Jesse hated sitting still, which was one of many reasons the last few months had been so frustrating.

To keep her skills high, she’d played a few local gigs, but the people she’d encountered, both fellow musicians and fans alike, all wanted to talk about the breakup. The questions hadn’t been easy or comfortable to answer, and Jesse knew that from an outsider’s perspective, she looked like the loser. At least sweet Virginia didn’t see it that way.

The young girl had made Jesse’s year, and not because she was a fan, but because seeing Jesse play had motivated her to pick up a guitar. That was something to be proud of. Also something Jesse never imagined would happen. She’d been so focused on the charts and the press and the accolades, that the true purpose of performing—to move and inspire people—had gotten lost along the way.

Nothing like an innocent teen to put Jesse’s life back in perspective.

By Sunday afternoon, she’d finished three rounds of laundry, unloaded the dishwasher, vacuumed the carpets, and watered the plants. Plants that were quickly fading due to Jesse’s incurable black thumb. She’d recently begun regular plant pep talks to convince them to stay alive for a few weeks longer until their loving owner returned. Though Ryan wasn’t their original owner.

That was Helena, Ryan’s previous girlfriend, who’d caught him in bed with another woman and made a hasty exit without the greenery. Ryan’s track record with women was, in a word, distressing, but he loved Jesse, and in the year plus they’d been together, he’d never given her reason to doubt him. Was she ignoring what she didn’t want to see? Perhaps. But when they were together, it was easy to pretend.

While scrubbing mildew off the shower door, Jesse focused on the things she loved about Ryan. His endless charm, wicked grin, and ice-blue eyes were an irresistible combination, but he was also quick to laugh and made her feel loved. The only thing Ryan took seriously was play, and he attacked life with abandon, something Jesse needed to do more of. Where Ash was safe and steady, Ryan was dangerous and unpredictable. One supplied comfort while the other was like playing with fire.

Stopping mid-wipe, Jesse stared through the soapy glass. Why was she comparing Ryan to Ash? It wasn’t as if she were choosing between the two. Anything beyond a professional relationship with Ash was out of the question. He was her past. Ryan was her future. End of story.

Annoyed with her wayward thoughts, she finished scouring the bathroom and found herself with nothing else to clean. Which brought her right back to sitting still. Glass of sweet tea in one hand and her notebooks in the other, Jesse settled on the oversized swing on the back porch—her addition to the dwelling.

A porch swing was better than some fickle old houseplants any day.

She set the swing into motion and proceeded to flip through the notebooks, trying to predict which songs Ash might like. After dismissing three in a row, she remembered that this was her album and what Ash liked or didn’t like shouldn’t matter.

“Hey there, neighbor,” called Geraldine Allsop from next door. “Are you going to give me an update or what?”

This part of town mostly consisted of bungalows built decades before, all close enough together to make avoiding your neighbors nearly impossible. Thankfully, Jesse adored Geraldine and never missed an opportunity to visit with the older woman.

“Come on over.” Jesse hopped off the swing. “I’ll get you some tea.”

By the time Jesse returned with the drink, the neighbor had planted herself in the old rocker. Her black hair was teased high and hair-sprayed into an unmoving coif, and she still wore her church clothes—a white blouse and a long denim skirt that covered the tops of her sparkly cowboy boots, plus a trademark red scarf tied jauntily around her neck. At fifty-six, she was still a striking woman.

Like others before her, and those still arriving today, Geraldine had moved to town thirty-five years ago with a guitar and a dream, but she never made the big time. There’d been times after Taylor’s betrayal that Jesse feared she might meet the same fate. If a woman as talented as Geraldine—a virtual powerhouse of a singer—couldn’t make it, then what chance did Jesse have? To her credit, the older woman had scolded her for entertaining such ridiculous doubts, claiming that Jesse possessed all the ingredients to be a real star.

From Geraldine’s ruby-red lips to God’s ears.

With her typical, laid-back smile, she accepted the tea and set the rocker into motion. “Thank you, darling. I’ve been watching for you all weekend. Do we have a producer yet?”

Jesse grinned. “We do. He doesn’t have a lot of experience, but he’s written a bunch of hit songs, and that’s what I need. Now I just have to figure out which of my songs to show him.”

“I’m here for you, honey-child. Tell old Geraldine what you’re thinking.”

“You aren’t old,” Jesse admonished, and then held up her notebooks. “I’ve gone through these things multiple times, and I can’t decide what is right for the album. Ash said I need to pick songs that speak to me, and the rest will fall into place.”

