by Ava Miles
“I’ll be fine, sir,” he said after a pause, and Beau felt the eggshells of Hargreaves’ dignity underneath his new shoes. He needed to be careful, he reminded himself. This man had many facets too.
When he checked his phone, he discovered a text from Clayton with instructions for how to call Tommy without it being traced to his phone. Not wanting to put it off, he followed the process right away and called his office. His assistant answered, and Tommy picked up a few minutes later. “Beau! So glad you got my message. Boy, your mama has been looking everywhere for you. Rye Crenshaw must be going soft. I never thought he might spirit a man away.”
“Rye? Soft? Come on, Tommy, maybe you’re the one who needs to get out of town for a while.” He didn’t know how much his mama had told the man. “I can’t recommend it enough. Turns out, it’s great for songwriting.”
“Good to hear, Beau. That’s a relief. Your mama said this whole roots theme was borrowing all sorts of trouble. I thought it might be wise if you shared what you have so far. Maybe we can help guide you a little.”
Beau pulled on his bottom lip with his teeth, weighing his options. “After doing ten platinum and Grammy-winning albums with me, you’re a touch more concerned than I’d expect, Tommy. What in the world has my mama been telling you? You know she can be a mite high-strung sometimes.”
Actually, he didn’t know what Tommy thought of his mama. He’d assumed everyone liked her, but it had been just that. An assumption.
“I’m only looking out for your best interests, Beau, like always. You know you’re the star of our label.”
“My new album is going to blow your mind,” he said, beginning to believe it. “Just today, I heard the makings of another song in my head.”
“What’s it called?”
He decided it was time to trust the music he was hearing, regardless of how different it was from his usual style. It only popped up when it was broadcast from his heart. The rest of the lyrics would come. “Sometimes Country, Sometimes Confident.”
“Interesting,” Tommy said. “Got any of your heartbreaking love songs yet? You know how your female fans love those.”
They were, in fact, some of his biggest downloads. Caitlyn flashed into his mind. There was so much to say. Hot kisses. Moonlight-drenched lavender. Playing it safe. Wanting to cast aside all good sense. “I’m still working on that, but it’s going to be a doozy, I promise.”
“Good,” he said. “Your mama mentioned this new endorsement you’re entertaining. A French perfume? Beau, I never knew you swung that way.”
He straightened in the car. The homosexual slur was base and uncalled for. “Not that there’s anything wrong with anyone’s sexual orientation, Tommy, but you couldn’t be more uninformed. I’m sure my mama didn’t describe the full proposal. It’s actually very in tune with my new album. It’s about the roots of a person and who they are. It’s about everything farmers and country people talk about—one of my strong bases, you know. The land. The people who make something from it. It might have roots in France, but it’s universal, Tommy, and it’s going to be a wild success.” He’d leave out the part about helping women feel their worth. Tommy sure as hell wouldn’t get that.
“Still, your mama’s instincts might be right. You’d do best with American brands, ones where the flag is visible. Ball Park hot dogs. Chevy trucks.”
“You know why I don’t want to do a truck commercial, Tommy.” Not after the man he’d thought was his daddy had died in a crash.
That he had to remind the man sickened him. How much poison had his mama pumped into him?
“Of course. It slipped my mind, Beau. But there are lots of other American products. If you’re keen to do a fragrance, for God’s sake, do a cologne. Your mama says the Ryan Williams people are real keen to have you after she met with them.”
He frowned. Had she gone to them herself or had she been sitting on their proposal for some time, waiting for the right moment? “The interest is flattering, but this one is hitting me in all the right places. You can pass that message along for me.”
“But you haven’t signed yet, right?” Tommy pressed. “Your mama says they don’t even have the perfume ready? Plus, what company uses a man to advertise a woman’s fragrance? Not even Dior or Chanel do that. This company sounds like they’re new laundry hanging out to dry.”
He realized he was gripping the knee of his new slacks. “This company is a multi-billion-dollar conglomerate run by the Merriam family, whose ancestor struck oil in Oklahoma, Tommy. They aren’t some fly-by-night upstart.”
