Dawn smoothed her hands over her clingy sage-green evening gown. She hoped it appeared to be a movement of elegance rather than what it actually was—a way to wipe off her sweaty palms. She wasn’t sure why she was so nervous. Perhaps because this meeting was being held at Spago Beverly Hills and there were several highly recognizable A-list actors seated at nearby tables. A few of them had even glanced her way. Probably wondering what a nobody like her was doing sitting at a large table by herself. Or maybe they’d seen the ugly red jellyfish sting welts on her ankle as she’d crossed the floor. There’d been no way to hid them in this dress.

Wes had already texted that they were on their way. They would have picked her up from home, but she had been coming from the opposite side of town and didn’t want to put anyone out. But that meant she’d arrived alone, and despite policy, they’d seated her before her party arrived. Two buckets holding chilled champagne sat near the table.

A group of laughing men and women entered the restaurant, and Dawn was equal parts relieved and terrified to see Wes heading the large party. She tore her eyes away from the one familiar face in the crowd, only to realize she recognized at least half of the other faces. Two major directors, a well-known producer who also happened to be a famous actress, a world-renowned composer of blockbuster films—a job she currently wanted—and to her utter astonishment, her former music teacher, Pierre.

“I hope you haven’t been waiting long,” Wes said, rushing past the maître d’ to kiss Dawn’s suddenly clammy cheek.

What the hell was Pierre doing there?

Into Dawn’s ear, Wes whispered, “You look gorgeous, so save the deer-in-the-headlight look. Take a deep breath, kiddo.”

Dawn did what she was told, sucking in an enormous breath, and then she commenced to gush.

“Oh, Mr. Steinberg, I’m such a fan of all your movies. Oh, Dr. Everlong, the compositions in Space Trek were so moving.” She was sure she said equally stupid shit to the rest of the group, and then she was being hugged by Pierre and the entire world stood still. She was back to being that fifteen-year-old girl who trembled when he sat beside her on the piano bench.

“I’m so proud of you. I knew you’d be great. From the moment I first saw your fingers strike the ivories, I knew.”

He said that now. When he’d been instructing her, she’d felt she’d never live up to his expectations of perfection. But maybe that was why she’d tried so hard to please him. Maybe that was why she’d been so head over heels in love with the man.

A hand on her elbow drew Dawn back to the present, and she felt her face smiling as Wes encouraged her to take a seat between Mr. Steinberg and Dr. Everlong. Pierre was seated on the other side of Dr. Everlong, so unless she leaned forward or back, he was out of sight. Which was good. Not because she didn’t like to look at Pierre—he was still as devastatingly gorgeous as she remembered—but because she couldn’t spark a single thought beyond What the hell is Pierre doing here, as long as he was in view.

“Terribly sorry to make you come all this way to meet with us, Ms. O’Reilly,” Mr. Steinberg said, “but I’m off to shoot a film in Ireland tomorrow, and Drew and Pierre are off to Venice. Jill leaves for Toronto, but we were all here in L.A. this weekend. Except you. I hear you’re leaving for Prague soon.”

“Uh.” She was having a hard time following him, because he’d called Dr. Andrew Everlong, Drew, and Jillian Calipso, Jill, and was she really sitting at a table with these powerhouses?

“She has a performance,” Wes said. “Chopin.”

“I adore Chopin,” Dr. Everlong said.

“I hear him in your compositions,” Dawn said.

“And I, yours,” Dr. Everlong said. Which meant he’d listened to her compositions. The idea blew her mind.

“I’ve always thought his sound is timeless,” she said, her brain finally kicking on. She always got all-star struck and stupid—not usually to this degree—but . . . What the hell is Pierre doing here? She leaned forward and found him toying with the napkin on his plate. “You’re going to Venice with Dr. Everlong?”

Dr. Everlong elbowed Pierre in the side and offered Dawn a kind smile. His blue eyes twinkled with mischief. “He’s the one who brought you to our attention.”