Her friend snorted. “If he thinks it’s that simple, then, baby, you’re in trouble. Country radio doesn’t give a shit about what speaks to you. They want songs that speak to their listeners. Today, that’s more pop than twang, and a hook that will have twenty-somethings cranking their station at every kegger and bonfire north and south of the Mason Dixon Line.”

“Exactly,” Jesse’s said. “Party songs. High energy, but sweet, too. That’s what’s working right now for female artists.”

“Darn tootin’. Plug in that formula, and you’ll have yourself a hit record.”

Jesse didn’t like the word formula, but that’s all any song was, really. A couple verses, a chorus with an undeniable hook, and a bridge to bring it all together. Three minutes of magic, as Silas once called it.

Holding out her glass for a toast, Jesse said, “To hit records.”

Geraldine tapped her own against Jesse’s before flipping her hair over her shoulder. The hair didn’t budge. “To hit records and lots of ’em.”

In one more day, Jesse’s solo career would finally be off the ground. Now she just had to take off before Taylor Roper did it first.

Clay Benedict was getting beaten by an old man.

Concerned about his newly signed artist, Clay had extended an invitation to Silas Fillmore for a Sunday round of golf, somehow unaware of how well the man knew his way around a course. The exec had no reason to regret signing the young artist—yet—but Jesse’s initial reaction to Ash Shepherd concerned him. In the six weeks since they’d signed the contracts, every interaction Clay had with Jesse told him he’d made the right choice, but reputations were tough to live down, even when they were undeserved.

The rumor that Jesse was hard to deal with—likely spread by the Taylor Roper camp, though Clay had no proof of that—had hindered their progress. She’d never displayed a hint of temper or diva behavior in his presence, nor had any of his staff reported negative encounters. Yet Jesse had done a complete reversal when he’d announced Ash as her producer, and though after the two met privately, she’d been more receptive to the arrangement, Clay worried that any amount of tension could not only delay the project further, but derail it completely.

“Good shot,” he muttered as Silas planted the ball well onto the green, positioning himself for yet another birdie. “How long have you been playing this game?”

Silas dropped the club into his bag and gave Clay a wink. “Probably about as long as you’ve been alive, Mr. Benedict.” Grinning, he stepped back from the tee. More than once, Clay had suggested the older man use his given name, but Silas insisted on the formality.

They were six holes in and had yet to discuss the older man’s client. A fact Clay suspected was his companion’s doing. Silas had to know why he’d received the invitation but was following the cardinal rule of Business 101—never give anything away. If Clay wanted to discuss Jesse Gold, he would have to broach the subject himself.

“Do you know anything about Jesse’s history with Ash Shepherd?” Clay asked. He’d posed the same question to the new producer and received a vague answer about them growing up in the same town. The one fact Clay already knew.

“They’re both from Eton, Georgia, but that’s the extent of my knowledge. I’m more interested in Jesse’s future than her past.”

And you should be, too was the unspoken ending to that statement. Clay was only interested so far as the past could affect her future and, in turn, the future of his label.

“She didn’t seem happy to see him on Friday morning.” Swinging the driver, Clay made contact with the ball and sent it slicing right toward a bunker. “Shit,” he mumbled, watching the ball touch down on the green, and then careen into the sand.

“Unlucky bounce,” Silas said, knowing full well the bounce was not the problem. Heading off toward the cart, Silas offered no response to Clay’s question.

Undeterred, Clay waited until they’d finished the hole—Silas finishing two strokes ahead of him—and were on to the next to try again.

“Are you certain she’s willing to work with him on this album?”

Hand shading his eyes, Silas searched for the flag in the distance. “He joined us all for dinner Friday night, and they seemed friendly enough.” After putting his ball on the tee, he met Clay’s gaze, expression dead serious. “My girl is ready, willing, and able to make this record. So long as your boy knows what he’s doing, there shouldn’t be a problem.”

There was a reason Silas Fillmore had been a staple in this town for nearly five decades. Clay had respected him from the moment they met, but today, he was starting to like him, too.

“I have faith in Ash,” Clay replied.

“Faith in Jesse is more important,” the older man pointed out. “She’s your artist, not Shepherd.”

Fair point. Like any producer, Ash could be replaced. So could Jesse, if necessary, but Clay wasn’t the type to toss an artist aside without giving them his full effort first. Jesse’s track record with the Honkytonk Daisies, her songwriting abilities, and her natural presence on-stage were all assets in her favor. Most other hopefuls in town didn’t come with such credentials.

There was also her voice, which was as good as, if not better, than any female artist on the radio today.