“Be that as it may, the label has concerns about you doing this perfume, Beau. We’re inclined to see things your mama’s way. It doesn’t suit the image we’ve spent almost fifteen years creating with you, an image your fans love, I might add.”
His mama had been working it, no doubt. Beau would have to do some high-stepping when he returned to Nashville to convince them to see things his way. He thought of Caitlyn. Should he tell her he was getting pushback? No, it would only worry her, and he’d have his way in the end. He was one of the label’s top stars. “You’re going to pull rank on my endorsements now? I don’t believe that kind of oversight is in my contract. I’ve worked hard enough to make this kind of decision on my own.”
“You sound mighty defensive, Beau. You’ve always entrusted the business side of things to us and your mama. She said this new album was making you touchy. Maybe you should come home. Be around the people who care about you and your career.”
He glanced out the window at the organized fields of farmland. If he hadn’t known where he was, he’d might have thought he was traveling through his own state of Tennessee. The world felt small in that moment, but he’d sprung his trap and he wasn’t about to amble back into it.
“Tommy, you trusted me with the other albums, and it paid off for you and the label. I’m grateful for all your support. But this new album is very personal to me, and like I told my mama, I really need to have some space to write the songs that will touch people. In the absence of that creative control, I won’t be happy. Do you understand? I don’t feel like I’m asking a lot. It’s my name on the album, after all. The same goes for any products I endorse.”
The three beats of silence on the other end were oddly in time with the rotations of the tires on the road. Round and around we go, Beau thought, waiting to see how Tommy would play it.
“Well, all righty, boy. Don’t get yourself all hot and bothered. Ol’ Tommy was just trying to look out for ya like I have since you were a kid. But if you have a handle on things, great. I’ll sleep better tonight. Only you might call your mama. She’s more than a touch worried about you.”
“Like I said, she’s sometimes high-strung. I just turned thirty, Tommy. Time to cut some apron strings.”
More silence. “Every mama likes a mama’s boy, I suppose. All right, Beau, I’ll anxiously look forward to the first batch of songs when they’re ready. Do you think you could have one ready in a couple weeks? My cardiologist would thank you. He hates seeing my blood pressure shoot up. We can talk about this perfume more when you return to Nashville.”
His attempts to stir up Beau’s guilt would have worked on Old Beau, but he felt immune to them. “I’m sure I’ll be able to send you some songs. Only you know how hard it is to tell time in the country, right? No clocks out here other than the sundial.”
“That’s a good one, Beau. We’ll talk soon.”
Tommy would discover otherwise when he realized he didn’t have his direct number. Thank you, Clayton. “You take care of yourself, you hear.”
He ended the call. Kicked out his feet. Thought of his mama and all the trouble she was stirring up. Should he call her? No, she’d only wheedle and cajole and crush his newfound creativity. Their last conversation had suggested she’d come at him with a two-by-four. He couldn’t allow that. He had songs to write.
A woman to woo.
“Is there anything else I can help with, sir?” Hargre
aves asked. “If there is, all you need do is ask.”
He caught the man’s inscrutable look in the mirror. His gaze kept flicking between Beau and the road. “Thank you, Hargreaves. You know, I don’t know much about butler stuff, but back where I’m from, one good turn is served with another. I’d really like to do something for you. You mentioned liking music. Is there anything I can do for you?”
“Thank you, sir, but no. It’s an honor to be of service to you.”
“Don’t misunderstand this question, but why? You just met me, and it’s not like I’ve put my best foot forward.”
“You might be trying on new shoes, Mr. Masters, but you’re important to the Merriam family, whom I’ve served for over sixty years now. Of course, I’m also coming to know you as a person. Would you like me to turn up the music, sir?”
He knew it for a purposeful change in topic. “Find something that suits you. I’m finding I like new types of music. Do you know Raï, Hargreaves?”
“Well, of course, sir,” he replied. “It’s world-famous.”