Wes cleared his throat. “I was the one who suggested Dawn for the project when you called my agency.”

Dawn didn’t bother hiding her smile. Wes never shirked on taking credit when due.

“But why do you think we called your agency?” Dr. Everlong asked.

“I’m still confused as to what this meeting is about,” Dawn said.

“We’ll explain,” Jillian Calipso said. “But let’s order first. I’m starved.”

The award-winning actress was so strikingly beautiful that Dawn couldn’t help but stare. She’d seen Jillian Calipso on the big screen countless times, but it was hard to believe she was as achingly gorgeous in real life as she was in the movies. Was she even wearing makeup? Lord.

When it was Dawn’s turn to order, she realized she hadn’t even glanced at the menu. She was surprised to find it open in front her. “Uh.” She pointed at some random entree. “I’ll have this.”

The waiter was kind enough to walk her through the rest of the ordering process. She hoped she hadn’t accidentally ordered something gross. She’d been to enough fancy restaurants to know they sometimes disguised disgusting food with a fancy name. She’d once consumed ox balls and hadn’t realized it until she’d posted about her meal online and some follower had taken it upon herself to point out Dawn’s folly. They hadn’t actually tasted bad, but Dawn would rather not have a repeat performance.

While they waited for their meal, Dr. Everlong said, “So tell everyone how you know Pierre.”

She’d rather Pierre tell her what he was doing at a business meeting with Hollywood heavyweights, but she nodded. “He taught me to play piano.”

“Non, ma petite cherie. You taught me how to teach piano.”

She craned her neck to look around Dr. Everlong and lifted a brow at Pierre, but he merely smiled at her.

“Sometimes the student teaches us more than we could ever teach them.”

That sexy French accent of his did strange twisty things to her insides, but she had to wonder at his sudden sappiness.

Wes cleared his throat. “This is all very charming and nostalgic,” he said. “Teacher loves student, student loves teacher. But I for one can’t take the suspense any longer. Why are we here?”

Dawn whirled around to gape at her agent. He didn’t know why they were there? And he’d called her all the way from Houston, cutting into her time with Kellen and making her trip to Prague an exhausting marathon of airplane rides, knowing only as much as she did, which was essentially nothing?

Mr. Steinberg leaned closer to the table. “We’re collaborating on a new project, a trilogy of fantasy films. Very hush-hush, so the details will be forthcoming, but we already have an exalted vision for the musical scores. Think Star Wars in scope. It needs to be that grand. And memorable. And the score must be as amazing as the script and the cinematography.”

“It must be more amazing than the script,” Dr. Everlong said. “Pierre and I have been knocking our heads together over this for a month.”

“Six weeks,” Pierre said, his fingers tangling in his napkin.

“And what we have is good, but not great. We need fresh talent. Inspirational talent. A talent like yours, Ms. O’Reilly.”

Dawn had to admit she was flattered. Perhaps that was why she laughed. But more likely it was because they had no idea how hard it was for her to find inspiration. Talent alone did not magically produce her compositions. It took a lot of hard work and failure to find a single note of success. Everyone at the table stared at her sudden bout of inappropriate hilarity.

She lifted her napkin to dab tears out of her eyes and took a deep gasping breath before releasing a few more nervous giggles. “I fear you’re wasting your time,” she eventually said. “I have to wring every note out of my pathetically uninspired brain when I compose. There is no magic happening at my piano bench, trust me on that.”

For a moment she could feel Kellen standing at her shoulder, then sitting beside her, offering her support and the passion she’d needed to break free of her damned writer’s block. And as handsome as Pierre was—or maybe because of it—he’d never inspired a creative spark within her. He’d pushed her performance, not her creativity. And trying to compose at the elbow of a modern legend like Dr. Everlong? Dear lord, she’d likely forget how to play scales with him looming over her.

“We heard your new song,” Mr. Steinberg said. “Giovani was bragging about the closing credit song he’d just received.”

