“That famous equaled rich?” She sighed. “I know. I was, at one point.”
“What happened?”
“A slimy financial advisor—that’s what happened.”
“Oh, no.” Wheels clicked together in Cooper’s head. “Did you get caught up in that Ponzi thing?”
She nodded, her lips pressed together. “Not just me. Daddy, too.”
“How much did you lose? If that’s not a completely inappropriate question?” Cooper shook his head. “Never mind—that’s a completely inappropriate question. Sorry.”
But then Shelby rattled off a figure that had his jaw dropping and eyes going wide at the same time. Holy shit.
“And you couldn’t recover any of it when the arrests were finally made?”
“No.” She frowned. “It was gone. All of it. That’s why Daddy was still touring, rather than opening his little dream of a music shop in some little Southern paradise. He’d planned to buy a farm and retire two years ago, but no.”
“I’m sorry, Shelby. I can’t even fathom what that would have felt like.”
“Well, unfortunately, it’s far from over. His estate’s being liquidated to cover his debts, so everything he worked for—it’s all being auctioned off, piece by piece, to the highest bidders.”
“I had no idea.”
“Well, good, I guess.” She twirled her wine slowly in its glass. “Maybe nobody else does, either. Hopefully they’re keeping it all under the radar, or at least spinning it like it’s not desperation and debt that has everything going on the block.”
“What about you?”
“What about me?”
Cooper stopped chopping. “Is this last album going to be enough to get you free?”
“I don’t know.” She looked down, and an abject misery took over her face. “But it has to. It’s the only thing that can. I’m not terribly qualified to do anything else.”
He watched her, feeling a mixture of anger, sadness, and frustration with the sequence of events that had brought her to this point in her life.
And that gnawing pit in his stomach opened up as he realized he had no right to be with her right now. No right to take her to bed and make promises he couldn’t keep.
“You know what?” Shelby’s voice broke into his thoughts. “It actually wouldn’t be nearly as bad if I felt like anything more than a commodity they were required to finish up with. I’m like this ghost of a person past…of a fake person they created in the first place. And I don’t know if I remember how to be her anymore.”
“I can’t believe you don’t have other options. Another label, maybe? Could they buy you out of your contract?”
“Nobody will touch me right now.”
“That’s insane. Every label in America should be knocking at your door, desperate to help you record the music you really believe in.”
“Even if I was lucky enough for that to happen, LolliPop would just take me to court, make up a bunch of bullshit about potential dollars I’m costing them, and bankrupt me. And if they do that, the mask of Tara Gibson will come off. They’ll sue Shelby Quinn, daughter of Tommy Quinn, and it’ll be in every newspaper in the United States. I’d never work again. And I would never do that to my father’s memory.”
Cooper crossed his arms as a long sigh deflated him. “I’m not sure I’m a fan of Neverlandia, princess.”
“Yeah, me neither.” She scraped at her thumbnail with her other thumb. “Really, the only thing that could get me out of this is a headline bad enough that it would come with a book deal at the same time the label drops me. So I either have to suck it up and go back out on the road as Tara Gibson, or I need to do something really, really bad, make sure the press gets wind, and hope New York publishing is listening.”
“That’s just…wrong.”
“I was kidding.” She shrugged. “Sort of. The thought has crossed my mind.”
“It could totally backfire—just saying.”
“I know.” She tried to smile. “But if you think of anything, let me know. I could use a good publicity stunt right about now.”
Cooper didn’t answer—just went back to chopping carrots into smithereens as his mind raced and his gut twisted, realizing how close he might be to handing her that very headline.
Chapter 21
“Hey, princess.” Cooper knocked on the door two days later, jolting Shelby out of a melody line she was this close to figuring out. He’d had to head out right after dinner the other night, and the fact that he hadn’t been back since—even though it was because he was subbing for the laid-up cowboy—had her more jittery than she wanted to admit. It was like a window shade had pulled itself down over his face while they ate, and by the time he’d kissed her good night, it had seemed like he couldn’t wait to go.
All of it had her head racing, so finally she’d sat down, picked up her guitar, and forced herself to stay on the couch for one straight hour, just to see what might happen.
And for two days now, she’d been sitting on that couch, guitar in her hands, pencil clamped between her teeth, music paper on the coffee table. And it had been happening.
Happening.
There was music coming out of this guitar, and it wasn’t half bad, though she was decidedly rusty.
She got up, stretching the kinks out of her back and shaking the nerves out of her fingers. She had no idea what version of Cooper she’d find on the other side of the door, but when she spotted him, she laughed out loud. He stood there, two plates heaped with spaghetti in his hands, and an impish, puppy-dog smile on his face.
Relief flooded her. Embarrassing, giddy relief.
“You made me dinner?”
“Sort of.” He came in and set the plates on her kitchen table, then turned around to wrap his arms around her as he planted a kiss on her nose. “I actually brought them as a bribe.”
“What kind of a bribe?”
“I’d love for you to come with me to open mic night at Jasper’s.”
“Open mic—no—what? Seriously? That’s really a thing?”
“Seriously.” He squeezed her waist lightly, then pulled out her chair for her, eyebrows up.
