Chapter 14
Naomi almost failed to stop at the red light when her eyes cut to the dead-sexy singer in her passenger seat. “What did you say?”
“I’ll go with you as your date,” Chance said. “She can’t set you up with Dr. Neal if you’re with someone else, right?”
“I don’t . . . I mean . . .” That would be crazy. She couldn’t. “Chance, you don’t have to do that.”
To her surprise, he didn’t take the out. “Do you want to be Mrs. Dr. Neal Whoever-he-is?”
“Nelson. Neal Nelson.”
His reaction matched her own. “You can’t become Naomi Nelson. All the other publicists will laugh at you.”
Slowing for a jaywalking pedestrian, she said, “Was that a bona fide joke?”
Chance made a show of being offended. “It’s been known to happen. I’ll pick you up. What time and where do you live?”
They made a left on Church and crossed under the Printer’s Alley neon arch. “How are you going to pick me up when you don’t have your license?”
He leaned an arm on the center console. “I said I’ll pick you up and I will.” When she shot him the side-eye, he added, “Legally. So what time?”
“We’d have to head over there around five thirty. And I still live in the same place.” Their previous relationship had happened a lifetime ago. There was no reason to assume he’d remember the way. “I’ll text you the address.”
“You still live in that dinky apartment on Gale?”
This man was full of surprises today. “My apartment isn’t dinky. It’s the perfect size for one person.”
“If you’re a college student.”
She had, in fact, picked the apartment the summer before her junior year because of its proximity to the Vanderbilt campus. The location was also convenient to Music Row, which was where she’d worked since before graduation.
“You make it sound like a dorm room. My apartment is in a great neighborhood, close to work, and offers everything I need.” Naomi should not have to defend her home. “I suppose you have a sprawling estate down there in Brentwood. Let me guess. Gated community? Vaulted ceilings and a massive media room?”
His arm brushed hers, sending a sizzle to her toes and reminding her how dangerous this pretend date could be. Though Naomi’s mind had long ago put Chance Colburn in the no-fly zone, her body was ready to board and buckle in.
“You got the vaulted ceilings right, but not the rest.” In his typical let’s-not-talk-about-me fashion, he changed the subject. “I don’t have much experience with a normal family. Should be interesting to see how the other half lives.”
Best to lower his expectations now. “My family is anything but normal. Prepare for an interrogation, lots of passive-aggressive backhanded insults—all aimed at me, of course—and I’ll apologize now for my sister drooling in your general direction. She’s a big fan.”
“A little drool never hurt anyone.”
Slowing for the light at Rosa L. Parks Boulevard, Naomi smiled in his direction. “Are we really going to do this? I’m not kidding about the interrogation part. We’ll have to get our stories straight before going in.”
“Why not stick with the truth?”
Naomi tried to read his expression, but the chiseled profile revealed nothing.
“Because the truth is we aren’t actually dating.”
“But we have,” Chance pointed out. “Same circumstances. We met at work. Hit it off. Started spending time together.” Whiskey-colored eyes met hers. “All stuff that still applies.”
Like the liquid they resembled, those eyes could make Naomi do countless things she’d regret in the morning.
Breaking the spell, she focused on the road. “Five thirty on Sunday, then. Dinner with the family.”
“Dinner with the family,” he repeated.
Her mother was going to flip.
“Let me see if I’ve got this right,” Archie drawled from his rocking chair on the porch. “The woman you were pissed at yesterday is now taking you home to meet her parents? And this was your idea?”
Bowing to Shelly’s demand for a demo, Chance had called his bass player over to help with the recordings. In a show of solidarity, and likely to see if their fearless leader really was in good enough shape to put them back to work, the entire band had showed up.
“That doesn’t sound like the Chance I know,” said Louis Strathmore, lead guitar player and, behind Archie, second-longest-running member of Panhandle. The group had formed in Amarillo, in the Texas panhandle, hence the name. “Toss me another one, Calvin.”
The rhythm guitarist tossed a can Louis’s way. To Chance’s surprise, the guys had shown up with a twenty-four pack—of soda.
“I’m helping her out,” he said. “That’s all.”
After spending three hours getting “Man Up” in the can, they’d taken a break to enjoy a late-spring evening on the porch. Chance had second-guessed this dinner thing six ways from Sunday, but the boys didn’t need to know that.