“Galahan just loved rubbing that song in my face,” Dr. Everlong said.

Wait? Giovanni Galahan—the Giovanni Galahan—had been bragging about “Blue”? She’d barely turned the score over to Wes. How was he bragging about it already? And why was he bragging to Mr. Steinberg? And he was seriously bragging about her little song? Dawn giggled at how surreal all of this was. The giants of Hollywood were talking about her music. She couldn’t even comprehend that reality.

“She giggles when she’s nervous,” Wes commented, and Dawn bit her lip. She did giggle when she was nervous and didn’t even realize she was doing it, but she was actually laughing at how unbelievable this entire conversation had become.

“Composing is damned near impossible on your own,” Dr. Everlong said, laying an encouraging hand on her back. “I’ve spent many an hour staring at a piano keyboard or holding a violin at the ready and not a single note is produced. I’ve learned over the years that when you’re stuck, brainstorming with other creative minds is the solution.”

“That’s where I was supposed to come in,” Pierre said.

“You’ve done a wonderful job,” Dr. Everlong said, his other hand resting on Pierre’s back, and then Dawn got what was really going on. Maybe.

Everlong wrung the talent and hard work out of less experienced and far less famous musicians and stamped his name all over the compositions.

“So who gets credit for the compositions? Royalties? That sort of thing?” she asked. Someone kicked her under the table, and she turned her head toward Wes, who was glaring at her in warning. Yes, she understood. The business part of these deals was Wes’s responsibility. She was just supposed to do all the creative work.

“Drew will get first billing, naturally, but if you agree, you’ll get second credit and a fair share of royalties.”

“And Pierre?” she asked, wishing her mouth would stop running away with her.

“I am well compensated,” Pierre said, offering her a lopsided grin.

Dawn gnawed on her lip. This was a life-changing opportunity. She knew that. If Dr. Everlong took her under his wing this early in her career, there was no telling how far she might go. But his glory might also mask hers. It might be best to create her own coattails instead of clinging to his. This was a big decision, and she refused to take it lightly or make up her mind without consulting those she trusted to set her straight.

Wes would have her back when it came to money and legalities, but who could she seek for advice? Pierre was obviously already snuggly in Dr. Everlong’s pocket, though he might have some helpful insight, assuming he was honest with her. And Kellen knew the ins and outs of the rock and roll business, but this was far out of his scope of knowledge. Still, she’d ask his opinion. Maybe her professors at Curtis would have useful advice. Or maybe she should just go for it. It wasn’t every day that opportunity as grand as this knocked on her door. Maybe she should just answer without asking who was there and what they wanted, and without peeking at them through the peephole. Just go for it, Dawn.

She glanced up to find everyone staring at her hopefully, as if they couldn’t find some other more experienced, more talented composer to jump on this opportunity. And maybe they couldn’t. What did she know?

“I need some time to consider this,” she said. “I want to fully understand all the details before I commit.”

Wes’s shoulders sagged, and she heard Pierre release a sigh, but otherwise no one seemed overly upset about her indecision.

“We’ll need an answer within the next few days,” Mr. Steinberg said. “We wanted to approach you first, because we think you’re the best, but we can’t wait for long. We’re already behind schedule.”

Dawn snorted on another laugh and covered her mouth with one hand. The best. Really? These folks really didn’t know a thing about her. Wes must have really talked her up.

“We all have deadlines to meet,” Mr. Steinberg added.

Her belly did a backflip at that dreaded word: deadline. But maybe it wouldn’t be so bad when she had others to rely on and help her meet those deadlines. Maybe team composing was the way to go. She couldn’t know if she didn’t try.