Her butterflies stopped flapping so hard when he smiled. Maybe she’d spent the last two days perseverating over—nothing? He seemed perfectly normal—not like a guy who was being chewed up by regrets.
“I can’t go somewhere like that and sing.”
“Why not?”
She put her hands up like he was obtuse. Which he wasn’t. But seriously?
“There are a lot of reasons why not.” She started putting up her fingers, one by one. “One—there’s a chance I’ll be recognized. Two—I just barely started singing aga—”
He gently clamped her fingers down before she could continue. “You can wear a wig and a hat. You’ve been singing for your entire life. You don’t forget how to sing.”
“Cooper.”
He laughed. “Ever consider a second career as a junior high teacher? You have serious tone when you want to, princess.”
“Shut up.”
“Spaghetti’s getting cold.” He pointed at the table. “What do you say?”
“I say we eat the spaghetti and forget about the open mic night.”
“No deal.” He reached for her plate.
“Cooper!” She rolled her eyes. “You play dirty.”
“Always.”
“Stop winking. It’s not sexy.”
“Sorry.”
“And don’t do that thing with your eyebrows. Not sexy, either.”
He laughed, pulling her close as he let his lips nibble their way down her neck. “No?”
“No,” she breathed, then rolled her eyes and pushed him away. “Stop trying to distract me.”
“Not trying very hard. Just saying.”
She put her hands on her hips. “You’re impossible.”
“Sure.” He shrugged, picking up her plate and waving the garlic scent her way. “But I make a damn good spaghetti.”
“I
’m stronger than your spaghetti, buddy.”
“Mm-hm.” He sat down and started swirling pasta around his fork, practically making her drool as she watched how the spices clung to the sauce. “Let me ask you one question, then—of all the concerts you’ve ever done, which one was your favorite?”
“None of them.”
He paused his fork halfway to his mouth. “Why?”
“Because.” She shook her head. “My favorite performances were the times where Daddy and I would set up with a couple of his guys in some random park, and play for half an hour to twenty people who just happened to be there.”
He nodded like he’d known that would be her answer. “Why were those your favorite? And sit down and eat your spaghetti before it gets cold.”
“If I eat it, I’m not agreeing to your terms.”
“Understood.” He rolled his eyes. “So why’d you like the impromptu concerts best? Besides the fact that they weren’t really concerts, I mean. I get that.”
She sat down carefully, picking up her fork and spoon while she thought about his question. Could she even explain why those sunny afternoons had been her favorites?
“They were real.” She shrugged, like she couldn’t come up with a better explanation. “Real people, real setting, real—us. No stage, no makeup, no highly researched set list, no invisible audience beyond lights so bright you can’t even see humans. Just us, our guitars, and our voices. And theirs, when they joined in. That was the best.”
She took a deep breath, closing her eyes as she almost felt the breezes of those afternoons…saw Daddy’s smile as he gave her a solo.
He’d always given her a solo.
All that time, all those years, all those concerts—on stages and in tiny parks—he’d been trying to prepare her to do it on her own.
When she opened her eyes, Cooper was staring intently at her, and she met his eyes for a long, long moment before she spoke.
“You’re about to say that Jasper’s open mic night would be all of those things, aren’t you?”
“Yup.”
She sighed, taking a bite of the pasta. “It’s a damn good thing you make such good spaghetti, mister.”
—
A couple of hours later, Shelby set her guitar behind the coffee bar, then followed Cooper to the table closest to the door, thankful for her auburn wig and funky glasses. Even though the disguise was probably likely to draw more eyes than her normal self would, it gave her some comfort to feel like nobody could possibly recognize Tara Gibson in their midst.
Not that anybody seemed to be looking, anyway.
He pulled out a chair for her, then sat beside her as they listened to the woman who was already halfway through a Taylor Swift song onstage.
Jasper looked over from behind the coffee bar, and a huge grin lit up his face as he spotted them. Cooper shook his head, smiling, but Shelby felt her entire stomach twist like a dog’s chew rope.
She couldn’t do this.
“Yes, you can.” Cooper leaned over to whisper in her ear.
She hadn’t said that out loud. She hadn’t.
“I’m sorry—what?”
“You’re twitching,” he whispered. “Get out of your own head. You don’t have to sing, if you don’t want to. Just sit here and listen, if that’s what works. Nobody’s forcing you to do this.”
“But—spaghetti bribes.”
She shook her head. Could she be any lamer?
He smiled. “True. And you’ll never get more of it. But that’s a choice you have to make, not me. Not Jasper. Not anyone.”
Just then, the woman finished singing, and the audience of maybe twenty-five people clapped politely.
Cooper looked at her, eyes comically wide, voice quiet. “I love pop music! It’s the best!”
“Stop it.” She laughed. “She did her best.”
“Absolutely. It was awesome.” He used his hands to indicate the gathered crowd. “And clearly, this is a tough audience. You’d be wise to stay quiet here in the back, disguise intact.”
“Sounds good.”
“Except that those glasses make you look like you’re trying to hide, which is going to make people look at you harder while they try to figure out who you might be. So…maybe lose the glasses?”
