Chapter 1
Chance Colburn looked about as comfortable as a lumberjack trapped at a royal tea party. Though Naomi Mallard hadn’t been involved in planning Chance’s thirty-second birthday festivities, she knew exactly why the swanky historic mansion had been chosen as the venue. And, likely, so did everyone else in the room.
That was the thing about being famous—you were always in the spotlight, whether you wanted to be or not. Chance knew this fact better than most.
As a publicist, Naomi rejected the old adage that there was no such thing as bad publicity. Whoever originated the cliché had clearly never worked in her field. Especially not in Nashville. Though some artists had been forgiven their sins over the years, there were many more who’d never been heard from again due to one transgression or another.
If Chance Colburn wasn’t careful, he could end up the newest name on the banished-and-forgotten list. And take Naomi down with him.
Her being in such a precarious position fell squarely on the broad shoulders of Clay Benedict. The label exec knew nothing of her history with the bad-boy singer, but he did know that signing Chance had been a risk. A risk a brand-new record label should not have taken.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to hide.”
Speak of the devil.
Naomi bit back a snarky reply. “I’m not hiding. I’m observing.”
“Observing from behind a plastic ficus?” Clay asked, humor in his tone.
If she’d been behind the plant, maybe he wouldn’t have found her.
“This seemed like as good a place as any to fulfill my new babysitting duties.”
Clay cleared his throat as he turned his back to the room. “Your duty is to make sure Shooting Stars artists are portrayed in a positive light. When we discussed signing Chance Colburn, you assured me you would continue in that role. Have you changed your mind?”
Dammit. Childish was not Naomi’s style. After seven years, she should have moved beyond Chance’s betrayal, and she’d believed she had—until Clay brought him up in a staff meeting the previous fall.
“Apologies,” she said, softening her words. “It’s been a long, stressful week.”
“Anything I should know?”
The sigh escaped before she could stop it. “Just family stuff.” Naomi swirled the wine in her glass, wishing it was a gin and tonic.
Some might see serving wine at an alcoholic’s birthday party as an odd choice. Especially when said birthday boy’s recent stint in rehab was so well documented. But unless his opinions had changed in seven years, Chance still considered anything concocted in a vineyard pansy-ass grape juice.
Early May meant planning Naomi’s parents’ annual Memorial Day blowout, an obscenely over-the-top cookout that her mother loved to put on. Which would be fine if she’d plan the thing alone. Instead, she’d roped her younger daughter into the task that would someday lead Naomi to take up Chance’s bad habits.
Facing the gathering once again, Clay gracefully lifted a wine flute from the tray of a passing waiter. “As the saying goes, you can pick your friends, but you can’t pick your family.”
“I’d be fine with the one I have if they could run their own lives without requiring my constant assistance.”
Naomi loved her family. She really did. Most of the time.
“Have you ever considered telling them no?” Clay asked.
Half joking, she said, “You can do that?”
“Nothing wrong with setting boundaries. Even with family.” Signaling to a guest who’d just walked in, he added, “I need to pay my respects to Samantha Walters. With Dylan’s contract up for renewal, I’m hoping to learn what kind of a deal she has in mind.” Leaning closer, he whispered, “Mingle, Naomi. That’s an order.”
Clay cut a path through the crowd, which parted as if Moses himself had entered their midst. Naomi held her ground but knew her boss would only find her again if she ignored his dictate. He’d been right about her hiding, which was also not Naomi’s style. In fact, hovering in this stupid corner meant letting Chance win.
They’d been in the same room three times since he’d joined the label, always with the full Shooting Stars staff, and he hadn’t once approached her or displayed the slightest desire to do so. Hell, for all she knew, he didn’t even remember her. The thought lit a fire in her ears. Here she was, acting like an idiot over a man who valued his guitars more than any female he’d ever encountered.
If memory served, the jerk didn’t even like his own mother. That should have been her first clue all those years ago.
Tossing back the last of her Chardonnay, Naomi deposited the empty glass on a passing tray before squaring her shoulders. But one step into the crowd and her cell went off, the lilting Mozart ringtone drawing attention from those around her. After fumbling to retrieve the phone from the clutch tucked beneath her arm, Naomi first stopped the ringing. Then she checked the screen to find three texts from her mother demanding that she call home and one missed call from the all-too-familiar number.
Well, hell.
Naomi returned the call as she exited the ballroom. Six rings later, her father’s voice filled her ear, spouting the same boring message that had been on her parents’ answering machine for ten years.
“You have got to be kidding me,” she mumbled, calling her sister, Mary Beth.
Eight rings this time, and another voice mail. She tried both her parents’ cell numbers with the same result. In desperation, she tried her younger brother, Baker. Again, nothing.
“Answer your damn phones!” she yelled at the useless piece of metal in her hand.
“Unless that’s connected to a string and a can on the other end, I don’t think it works that way.”
Annoyed by the sarcasm, Naomi replied, “Screw you,” and immediately regretted saying something so horrible to a stranger. But when she looked up to apologize, the person she found was no stranger.