Doubts put to rest, Clay leaned on his club and offered Silas a friendly smile. “I have complete faith in Jesse, or I wouldn’t have signed her. I just want to make sure we have the right combination going into the studio. If we need to make a change, I prefer to find out now rather than later.”

Silas relaxed and took his position behind the ball. “That’s good to hear.” The club made a whooshing sound before cracking the ball, sending the little white dot sailing over the green to land less than fifty yards from the hole.

This outing may have put Clay’s fears to rest, but Silas’s performance was putting a serious dent in his ego. Clay had played many a pro/am tournament and held his own. The next tournament invite he received, he’d be reaching out to Silas to fill out a foursome.

“That’s a beautiful shot,” called a woman from behind them. “Even for you, old man.”

Clay turned to find Samantha Walters approaching with Clay’s former partner, Tony Rossi. The sight of her, dressed in white pants that accentuated her long legs, a long-sleeve pink polo, collar high, and a white visor settled over dark waves sent the now-familiar surge through his system that hit whenever she was around. A surge of pure attraction. Now that she represented Dylan Monroe, their paths crossed often, and resisting the urge to pursue a more personal connection was proving difficult.

Seeing Tony caused a very different reaction in Clay. First was the ever-present guilt, followed by a hefty dose of jealousy. Clay had never been the jealous type, but the combination of these two individuals together was more complicated than he could untangle in a matter of seconds.

As Samantha embraced Silas, Tony approached Clay with an outstretched hand. They’d parted ways after a nearly twenty-year partnership and a friendship that went back even further. In the two years since, Clay had never been honest with his oldest friend as to why he’d removed himself from the label they’d built together.

“Good to see you, Clay,” Tony said. “I hear you signed the other half of the Daisies. Looks like a score for both of us.”

The Honkytonk Daisies had broken up because Taylor had been coaxed away to Foxfire Records as a solo act. A move Clay would not have tolerated if he were still part of the company.

“I consider it a score, yes.” Clay didn’t want to talk business. Not with Tony. “Silas and I were just moving up the green. We’ll be out of your way shortly.”

“We could make it a foursome,” Tony suggested, and called to Samantha. “Do you mind if we join forces, Sam?”

Samantha met Clay’s gaze. “I don’t mind at all.” There was an invitation in her eyes, and he considered his dilemma. The desire to spend time with the brilliant manager warred with the equal and opposite desire to spend as little time with Tony as possible. A feat he’d managed since following his conscience, ending his affair with Tony’s wife, and walking away from their partnership.

“That’s a nice offer,” Silas said, “but Clay and I are mixing business and pleasure today. Afraid we’ll have to take a rain check.”

Their business discussion was all but over, and Silas knew it. Clay appreciated the out but wondered about the older man’s motives.

Tony’s smile wavered as he said, “Another time, then.”

Samantha joined her golf partner without another glance in Clay’s direction. As he and Silas strode to their cart, Clay made a bold decision.

“Samantha!” he called, and she looked his way. “I’d like to set up a meeting. Are you available this week?”

Though he hadn’t included a reason for the request, she nodded with understanding. “I can make room in my calendar.”

Clay failed to hide the smile as a feeling of accomplishment filled his chest. Two years was long enough. He could never undo his misdeeds, but the self-imposed hiatus from anything personal couldn’t go on forever.

“Good,” he said with a nod. “I’ll call you.”

Once the cart was in motion, Silas said, “Be careful there, boy.”

An odd statement. “Careful about what?”

“I know why you parted ways with Tony, and I know he has no idea. Don’t put Sam in a position to be caught in the crossfire.”

No one knew why Clay left Foxfire except Joanna Rossi, Tony’s wife and Clay’s former lover. Therefore, there was no way Silas could know anything.

“What crossfire?”

Silas sighed. “I ran into Mrs. Rossi around the time we were negotiating Jesse’s contract. She thought the information might give me an advantage. As you know, I didn’t use the knowledge then, and I don’t intend to in the future.” His voice softened. “But I like Sammy. Don’t put her in Joanna’s sights. She doesn’t deserve that.”

They rode on in silence, Clay astounded that Joanna would sink to such depths, yet he should have been prepared for something like this. Not long ago, she’d warned him that she wouldn’t take kindly to being replaced. Clay had written the threat off as a bluff, but he’d clearly miscalculated. If she’d shared the truth of their affair—a secret that could destroy Joanna as well as Clay—to put him at a disadvantage in a minor business deal, what would she do if Clay started dating Samantha?

Suppressing the anger rising inside him, Clay clenched his jaw and breathed through his nose. “Thanks for letting me know, Silas.”

Silas gave a curt nod and kept his eyes on the path ahead.