Their meal arrived, and Dawn was relieved that she’d ordered some sort of chicken. She wasn’t sure what the green and purple leaves on her plate were, but everything else was not only beautiful to look at, but also pleasing to her taste buds. She wondered if Kellen would like to eat here sometime. Assuming she became famous enough to get a reservation. She was glad when conversation turned to politics, because it was easy to pretend that she didn’t have an opinion and let her thoughts wander to her own situation. She wasn’t sure she could handle making conversation at the moment. As her entree had been about the size of a naked chicken nugget, it didn’t take long to finish her meal. She found herself trapped between the heated debate of Everlong and Steinberg—one a centrist, the other very liberal. She waited for an opening in their incessant arguing about their not-really-so-opposing views on how to handle illegal immigration before she excused herself to go to the ladies room.

She was surprised when the only other woman at the table—the legendary actress turned producer Jillian Calipso—joined her. Dawn had a sudden and strange longing for Lindsey’s presence. Lindsey could have distracted Jillian with excited fangirling while Dawn did her business. She was surprised the actress needed to pee at all. Jillian Calipso was on par with a goddess, and Dawn was certain that goddesses didn’t answer the call of nature.

“Too much testosterone at that table for my liking,” Jillian said as they entered the bathroom in single file.

Dawn laughed like a preteen talking to her crush for the first time. She was starting to think she had some sort of laughing Tourette’s. They all must think she was a blubbering idiot. “You must deal with that a lot.”

Jillian smiled and caught Dawn’s arm before she disappeared into a stall. “I don’t actually have to use the facilities,” Jillian said.

Hah! Dawn had been right. The woman didn’t lower herself to perform natural bodily functions.

“I want to encourage you to sign with us.”

“Oh,” Dawn said flatly. She couldn’t seem to stop herself from frowning any more than she could stop giggling. Coincidentally, she sucked at poker.

“There aren’t nearly enough women in your profession.”

“Which is one reason I hesitate,” Dawn said. “If I become an extension of Dr. Everlong instead of rising to the top alone, I might never find my own footing.”

“You will,” Jillian said with a smile. “It’s hard to rise in this business, especially for women and minorities—don’t let anyone convince you otherwise—but instead of fighting the establishment, use it. Use it for your gain, not theirs.”

Dawn wasn’t sure she was capable of using people to climb her ladder of success. She’d rather create her own ladder than patch together the ladders of others, but she had to admit Jillian’s advice was sound, and she was speaking from experience. She wasn’t a composer, but she was part of the Hollywood elite.

“You might think you want to reinvent the wheel here, hon, but take this opportunity. If it doesn’t work out the way you hope, you can always find a different path to the top.” Jillian touched Dawn’s bare arm, and the small action made her seem far more human and far less godlike. “You do want to rise to the top, don’t you?”

Dawn smiled. “Somehow.”

Jillian returned her smile. “Good. Now go out there and tell those men you’ll do what they want, when in reality they’ll be doing what you want.”

Was that how women became successful? Not all, Dawn realized, but utilizing other’s might make obtaining success easier, assuming she could hold her own with the men who were already at the top. She doubted she’d get far if she kept breaking into fits of giggles for no justifiable reason.

“Thanks for the advice, Jillian. I appreciate your guidance. I have to admit I was flipping out a bit.”

“That’s what they want. That’s why they didn’t tell Wes what to expect, why they scheduled this meeting when you didn’t have time to meet with us. Why they invited several people who don’t have anything to do with the movie’s score, myself included. I’d better head back, or they’ll be on to me.” Jillian squeezed her arm and offered her the signature wink that she’d likely trademarked. “You look out for yourself, hon.”

Jillian left, and Dawn stared at the back of the closed door until another woman entered the restroom and startled her out of her thoughts. She went into the stall and sat there long after she’d finished tinkling, wondering if she should follow Jillian’s advice and use this opportunity as a shortcut to her future or if she was even strong and smart enough to do so. When she finally left the restroom—the entire table must be wondering what she was giving birth to in there that would take so long—Pierre was milling about just outside the door.

“I was about to enter and see if you’d drowned yourself.”

She chuckled. “I needed a moment to collect my thoughts. Long time, no see, Teach.” She lifted her arms to hug him, thought better of it and started to lower them again, but he closed the gap between them, drawing her against him for a tight squeeze.