Chance Colburn flashed his trademark bad-boy grin, and Naomi’s body tightened in response. Memories, both good and bad, filled her mind, and she was torn between physical longing and the intense need to punch something.
“Hello, Nay,” he purred, transporting her back seven years to when she had lived to hear that nickname on his lips. Back when she’d been ready to give up everything to make a life with him. Too bad he hadn’t been willing to do the same.
“Chance,” Naomi replied, her voice barely a whisper as her heart pounded in her ears. “I . . . I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
Broad shoulders shrugged beneath a worn Johnny Cash T-shirt. “I was getting tired of all the happy birthdays. ‘Screw you’ is a sentiment I’m more comfortable with.”
“I, um . . .” Naomi tucked a dark lock behind her ear as she cleared her throat. “I planned to come find you.”
Brown eyes held her hazel gaze. “No, you didn’t.”
Calling her bluff shouldn’t have been sexy, but her body begged to differ. “Shouldn’t you be inside?”
“You’ve been avoiding me,” Chance accused, ignoring her question.
“I told you. I intended to find you.”
He shook his head, sending a strand of jet-black hair trailing over his left eye. “I don’t mean tonight,” he said in his deep Texas drawl. “You make it tough for a man to apologize.”
If Chance was trying to throw her off-balance, he was doing a spectacular job of it.
“Apologize?”
Squaring his stance, he slipped strong hands into the front pockets of his black jeans. Regardless of the venue, Chance maintained his casual style. Ruggedly handsome and screaming virile male—from the thick black hair dancing along the edge of his collar to the snakeskin boots on his feet. And the parts in between could bring a woman to her knees, as Naomi knew all too well.
“That’s part of the recovery process,” he explained, eyes cutting off to the distance. “Making amends for all the damage I did along the way.”
“You don’t owe me anything,” Naomi replied, words clipped. She needed this to be over.
“Your forgiveness isn’t required,” he continued. “Or expected.”
Silence reigned. Hell no, she didn’t forgive him. But she saw no point in bringing any of this up at all. Not after seven years of nothing. That’s when she’d needed the apology. Back when he’d slept with her boss.
“What do you want me to say?”
“Well,” he offered, “we’ve gotten the ‘screw you’ out of the way, so maybe a ‘go to hell’?”
Naomi couldn’t help herself. The bastard always could make her laugh. Almost as much as he’d made her cry.
If he could be man enough to offer an apology, she could be woman enough to accept one. “I don’t want you to go to hell, Chance. My job of redeeming you in the public eye is already going to be difficult enough. Explaining how you dethroned the devil in his own house might be more than even I can handle.”
His rich chuckle filled the stately hall. “Fair enough.” After a less awkward pause, he asked, “How’ve you been? Other than becoming a PR powerhouse. I always knew you’d rule the world someday.”
“You give me more credit than I deserve.” Naomi could barely run her own life, let alone the world. “But I’m good. I’d ask you the same question, but that seems unnecessary given the press coverage.”
“Don’t believe everything you read.” Chance leaned in as if they were suddenly old pals. “Nothing is ever as simple as it seems, right?”
Despite the tentative truce, one apology didn’t erase the past.
“Chance, as a member of the Shooting Stars staff, I will do all I can to promote you and your forthcoming album, but I’m not interested in being your friend.”
With a silent nod, he stepped back. “Right. There’s the ‘go to hell.’”
He was not going to make her out to be the jerk here.
“You can’t really expect anything more than that. Not after what you did to me.”
Holding her gaze, Chance said, “I’d say it’s what I did for you.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“You got out before I could really screw up your life. Be grateful, Nay. Some people weren’t that lucky.”
Before she could reply, Chance strolled back into the small ballroom, and it was all she could do not to scream at his back. He’d slept with her boss as a favor? Really?
Going to rehab may have gotten Chance Colburn off the bottle—for now—but it sure as hell hadn’t cured him of being an asshole.
Chance should have known better. Though others had received his apology with the same response, he’d hoped for more from Naomi Mallard. Her capacity for forgiveness ran deeper than most, especially when she cared about the offender. She’d clearly gotten over that malady long ago.
At least she expressed a willingness to help repair his reputation. That was more than he deserved and more than some would give. After seven years of trying to drink her off his mind, Chance supposed a working relationship was better than no relationship at all. Not that Naomi was to blame for his vices. No. Those had been planted deep, long before he’d hit Music Row nearly a decade ago. But of all the mistakes he’d made over the years, how things ended with Naomi had been his biggest regret.
Something he’d only recently figured out, thanks to a series of one-on-one sessions in rehab. Funny how clearing the fog from a man’s brain could bring the obvious to light.
Spending more than a half dozen years under the influence made sober life as natural as playing guitar with his teeth. Turned out that drowning the demons in water didn’t have the same effect. Nor did H2O work as a writing muse. In a month, Chance would enter the studio to cut his first record for Shooting Stars. A difficult task to complete when he didn’t have a single song ready to record. He’d always been a solo songwriter, going into the studio with no less than thirty songs down on paper. Sometimes more.
During his four months in a sober living facility, he hadn’t dragged a single verse out of his newly clear brain.
No verses. No melodies. Nothing.