Sylvester Brown, better known as Sticks, tapped out a beat on the bucket beneath his ass. “Doing her a favor, huh? What are you getting in return, hoss? Or do we need to ask?”
“We’re talking about the publicist of the record company that’s putting us all back to work,” Chance snapped. “Watch your mouth before I shove one of those chopsticks down your throat.”
Louis chuckled. “Now that’s the Chance I know.”
“Sure.” Archie set his chair into motion. “You’re helping out a pretty girl. Sounds innocent enough.”
“So she’s pretty?” Louis asked.
Archie kept his eyes on Chance. “She’s gorgeous.”
If he was looking for a reaction, he wouldn’t get one. “She’s part of the Shooting Stars team.”
“She’s also the reason you nearly killed Shithead Swanson.”
A stare-off ensued, until Calvin whistled. “I’m still pissed that I missed that.”
“I didn’t nearly kill anyone.”
Sticks increased his tempo on the bucket. “Pictures don’t lie, bro. But Swanson does. Saying Archie here helped you. This choirboy ain’t never thrown a punch in his life.”
Archie wiggled his fingers. “I have to protect the hands.”
“Protecting your ass is more like it.” Louis set his empty soda can on the porch by his foot. “What’s this next song called again?”
Chance rolled with the change of subject. “‘Same Old Thing.’ I’m going for bluesy. Hank Senior meets B.B. King. You want to lay down a lead on the demo?”
“Yeah. Let’s get to it.”
The band filed inside, but Archie hung back. “From what I can tell, you and this publicist mix about as well as high tea and collard greens. What’s this dinner thing really about?”
Why hadn’t he just lied when Archie invited him to the lake on Sunday? “Her mom is trying to hook her up with some doctor next door. I’m going as a decoy.”
Planting his hands on his hips, the bass player looked doubtful. “When was the last time you accompanied a woman to a family dinner? You aren’t exactly the bring-him-home-to-mama type.”
How dare the drunk have a meal with normal people? “Is there a reason this bothers you so much? I’m not carrying the plague, Archie. Alcoholism isn’t contagious.”
“That isn’t where I’m going and you know it. You didn’t just meet this chick last week. There’s something between the two of you, and we both know whatever it is didn’t end well.”
As if Chance needed the reminder. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“You haven’t spent your adult life at the bottom of a bottle solely because your family sucked. I did a little research. Naomi was working publicity for Sundown Records when we first signed, wasn’t she?”
So he could Google. Good for him. “She was. I told you we had a history. That’s it.”
“That isn’t all of it, though. You were clean when we signed that deal. By the time we hit the road, you were trying to drown yourself in whiskey nearly every night. Are you telling me Naomi Mallard had nothing to do with that?”
Closing the space between them, Chance lifted his chin. “Let it go, Arch.”
The musician held his ground. “You can’t afford another relapse. Play with fire and you’re bound to get burned.”
When Chance wanted his friend’s advice, he’d ask for it. “Who are you more worried about here? Me? Or you?”
“After ten years of sticking by you, you’re going to ask me that?” Archie shook his head. “Nah, man. That doesn’t even deserve an answer.”
Floorboards creaked as his oldest friend ambled into the house. Crossing to lean on a sturdy post, Chance stared off into the darkness. Naomi didn’t get the blame for sending him back to the bottle. If anything, she’d come closer to saving him than anyone before or since.
Own your own shit. That’s what Harmon would say. And that’s what treatment had taught him. Own it. Deal with it. Learn to live with it. Chance had yet to master the last part, but he was trying.
Something brushed his leg and he looked down to find Willie twirling around his ankle. “I’ve got ya, big guy. Time for your dinner.”
Clay did his duty, shaking hands and making small talk. The sun had dawned bright and warm on that Saturday morning, making him wish he were on the golf course instead of mingling with a who’s who of Music Row. But Kids & the Arts was a worthwhile charity, and he didn’t begrudge the relatively few hours he spent helping the organization raise funds.
Without music as part of his education, Clay wouldn’t be where he was today. He likely would have lost interest in school long before graduation, and lived out the remainder of his days working a job he hated, in a town that never changed.
Instead, he was a music mogul by some standards, though all he’d ever set out to do was put great music into the world.
