CHAPTER TWO
Lex’s emphasis on the word “all” made Ava Grace’s throat tighten. Wally had been wrong. This wasn’t just a casual “get-to-know-you” dinner meeting. It was a performance review.
“I don’t...” Her voice was even huskier than usual, and she paused to clear her throat. “I don’t understand why the board is unhappy with me. My last album debuted at number one. It sold three million copies in a single calendar year, and every stop on my recent tour sold out in less than an hour.”
Lex arched his eyebrows. “All six of Carrie Underwood’s albums debuted at number one. Adele’s last album sold five million copies. And Beyoncé’s concerts sold out in one minute.”
Unable to dispute his facts, she just sat there. She wanted to point out that Adele and Beyoncé weren’t her direct competition, but she didn’t bother. Obviously, that didn’t matter to Lex.
The server’s arrival interrupted their conversation. He delivered Lex’s wedge salad with bacon and blue cheese and her kale salad topped with currants, almonds, and parmesan.
The conversation had wrecked her appetite, but Lex didn’t seem to suffer the same problem. While she pushed her greens around on the plate, he shoveled salad into his mouth as if he were dining in a prison cafeteria.
When Lex finished, he set down his fork and pushed the plate away. “I’m not dropping you from the River Pearl label.”
That assurance should have made her feel better. It should have unraveled the tension knotting her neck and shoulders. It should have loosened the invisible bands squeezing her chest.
But it didn’t. All she could think about was the one word he hadn’t said: yet.
“You need to diversify your fan base, Ava Grace. That’s the bottom line. If you gain male fans, you’ll also expand your total fan base.”
She nodded slowly. “Right.”
Just then, the server reappeared with their entrées. She’d ordered the bone-in ribeye with truffle butter, while Lex had picked the wagyu strip. At sixty-five dollars, his steak was the most expensive item on the menu.
It hadn’t been that long ago when Ava Grace worked a ten-hour shift at a mom-and-pop dry cleaners and earned less than sixty dollars after taxes. Never in her wildest dreams had she imagined she’d be eating in a restaurant like this.
As Lex spooned potato gratin onto her plate, he said, “You need to think about the kind of music men listen to, and for your next album, you need to record songs that appeal to both sexes. Right now, your songs appeal to women only.”
Lex made a lot of sense. She didn’t disagree about the need to appeal to a broader audience, and he wasn’t asking her to do anything unreasonable. She wanted new people to discover her music, and if she had to make a few changes for that to happen, she was willing to do so.
The tension gripping her body slowly diminished, and her appetite made a reappearance. Retrieving her fork and knife, she sliced a piece of steak and ate it. The meat was so tender it almost melted on her tongue.
“I talked with Wally,” Lex said, “and I suggested he get in touch with the NFL and pitch you to cover the theme song for the upcoming season of Sunday Night Football.”
“That would be awesome! I’d love that!”
Ava Grace had been born and raised in Texas, where people glorified our God in Heaven on Sunday mornings and glorified the Gods of the Gridiron later in the day. As a result, she loved football.
She spooned a dollop of potato gratin into her mouth. Made with gruyère cheese, the side dish was so creamy and rich, she expected butter to seep out of her pores later on.
“Are you seeing anyone?”
Taken aback by Lex’s question, she just stared at him. Why did he want to know if she was seeing anyone? Was he hitting on her? She’d heard stories from other singers who’d experienced sexual harassment, but she’d been fortunate enough to work with people who respected her.
After swallowing her bite of potatoes, she asked, “Is that relevant to our conversation?”
“Is that relevant to our conversation?” Lex mimicked. “Yes, it’s relevant, or I wouldn’t have asked.”
“Why does it matter?”
“If you’re single and unattached, we can use it to our advantage. What would you think about a contest? Something along the lines of ‘Win a Date with Ava Grace Landy’.”
She couldn’t prevent the grimace that twisted her face. Wasn’t there a movie with a similar premise?
“Going on dates with strangers doesn’t sound like much fun,” she noted, ignoring the sad fact that going out with men she knew hadn’t been much fun, either. “Nor does it sound very safe.”
Lex continued, as if she hadn’t spoken. “Or maybe we could do a reality TV show.”
Although she’d gotten her big break because of a TV singing competition, she didn’t watch reality TV shows. She definitely didn’t want to star in one. Leave that to the Kardashians. They seemed to be good at it.
Lex snapped his fingers. “I know! You could go on a date with a different guy for every episode.” His eyes lit up. “Or you could go on dates in all fifty states and do something unique to that state, like snorkeling in Hawaii.”
Snorkeling in Hawaii sounded fun—she’d never done that before. But she had no desire to frolic in the ocean with a stranger while a film crew recorded their every move. Undoubtedly, she’d get a bikini wedgie and sand would stick to her butt cheeks. Her ass would look like a sugar-sprinkled donut.
“I don’t think guys would watch a show like that, Lex. Plus, everyone looks bad on those shows, and I’m not talking about their physical appearance.”
Lex’s eyes narrowed. “I know some producers. I’ll talk to them about it.”
He could talk to all the producers he wanted, but she wasn’t going to participate in a reality TV show. Ava Grace wanted to focus on making music.
She popped another bite of steak into her mouth. Mmm. Maybe it was worth the exorbitant price.
“You’ve been on the cover of nearly every women’s magazine,” Lex noted.
She nodded as she chewed. She’d lost count of the number of times she’d been interviewed and photographed. Unlike a lot of high-profile people who avoided the media, she took a different approach and made herself available. Her visibility made her less of a target for the paparazzi, who were after shots of secretive celebrities.
Last month, she’d been on the cover of Mesmerize. The pub airbrushed the gigantic pimple on her chin, which she appreciated. It also airbrushed her upper arms until they looked like matchsticks, which she did not appreciate.
Lex continued, “I want you in men’s magazines too. I’d love to see you on the cover of Rule. I’m making that a priority for our publicity team.”
Rule. The magazine that featured famous women in a variety of provocative poses and in various states of nakedness.
The thought of being spread out on the cover of Rule in her underwear made Ava Grace choke on the piece of steak she’d been in the process of swallowing. Covering her mouth, she sputtered and coughed until it dislodged. Lex barely registered her distress. He just continued to chew his wagyu.
Dabbing her watering eyes with her napkin, she asked, “Are you serious?”
Lex nodded. “Katy Perry was on the cover of Rule. So was Christina Aguilera.”
If Katy and Christina wanted to bare their bodies for Rule, Ava Grace fully supported their decision. More power to them.
But she wasn’t interested in stripping down for millions of people. