Clay wasn’t a fan of dinner meetings, especially ones held just off Broadway on a Friday night. While most tourist towns had an off-season, Nashville did not. Lower Broad, Printer’s Alley, and 2nd Avenue stayed packed year-round, with music churning from every open door.

More than one of the original acts signed to Foxfire Records had come from scouting these clubs, and recalling those long nights put a smile on his face. Together, with luck, friendship, and unflinching determination, Clay and Tony created a business that was now one of the largest and most successful labels in town.

And it had all started right here.

Loosening his tie, Clay put off ordering a car to stroll down 2nd Avenue and see if anything good caught his ear. Nashville was loaded with undiscovered talent, and one never knew when the next gem might be playing around the next corner. From the first few doors came the standard covers, all trying to sound as close to the original as possible to please the tourists who came to Nashville to hear their radios come to life.

But then Clay reached the entrance to The Stillery and paused. The song was vaguely familiar, while at the same time wholly original. Where had he heard that tune before? Lingering out of the way, he found himself tapping along, and the answer finally came. This was the band Emily Garcia had signed to her previous label.

Clay tapped the bouncer on the shoulder “Who’s playing tonight?”

“The Hard Way,” the guy said. “They’re a kickass band. Don’t know how they aren’t signed yet.”

That made two of them because the music coming out of the club belonged inside the arena up the street.

“Is there room for one more?”

“Come on in,” the doorman replied.

The room was warm, so Clay slipped off his suit jacket and loosened his tie even more. The venue resembled most others along this strip—industrial with an appealing mix of metal, brick, and polished wood. Though the music was louder, there was no stage in sight.

Catching a passing waitress, he asked, “Where’s the band?”

She silently nodded to a set of stairs in the corner before moving on. Clay took the hint and headed to the second floor. The crowd was standing room only, but thanks to his height and width, he had no trouble cutting a path to the bar. An older man with a beard down to his belly button exited a stool on the corner, and Clay filled the empty seat, grateful for the direct view to the stage.

The lead singer, a tall, lanky man with dark, spiky hair and a goatee belted the rocking country tune with a steady baritone and an obvious passion for his art. He worked the stage like a pro, and the musicians behind him matched him for talent.

One of the reasons Clay focused more on solo acts was because finding a band in which all members possessed equal skill and commitment was near impossible. The second reason was the drama inherent in such acts. Competing egos. Jealousy. Unrealistic expectations.

These issues weren’t unheard of with solo performers, but less likely.

Of course, there were always exceptions, or drama worth tolerating, if the music was good enough. From what Clay could see, The Hard Way landed squarely in that category. The talent and charisma were evident, and they had no trouble holding the crowd’s attention. What surprised him the most was the number of people singing along. This wasn’t a song getting hourly radio play. This was an original. And a damn good one.

The song came to a raucous end followed by thunderous applause. Even folks at the bar put down their drinks to show their appreciation. Clay took advantage of the brief lull to order one of his own. “I’ll take a scotch on the rocks.”

“You can put that on my tab, Phil,” said a woman from behind him. Clay turned to find Samantha Walters, one brow arched high and a sexy glint in her dark eyes. “Fancy meeting you here, Mr. Benedict.”

Considering himself off the clock, he replied, “It’s about time you called me Clay, don’t you think?”

Since receiving Silas’s warning, he’d kept communication with the manager to a minimum. They’d spent the last week hashing out the terms of Dylan Monroe’s contract renewal through a string of emails. Not once had a hint of anything unprofessional been included, but that hadn’t stopped Clay from wishing he could negotiate with Samantha in a more intimate setting.

“I can do that,” she said, sliding up beside him to rest her elbows on the bar. “So what’s a label head doing in a 2nd Avenue bar on a Friday night? Are you meeting someone?”

The inquiry was casual, but Clay caught the underlying question. “No, ma’am. I’m here alone.” He nodded toward the band. “I was passing by, and they caught my attention.”