“Why, Mr. Benedict, I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you looking quite so casual.” Samantha Walters, manager of Shooting Stars success story Dylan Monroe, offered the observation with a twinkle in her jade-green eyes. “You’re almost, dare I say it, approachable.”
He and the striking brunette had been circling one another for years. Their first encounter had been early in Samantha’s career, when she’d been a bold negotiator with a highly sought-after client. Clay’s former label, Foxfire, had won the bidding war, but Samantha and her client had been the real victors. The deal surpassed anything Music Row had seen to that point, and set the standard for many profitable deals to follow.
Now that she’d signed on to replace Dylan’s less-than-reputable previous manager, Mitch Levine, their paths had once again crossed. Only this time, Samantha was no longer a determined rookie but a sleek and stylish professional, both feared and respected among her peers.
She was also absolutely stunning.
Clay’s choice of casual meant gray dress slacks and a pale green button-down, open at the collar. Samantha had gone with a flowing white number accented with magnolia flowers and draping to the floor. A modest slit revealed one long, tanned limb when caught by the breeze, and he couldn’t help but imagine how the delicate skin would feel beneath his touch.
Fighting to keep his focus, he offered an apologetic retort. “If I’ve seemed intimidating in the past, Ms. Walters, I assure you, it was not intentional.”
“Liar.” Her smile widened. “Of course it’s intentional. That’s one of the many traits I admire about you.”
Though eternally single, Clay had distanced himself from the dating game after a combination of poor judgment and bad decisions resulted in an affair that cost him his company and his best friend. Not that Tony knew why his partner of seventeen years had withdrawn from the business they’d built together, but Clay knew, and unfortunately for him, Tony’s wife refused to let him forget.
All of this meant Clay was out of practice on the flirting front. “Dare I say it’s a trait we share?”
A pristinely manicured finger tapped the side of her champagne glass. “I’ll take that as a compliment. Though I doubt some would see it that way.”
“In our line of work, any advantage is worth exploiting.” Noticing the empty state of her glass, he said, “Can I get you another drink?”
She set the crystal flute on the tray of a passing waiter. “Afraid not. That was drink number two. My limit for afternoon charity events.”
Clay had witnessed more than one pillar of the community make a fool of themselves due to a lack of such limits. “Smart choice. How do you feel about hors d’oeuvres? Have you capped out on those as well?”
Long lashes lowered as she considered his offer. “Since I ran my three miles this morning, I think I deserve a little finger food.”
“Excellent.” Going for gallant, Clay extended an arm. “Shall we?”
Before Samantha could accept his offer, Joanna Rossi swooped between them, plastering herself against Clay’s side.
“Darling!” she exclaimed. “I had no idea you were here. Shame on you for not letting me know.” Deigning to acknowledge the attendee beside her, Joanna extended a limp hand toward Samantha. “Hello, my dear. You must be one of the saintly teachers this soiree is meant to benefit.”
The younger woman accepted the greeting with open distaste. “Samantha Walters. I’m a member of the board. We appreciate your support in our efforts to bring music education to more students.” Shifting her gaze to Clay, she said, “It was nice speaking with you, Mr. Benedict. Enjoy the rest of your day.”
Clay managed to not grind his teeth as Samantha strolled away. “What do you want, Joanna?” Drawing as little attention as possible, he peeled her off his arm.
His former lover tapped the tip of his chin. “I believe I’ve been quite clear about that. Tony is in LA for the weekend. I could have my car brought round in a matter of minutes.”
“That won’t be necessary. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
“Not so fast.” The voracious former waitress hooked a finger through his belt loop. “You aren’t considering a fling with our Ms. Walters, are you?”
Now he understood the sudden interruption. “I don’t have flings, Joanna. And I’ve told you before, my personal life is none of your business.”
“She’s a gold digger, darling. I’m only trying to protect you.”
How had he ever fallen for her manipulations? “Samantha is one of the wealthiest patrons in this room.” Knowing exactly what buttons to push, he added, “Even wealthier than you, my dear. Money. Age. Beauty. She has you beat in every category. I can understand why you’d see her as a threat.” Clay set his half-full glass on the cocktail table beside him. “Do us both a favor. Find yourself another boy toy, and stay the hell out of my life.”
Through socializing for the day, Clay strolled toward the exit.