“You’ve grown into such a lovely woman, precious one.”

“Having second thoughts about turning me down now that I’ve grown into my awkwardly long limbs?”

He caught her face between his palms and kissed the tip of her nose. “You do know I’m gay, right?”

Dawn’s face fell. Pierre was gay? No, she hadn’t realized that, but then her gaydar was perpetually broken.

“Your song, ma petite, is miraculous.”

“Miraculous?” She laughed. “You mean ‘Ashes’?”

“That piece was stirring. It deserved the Grammy. This new song, what is it called?”

“‘Blue’?”

“Ah, perfect. Yes, ‘Blue.’ It grabbed me from the first note, ripped my soul from my body, stirred it into a frenzy, smoothed it like warm butter, and put it back inside me at a higher level.”

She laughed. “You always did exaggerate.”

“Non, this is no exaggeration, ma petite. This music you created, it is a gift from God.”

Dawn rolled her eyes and shook her head. Yes, it was her best work, and she knew it was good, but it wasn’t that big of a deal. She hadn’t even polished it yet.

“Are you really gay?” she blurted. “I had such a crush on you as a teen.”

“And it never made sense to me, because I’m as queer as they come.”

“Kellen will be glad to hear that,” she said.

“Please, please, join us to create the scores for this project.”

“Maybe I want to create my own score on another project.”

“Plenty of time for that, ma cherie. You’re young. Everlong and I? Not so much.”

Everlong was pushing eighty, but Pierre was not yet fifty. He had plenty of time to compose. Which reminded her . . .

“When did you start composing? Have you given up on teaching?”

“You, cherie. You inspired me to follow my true dream. You were so young yet so certain of your path. So driven despite your father’s wishes. So passionate and talented. And when you told me you didn’t really want to perform despite how much effort and love you put into every performance, that you actually wanted to write because writing was a true expression of the soul—performing but an expression of the heart, the mind and body—I couldn’t stop thinking about your words, and I followed the path you directed me toward.”

“Me? I was fifteen when I said that.” She laughed and hugged him again. “Who takes a fifteen year old seriously?”

“A man smart enough to recognize true genius.”

“I thought you’d drowned,” Wes said from several steps away.

What exactly did these guys think she did with toilets that would lead to her drowning?

“I almost did, but Pierre rescued me.”

Wes chuckled. “I actually thought you were freaking out in the bathroom. I’m glad I don’t have to go in there after you.”

“I was freaking out in the bathroom.”

“Understandable. They’re sending the contracts to my office tomorrow morning. You should have time to sign them before you catch your flight.”

Dawn took Pierre’s hand and squeezed. “I’m not yet sure I’m signing.”

Wes blinked at her. “What? You’re kidding, right? This isn’t the kind of opportunity you consider, it’s the kind you jump on.”

“Let her follow her heart,” Pierre said, lifting her hand and kissing her knuckles. He was so dreamy. He was going to make some lucky guy very happy one day. “Her heart has never steered her wrong.”

An image of Kellen flitted through her thoughts, and she smiled. She was certain that Pierre was right; her heart never steered her wrong. And while her head was ready to accept whatever crappy deal these people sent her way, her heart wanted a little longer to consider where this future might lead her.

“I’ll read them tomorrow,” Dawn promised. “I just don’t want you to promise anyone I’ll sign them.”

“You want to negotiate.” Wes’s eyes lit with excitement, and Dawn grinned at him. Nothing excited Wes more than a brutal round of contract negotiations.

“I might. Let’s see what the deal is before we make a move.”

Wes grabbed her head between his palms, dropping a kiss on her forehead. “This one,” he said. “She’s going places.”

Pierre smiled. “Hopefully at my piano bench once more. I have so missed the way she plays. I’ve been to several of her performances, but they’re never as amazing as her private recitals for one.”