And yet, he’d needed Ibrahim to introduce him to it. “Sometimes the world feels big, and sometimes it feels small.” A good song lyric, he reckoned.
“Indeed, sir.”
Beau’s ears cocked when he heard the guitar. Hargreaves raised the volume of the music, and he sat forward. Sharp. Fast. Almost metallic in sound. “Hargreaves, what kind of guitar is this?”
“Flamenco, sir, one of my passions. Do you like it?”
“Yes.” It had the same commanding appeal that Raï did. “You recognized my guitar by sight the other day. Do you play?”
“I learned flamenco guitar as a teenager before I entered service,” he said. “It ruffled my father. One of the few things that did.”
A personal comment from the warm but reserved man. It felt like a victory in a day filled with them. “I’d love to hear you play sometime.”
“Thank you, sir. I’ll leave this station on if it suits you.”
No promise then. “Please.” He settled back and closed his eyes before saying, “Where is this type of guitar from, Hargreaves?”
“Spain, sir.”
He remembered Colette and Étienne arguing about whether he had a little Italian or Spanish blood. He almost wished for a mirror. They’d talked about his nose, his eyelashes, his brow. Was his face so foreign then? What secrets did it hold, ones he had yet to plumb? Would they ever be known to him? God, he hoped Dr. Clarridge struck gold and found his people, even though the thought made his diaphragm clench.
He felt a black cloud descending on him again, the angry, sometimes soulful flamenco guitar a perfect accompaniment.
He still did not know who he was, but today he’d claimed more for himself. Facets. He liked that word.
When they arrived, Arthur and Clara emerged from the house, hand in hand, looking like a much older version of the passionate shopkeepers from the village. He left the flowers in the back of the car, hoping to get a bead on Caitlyn’s whereabouts. They should be a surprise.
When he emerged, Clara clucked her tongue and said, “Goodness, Beau! You look like a new man. Very chic.”
The makings of New Beau felt well seeded in this moment. “Thank you. It was quite a day.”
“I’d say. Hargreaves, you outdid yourself.”
“Mr. Masters did most of the work, Madam.”
Clara shot an elbow into Arthur’s side.
“Now you won’t get kicked out of the restaurant,” Arthur said. “I had a horrible vision of the maître d’ ruining Caitlyn’s evening.”
“Where is she?” he asked.
“Finishing up some work and getting ready for your date. You were later than she expected.”
He pointed to the trunk before retrieving the bouquet. “We did more shopping than I expected. Hargreaves, let me help you with the bags.”
“I’ll take care of them, sir.” He stood there in his black suit, a study in dignity. Beau knew enough about people to understand it would be a slight to reject him.
Nodding, he said, “Then thank you. Arthur, I didn’t see you this morning to apologize—”
“Clara told me.” He waved a hand. “You treat Caitlyn well, and we’re good. The flowers are a smart beginning. If you need any more help getting back on track, so to speak, find me. I’ve been known to say the right thing in a tough moment. Not that I’m suggesting you’re having one or anything.”
Beau suspected those sharp blue eyes didn’t miss much. “I appreciate that, but I’m cresting out of it. I guess I’ll go put these flowers in water and get ready. Check on Chou-Chou.”
“Your baby goat cried like crazy today in the fields, missing you,” Clara said. “I finally had to bring him back to the bed you made him and sit with him for a while.”
His heart clutched, hearing that. The poor fella. Beau guessed it was official. He was friends with a goat.
“Perhaps a drink before you two head out?” Clara asked, trailing her hand down a strand of pearls around her throat.
He’d liked the rosé last night. Perhaps it was time to try a drink in a more celebratory fashion. What better occasion than his first date with Caitlyn? “Deal.”
Heading inside, he strode to the kitchen, realizing he was starved. He stowed the flowers in an earthen pitcher and hid it in one of the cabinets. Then he scrounged up a snack. He was munching on bread and cheese when he heard footsteps behind him. He turned to see Ibrahim smiling that pencil-thin smile of his.
