel myself blush from the tips of my toes all the way to my cheeks. I brush his hands away from around my waist, and with as much dignity as I can muster given the predicament I find myself in, I take a step on wobbly legs. I take a deep breath and turn to face him fully.
And oh, my.
I try not to notice the way those eyes of his are the color of my favorite dark chocolate ice cream, set in a face with a strong brow and square jaw. I try not to notice the little creases between his eyebrows, the way a crop of his hair flops over his forehead, the way his lips are drawn into a concerned line. Honestly, I do.
But I sure as heck fail.
Southern Guy’s eyes are wide with surprise—and a touch of what appears to be amusement. “What the hell just happened?” he asks.
“I’m not exactly sure, but by the looks of you, it happened more to me.” I pull at my damp T as evidence.
“Yeah, it sure looks like it. One minute I was opening the door to go get some fresh air, the next you come hurtling out of nowhere. Literally.”
My cheeks burn hot. “Well, it wasn’t out of nowhere, exactly. I was on the other side of the door, and I had no clue you were here.” I glance accusingly at the door in question as if it alone is responsible for the accident.
“That makes two of us.” His lips curve into a smile that lights up his whole face. It’s slow and sexy, the kind of smile I’m sure has robbed many a woman of her ability to think.
And that’s exactly what it’s doing to me, right here, right now.
Good job, Gabby. Of all the men to humiliate myself in front of with a ton of green goop, I had to do it in front of this guy? This guy?
His eyes glide over me then lift back up to mine. They’re dancing when he looks back at me. “You are cove
red in that stuff, and all from one cup. That’s actually quite impressive.”
I steel myself and look down. My once pale-blue shirt is now covered in patches of icky grayish-green, and my jeans are clinging to my legs, the once hot tea cooling in the studio’s air conditioning. I wipe at my face. I must look like I’m wearing one of Sylvia’s thick face masks. I cringe when I see globs of smoothie residue dirtying my fingers. “Well, I guess I’m nothing if not thorough.”
Southern Guy laughs. I like the sound of it, and it makes my insides tingle. “You look a bit like Kermit the Frog right now.”
This hot guy thinks I look like a Muppet? Now I feel super sexy. “Thanks a lot, dude.” Despite my humiliation, laughter bubbles up inside me.
I glance down at his chest. I try not to think about how wide his shoulders are, or the way he fills his shirt. Yup, I fail. Again. What is it about this guy? “You’ve, errr, got some on you, too.”
He looks down. “Thanks for that. Here.” He unbuttons his plaid shirt, and my eyes almost pop out of my head as he slips it off, his bare arms thick and strong, the contours of defined pecs and wide shoulders clear for anyone to see under his plain white T.
He offers me his shirt in his outstretched arm. “Here. Use it to clean yourself up.”
I wave my hand at him. “Oh, no. I’ve already gotten this stuff on it. You don’t want any more.”
“I’d say you need this more than me right now. It’s already messed up anyway. What’s the harm in adding a bit more of,” he lifts the shirt and sniffs it then pulls a face, “what is this crap, anyway?”
I bite my lip as a fresh giggle tries to escape. “It’s a kale smoothie.”
“Kale? As in what my grandpop feeds his horse?”
I can’t keep the giggle in. “I have no clue what your grandpop feeds his animals.”
“Well, it’s green, and it smells like guinea pig pee.”
“That’s a kale smoothie for you.”
He shrugs. “Each to their own, I guess.”
Manhattan Cinderella Page 3