“There you are,” said Shelly Needham, his longtime manager and the closest thing to family he’d ever had. “I lost sight of you for a minute there.”
“I stepped out to talk to someone,” he replied, reminding himself that her heightened babysitting efforts were well intentioned. “And no, it wasn’t Jack or Jim.”
Shelly frowned. “I wasn’t accusing you of anything.”
“I know.”
“This isn’t going as well as I’d hoped,” she mumbled, surveying the room. “Why do they all look like I invited them to a public hanging and deprived them of the main attraction?”
That one was easy. “If there’s one thing this town loves, it’s being an eyewitness to the latest scandal. They’re waiting for me to abandon my newfound sobriety and dance on a table. How else are they going to win the pool for how long before I crash and burn? Again.”
“No one wants you to fail, Chance.” He eyed the curvy blonde with raised brows. “Okay, I’m sure some of them would love to see you fail, but I kept the guest list to as few of those as possible.”
Chance chuckled. “I appreciate that.”
A waiter approached offering glasses of wine, and Shelly said, “Two waters, please.”
“I’ve told you,” Chance said as the waiter departed, “you don’t have to go without on my account.”
Crossing her arms, she replied, “Actually, I do. But not for you.”
Confused, he said, “I don’t follow.”
His manager sighed. “I’m pregnant.”
Not the answer Chance expected. “What exactly did you get up to while I was off getting sober?”
Stating the obvious, Shelly whispered, “I met a man.”
“I got that part.”
“It was a quick fling and ended after a couple months. A baby wasn’t in the plans.”
“They rarely are.” Chance turned to face his stepsister. “Does the guy know?”
Her jaw tightened. “Not yet.”
“You plan to tell him?”
“I haven’t decided.”
“Shelly . . .”
“I know, I know. I’ll tell him when I’m ready.” Staring into the crowd, she chewed her lip. “He’s already moved on to someone else, so I doubt he’ll be interested in having anything to do with a child.”
“Who is he?” Chance asked, prepared to make the guy interested.
Blue eyes cut a pleading look his way. “Let me handle this, Chance. When the time comes, if it comes, I’ll tell you everything. But the last thing you need is another distraction. How are the songs coming?”
Now it was his turn to sigh. “They aren’t. Maybe kicking some guy’s ass will inspire me. Tell me who he is.”
“Not happening.” Shelly donned her business smile. “Here comes Clay Benedict. Put on your game face.”
Chance squared his shoulders and left the smiling to Shelly. When Clay approached, Chance accepted the hand extended in greeting.
“Howdy, boss. Thanks for coming out.”
“Wouldn’t have missed it,” Clay replied with a genuine grin. “The sharks can be thick in a room like this. Figured you’d appreciate an extra buffer between you and them.”
This is why he liked the label owner. Not many people in their industry spoke with candor. That made Clay’s casual honesty a valuable commodity.
“I’ll take all the support I can get.”
“That’s what we’re here for.” Waving toward someone to Chance’s right, Clay said, “Speaking of we, here’s our fearless publicity director now.” Naomi joined them with a marked lack of enthusiasm, looking ready to bolt for the door at the first opportunity. “Chance, you’ve met Naomi, but Shelly, have you been introduced to Ms. Mallard?”
“I haven’t,” Shelly replied, her smile replaced by a daunting glare. “Nice to meet you.”
As far as Chance knew, Shelly was not aware of his prior involvement with Naomi. Which made the instant dislike all the more curious.
Clay recovered first. “How are the songs coming along? Todd says you’re keeping them to yourself.”
The high-dollar producer, whom Chance had been avoiding for a solid month now, seemed intent on hearing the new songs before the session started. His calls weren’t helping.
“You know how artists are,” Chance replied with a nod. “We share when we’re ready.”
Conceding the battle if not the war, the executive said, “Fair enough. It’s a good thing we don’t need the songs to plot out a publicity plan. Naomi already has several interviews lined up.”
“Interviews?” Shelly repeated. “I’m not sure Chance is ready for that yet.”
“The sooner we get him out there, the better,” Naomi replied. “The fans need to see how great he looks. New interviews will put the focus on the future, not the past.”
Shelly rose to her full height, which put her several inches above the publicist. “Chance will determine when it’s time to step back into the public eye. Not you.”
“I don’t see the problem with—”
“When we signed the contract,” the manager cut in, “it was understood that Chance’s sobriety would be priority number one. If you have a problem with that, perhaps you aren’t the right person for this project.”
Chance could only assume the surprise on Clay’s face matched his own.
“This is supposed to be a birthday party, not a business meeting, right?” He kept his tone light and gave his manager a gentle nudge with his elbow.
Clay followed his lead, brushing off the outburst. “You’re right. I should have left this conversation for our meeting on Monday.” As if to add some reassurance, he said, “Shooting Stars is fully behind Chance on all fronts. And Naomi is the best at what she does. He’s in great hands with her on the team.”
Both women remained silently hostile.
“We should probably make the rounds,” Chance said, grasping Shelly’s arm. “Until Monday, then.”
With a quick nod, he dragged his previously sane manager away.