“I see your outing was fruitful,” he said, pulling something from his breast pocket.
“You look like the men I saw in the village, I realize. Confident. Put together. I’m still a work in process.” He thought of his new song title again. “Sometimes Country, Sometimes Confident.” Yep, he was going to write the heck out of it.
Handing Beau a small vial, Ibrahim said, “You’re closer than you think. Don’t rush the experimentation process. It’s the most fun part of any process, perfume notwithstanding. I blended this for you today when I heard about your evening with Caitlyn.”
Gratitude filled his chest. “You’re a mind reader,” he said, patting the man on the shoulder. “I was going to ask for your help in this department.”
“You mentioned wearing cologne before, but I hadn’t detected any since you arrived.”
“My mother chose the brand,” he confessed, staring at the blue vial. “She overrode my wishes, something I’ve realized I’ve been letting her do for some time.”
“A real man must make his own choices to be happy,” Ibrahim said. “This isn’t your lasting scent. But it’s your ‘now’ scent.”
Beau opened the bottle. A blast of citrus followed by something fresh and woodsy, then a final note of mystery. “I couldn’t possibly guess all these scents, Ibrahim, but I like them.”
The man walked to the door. “An explosive burst of citrus at the front. The volatility of lime can be surprisingly cleansing. Then notes of the land, pine, and a touch of cedar to comfort the nose. For the base notes, I chose myrrh and frankincense, scents to remind a man he’s more than he yet knows. Enjoy your evening, Beau.”
Before he could ask more questions—or even thank him or ask him to join them for a drink—Ibrahim had disappeared. The Perfume Jedi had struck true and sure. Beau inhaled the fragrance again.
They were the perfect notes for the man he was becoming.
Chapter 16
Big brothers had a way of dragging down date excitement.
Still, when Quinn texted her legal hasn’t received the contract yet, she knew it was her own fault. She needed to respond but didn’t know how. Thankfully, she knew whom to ask.
Flynn picked up right away. “Yo.”
“Thank God, you answered,” she said, slumping in relief. “Quinn just asked where the contract was for legal, and I need to hold him off a little longer.” Hopefully not too much longer.
“You’re wired,” he said. “You slept with Beau.”
Yi
kes! “Not yet, moron.”
“But you’re thinking about it.” He could have sawed logs with that sigh. “This is big for you, Caity girl. I feel a return trip to Provence coming on.”
“No, stay where you are. I have everything under control.” She was so full of shit. She’d been stewing all day, especially after hearing Beau and Hargreaves had gone clothes shopping. Shopping! Uncle Arthur hadn’t helped, saying if Hargreaves didn’t work his magic, they were going to get kicked out of the restaurant before they were seated for violating the dress code.
“I’ll hold off,” her brother said, “but only because I trust Uncle Arthur and Aunt Clara. Now, what to do about Quinn. How about this? Have Beau sign a nondisclosure agreement and send that to legal. As a business move, it’s solid. After all, Beau has been involved in your creative sessions for the fragrance, right?”
“He’s not going to tell anyone anything.” But Flynn was right. She needed something to show Quinn, and an NDA would be better than nothing. “All right, I’ll write something up. Do I give it to him before or after our date?” She lowered her head and knocked it on her desktop. Here, Beau, let’s have a good time, but first, can you sign a trustworthiness contract?
“He’ll understand if he’s a good guy and a true professional, Caitlyn. You need to keep the business stuff separate, and the other stuff? Well, you be smart about that. Don’t rush into anything.”
“I should be writing this down.” She snorted and then sobered. “Flynn, have you ever kissed anyone who immediately made you want to go all the way?”
“Well, nearly everyone, but I don’t think you’re just talking about sex. You’re talking about soul-kissing, aren’t you?” he asked.
She released a slow stream of breath, her diaphragm tight. “Yes, I suppose you could call it that.”
“I’ve heard of it, sure. Never had one yet if I’m being honest.”
“What would you do if you did?”