“You were passing by?” The brow arched higher.

“Obligatory dinner with my accountant went late, and I decided to take a stroll. Being an executive doesn’t make me too good for a Lower Broad club, Ms. Walters.”

“Call me Samantha,” she replied and accepted the drink the man she’d called Phil put down in front of her. Vodka tonic by the looks of it. “Do you like what you’re hearing?”

Clay nodded “I do. What do you think?”

“They’re the reason I’m here. Word is The Hard Way is looking for a manager.”

The more their professional roles overlapped, the more difficult getting personal would be. Then again, thanks to Joanna, Clay wouldn’t be getting personal with Samantha any time soon.

“Are you going to offer them representation?”

She gave a noncommittal shrug. “We had a chat during their break earlier. The dynamic is hard to read, but I’m considering it. Now that Wes has officially retired for good, I have a spot to fill.”

Wes Tillman had been at the top of the genre for more than two decades but opted to slow down a few years ago. After toying with retirement, he went out on a farewell tour more than a year ago before finally calling it quits. Dylan had landed an opening spot, which had been fortuitous for him since that’s when he’d crossed paths with Samantha. Dylan’s manager at the time turned out to be skimming from the accounts, and the more trustworthy manager had stepped in to take his place.

“What do you mean about the dynamic?” Clay asked.

Samantha cut her eyes to the stage as the band rolled into the next song. To be heard, she had to lean close, and her breath against his temple made it difficult to concentrate on her words.

“The front man, Liam Bradshaw, is clearly the leader, and the others follow along. As a whole, they seem like a well-settled, cohesive unit, but I’m skeptical of anything that comes across that simple. Bands are never simple.”

He couldn’t argue that statement, but instead of warning him off, the assessment only piqued Clay’s curiosity. Switching positions, he pressed close to her ear, ignoring the urge to taste the soft spot beneath her earlobe. “Do you know if they’re talking to any other labels?”

This time he’d really surprised her, though the savvy businesswoman recovered quickly. “Not that I’ve heard. Are you considering adding them to the Shooting Stars roster?”

In case she stepped into the mix, he kept his intentions vague. “Maybe. I’d need to see more, of course. Do some research and hear where they want to go.”

Falling into silence, Clay watched her lift the glass to her lips and noticed a slow blush advancing up her neck. Though the club was much warmer up here, the heat building between them had nothing to do with the temperature in the room. Treading into dangerous territory, Clay took a sip of his own libation and kept his focus on the band. Again, the spectators were singing along, and as the tempo soared, so did the tenor of the crowd.

Applause rang out again as the song ended with a crescendo, and the lead singer—Liam according to Samantha—announced they’d be taking a fifteen-minute break. Clay wasn’t interested in hanging out until the end of the night, so he took this opportunity to have a quick chat with the band.

“Would you excuse me?” he said to Samantha.

“Of course. I should get back to my friends anyway.”

An invitation to take their conversation someplace quieter danced on the tip of his tongue, but Clay swallowed the words. “Thanks for the drink.”

The hesitant smile said she wanted that invitation, but Silas’s warning echoed in his mind. Sam doesn’t deserve that. And Clay didn’t deserve her.

“You’re welcome. I’d love to hear your take on the band after you talk to them.”

Slipping into business mode, he replied, “I’ll save that until after the negotiations.”

Catching his meaning, she held up her glass in salute. “Very shrewd, Mr. Benedict.”

“When I have to be, Ms. Walters.”

As if nothing had changed between them, the beautiful woman walked away, black skirt hugging her slender curves and neon lights glinting off her jet-black hair. Clay watched her go with regret and the bitter certainty that he and Samantha would never be more than casual associates.

Downing the rest of his drink, he set the glass on the bar and made his way to the stage. The band descended the far side to gather around a cocktail table beside a window overlooking 2nd Avenue.