And the only recitals for one in her future would be with an audience of Kellen Jamison. Those special sessions always ended with hot and heavy sex and an earth-shattering orgasm. She flushed at the direction of her thoughts. They’d been apart mere hours and already she missed him. Craved him. She wondered how his concert for thousands was going.

“I didn’t know you attended my performances,” Dawn said. “I wish you’d let me know; we could have met after the show.” God, she was lonely after shows. Her reality wasn’t anything like Kellen’s where each show was bookended with fun and shenanigans. A certain level of propriety was expected of her. She might have wine or champagne, but had never had a crowd of fans try to do something outlandish like sneak into her dressing room and wait for her naked, lubed up, and ready to roll. She’d have called the cops if one had.

“I didn’t think you’d want to see me after the way you had me fired,” Pierre said.

Dawn scrunched her eyebrows together. “The way I had you fired? What do you mean? You quit. Never even said goodbye to me. I thought it was because I tried to seduce you.”

“I had no choice but to leave after you told your father I had behaved most ungentlemanly.”

Dawn shook her head. “Of course I wouldn’t tell my father that. Especially since it wasn’t true.”

“He showed me your torn dress and told me if he ever saw my face again, he’d have me tossed in prison.”

Dawn couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She’d been devastated when Pierre had quit offering her private lessons right after she’d thrown himself at him. There’d been no torn dress. And though he’d turned her down, he hadn’t been cruel about it. He hadn’t laughed at her for trying to be an adult when she’d been a child.

So her father had chased Pierre away. She should have guessed as much.

“I cannot believe that man!” And yet, she could. She knew how tirelessly her father worked to rule her life. She was sure there were many more instances of him trying to set her on the path he’d chosen for her even as she’d wandered as far from it as possible.

She grabbed Pierre’s arm, and stared up into his kind eyes. “I hope you believe I never accused you of any wrongdoing—and my father should be the one apologizing—but I’m sorry you got caught between us. I’m sorry he threatened you. I’m sor—”

Pierre covered her lips with two fingers. “Non.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry for believing you capable of such lies.”

“Dawn,” Wes interrupted, “we’d better get back to the table. They’ll think we’re conspiring.”

She wasn’t conspiring, she was fuming. She’d never connected with another musician the way she’d connected with Pierre. He’d understood exactly how to get the best sound from her and made her dream of creating her own music. Her own songs. He was the one who’d given her the confidence to pursue music as a career, not just as a hobby that won her pretty ribbons and trophies.

“Pierre, if I sign this deal, will we be working together or will I be with Everlong?”

“He’s fantastic, cherie. You will learn so much from him. It is he you should be excited to work with, not I.”

“I feel comfortable with you. Perhaps that’s why I thought I was in love with you. I think he’ll just make me nervous.”

“I have no doubt that he will at first. He is not easy to know, but don’t let that stop you from learning from him.”

“And how did you meet him?”

Pierre flushed and pressed a hand against her back to urge her back to the dining area. “Perhaps I’ll explain another time.”

She beamed at him. “Thank you for thinking of me for this opportunity, Pierre. Your faith in my ability took me much farther than you can imagine.”

“This is what I mean about her teaching me to be a teacher,” he said to Wes, who was following close behind them. “She says what’s on her mind. In her heart.”

“It’s called being a blabber mouth,” Dawn said, sliding into her seat. She’d missed dessert and coffee, but everyone just seemed happy to see her. I can do this, she told herself. I can make this work. I can work beside these masters and learn and grow, and it doesn’t matter if I have to share the credit for the work we create. The journey is more important.

She couldn’t wait to tell Kellen.

“We’ll need your answer by Friday,” Dr. Everlong said. “That’s when we go to Venice and get to work.”

Hold up. “Venice?”

“Wait until you hear the scope of this project, cherie. We’ll be busy for years.”

Years? “But what about Kellen?” she blurted.

“Who?”

“My boyfriend.” The man her heart told her to follow while at the same time telling her to follow Pierre to Venice. Maybe her heart wasn’t so wise after all.