She slid them off, rolling her eyes. “You might have a point. And Tara freaking Gibson wears so much purple eye shadow and black eyeliner—not to mention the blue contacts—that it would never be my eyes that gave me away, anyway.”
Jasper arrived at the table just then with two cups of steaming coffee. “Compliments of Liam,” he said, pointing toward the back of the café, where the music shop owner and three others held down the table closest to the stage.
“Thanks, Jasper,” Shelby said. “I’m going to miss this coffee when I leave.”
The chew rope twisted tighter when she considered the expiration date on her little hiatus. How had the weeks flown by, when she’d expected them to crawl?
She looked at Cooper’s profile.
Yeah. That was how.
“You gonna man up and play tonight?” Jasper punched Cooper lightly on the arm.
“Maybe. We’ll see.”
“I see two guitars over there.” His eyebrows went upward. “That mean you convinced Shelby to play, too?”
“Not yet.”
Jasper nodded. “You tell her performers get a free cup of java? Because a cup of my beans should pretty much convince anybody to do anything, right?”
“Nope.” Cooper laughed. “Got my own bribes all worked out already.”
“Ah.” Jasper nodded, putting up his hands. “Then I’ll just move along. Can’t compete with those types of bribes.”
And then he was gone, before Cooper could correct him, which made Shelby laugh, then sober.
Wait just one Montana minute.
She wasn’t just some random tourist babe who hooked up with the local cowboys wherever she landed.
But more than it bothered her that anyone would think that about her, she hated that people here in Carefree—people who knew Cooper already—would think that about him.
“You want to clarify that you bribe in pasta?”
Cooper shrugged. “He’d never believe me, anyway.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s so obvious that you’re into me. I can’t help it.”
Shelby started to retort, but he put up a hand. “Shh. The next artist is up.”
She rolled her eyes and crossed her arms, sitting back in her chair, but he was right. He knew it and she knew it. And when he settled his hand on her thigh, under the table, the careless, natural warmth of the gesture just about undid her.
She listened to a guy with a ukulele, and a soprano with an unfortunate tin ear, and a grandpa sort who’d set his poem to “Chopsticks,” clapping each time, and then Jasper appeared at the table.
“Do you see what I’m saying, Coop?”
Cooper laughed. “Not sure what I have to add would really help, buddy.”
“But you’ll give it a shot? Save me from closing down this open mic concept for the sake of my own sanity? Because I don’t sell nearly enough coffee to make it worth my while.”
“All right.” Cooper pushed back his chair. “I’ll give it a shot. But I want two weeks of coffee. Not just one.”
“Done.”
Shelby laughed. Jasper was definitely desperate. Cooper squeezed her fingers as he left the table and went to grab his guitar. As he headed to the stage, she watched heads turn and elbows jab, and she studied him, trying to pretend she was seeing him for the first time.
With his Stetson pulled low and that smile that had undone her for weeks now, he sat down on the stool and adjusted the mic, and she swore her heart actually fluttered.
And yeah, she was coursing major anxiety-induced adrenaline through her veins, but still. It was a definite flutter. Not just—you know—nerves.
He strummed the opening chords of a song she’d hummed for years—not
one written by her dad, thank God, or she’d lose it right here—and she found herself watching his fingers as they flew over the strings, competent, confident.
Kind of like how he’d played her—gently, perfectly, coaxing sweetness.
He paused before the melody started, and in that fraction of a moment, he looked up from under the brim of his Stetson, and his eyes met hers. She took a catchy breath as his look hooked her way down low, and then he winked.
No less than three other women in front of her probably thought that wink had been aimed toward them, and it gave Shelby a secret little thrill to know it hadn’t.
Kind of a big thrill, honestly.
And then Cooper’s voice came through the mic, deep and full, and Shelby knew she was lost. She’d already known it a hundred times this week, but hearing him like this, in front of an audience, but playing straight to her? It felled her like nothing ever had before.
When he finished the song, the café filled with hoots and whistles, and Shelby could swear she saw the slightest blush creep up his cheeks before he ducked his head. The audience clamored for another song, and without speaking, he started in on another of her favorites. As he strummed, she could feel his confidence building—feel him feeling the audience’s energy, and it gave her pause.
This was what she missed.
Halfway through the song, she tore her eyes away from him and instead scanned the audience. They were rapt, smiling, wanting more, and she shook her head slowly, amused that he thought of himself as a hack. Hell, he could have opened for her dad on tour, if he wrote half as well as he sang.
“So what do you think?” Liam whispered in her ear, then slid into Cooper’s chair. “Not half bad for a Boston boy, eh?”
“I’d say there’s some country running through his bones, for sure.” She smiled, shaking her head again. “He’s only doing this for the coffee, you know.”
“That so?” Liam lifted his eyebrows like he had a feeling Cooper’s music had nothing at all to do with coffee.
“That’s what he said. Best beans west of the Mississippi and all.”
Shelby’s voice trailed off. She knew damn well Cooper wasn’t doing this for the java, any more than he was hoping to do this entire little impromptu concert by himself up there.
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