“Impressive set,” he said, directing the statement at the band in general.

“The crowd seems to like it,” the lead singer said before taking a swig from his longneck. The rest of the band held their tongues, confirming Samantha’s read on who the true leader was.

Extending a hand, he said, “I’m Clay Benedict. I run a label in town, and I like your sound.”

“Liam Bradshaw,” the tall singer offered, accepting the greeting. “This is Bobby Mullins, Matt Keys, Olive Cindowski, and Eugene Pepper.” Without missing a beat, he added, “You turned us down four years ago at Foxfire Records.”

Clay had no memory of that, but he would never remember all of the hopefuls that came through their doors over the years. In this case, he hoped to have a second chance to get it right.

“My loss, obviously.”

Either the singer had expected him to defend his decision or slither off in shame, but Bradshaw’s demeanor changed after Clay’s response.

“We think so, yeah. Good to know your taste in music has improved.” Lifting a hand toward the bar, he asked, “You want a drink?”

“I’ll pass, thanks. I hear you recently left Six String. Does that mean you’re looking for a new label?”

“That depends. If you’re talking about a development deal where you use us to up your tax deductions and then leave us hanging in the wind, we’ll catch the next bus.”

Not many would have the guts to give such a bold—and in Clay’s estimation, intelligent—answer. While some artists jumped at any chance that came along, The Hard Way had clearly made that mistake before. And learned from it.

“We don’t do development deals at Shooting Stars. If we bring in an artist, we do so with our full support and belief that they deserve to make music and have that music heard.”

He’d earned the attention of all members now, and the others tensely waited for their leader’s response.

“You think our music deserves to be heard?”

“I do. At least what I’ve heard so far.”

Ice-blue eyes narrowed as the man sized up the offer before him. A veteran well aware of the precarious nature of true artists, Clay waited silently for a reply.

“We don’t have a manager right now,” Liam confessed. “Does that matter?”

“Partially, but I have a feeling that situation might change soon.” Pulling a business card from his wallet, Clay set it on the table. “I don’t remember our original encounter, but my new A&R manager mentioned you in her interview. Emily Garcia?”

Liam’s expression shifted from interest to open hostility. “Thanks, but no thanks. We’ll take our chances elsewhere.”

Bewildered by the abrupt change, he said, “You’re saying no? Just like that?”

“We’ve worked with your Ms. Garcia before. We know how that ends up.”

So they blamed Emily for their previous experience, not the label. Odd. And concerning.

“Seems shortsighted, but that’s your prerogative. I’ll leave the offer on the table for a couple of months, in case you reconsider.” Keeping his tone casual, Clay added, “To be clear, Ms. Garcia will have the full weight and staff of Shooting Stars at her disposal. It’s highly unlikely history will repeat itself.”

Bradshaw snickered. “I can assure you, Mr. Benedict, that Emily Garcia doesn’t want to work with us any more than we want to work with her. If that situation changes, we’ll be happy to talk.”

So it was The Hard Way or Emily Garcia. Clay didn’t second-guess himself often, nor was he a fan of ultimatums, but in this case, he needed to determine which acquisition he’d been wrong about. Liam Bradshaw seemed to be under the misguided notion that an offer like the one just laid before him was easily dismissed. Whereas Ms. Garcia had recognized the opportunity Shooting Stars could provide and fought to join the team. That’s the type of person Clay would willingly invest in.

“Thank you for your time, and good luck to all of you.” Discussion over, he gave a nod to the entire band—disappointed in their willingness to follow a prima donna leader with an inflated sense of entitlement—and made his way through the buzzing crowd.

Once down the stairs and outside, he opened an app on his phone, ordered a car to the corner of 2nd Avenue and Commerce, and slid his suit jacket back into place. Sighing at the futility of his evening, Clay made his way up the block, vowing to leave the talent scouting to his new recruit, and cursing the blind stupidity that led him to ever get involved with Joanna Rossi.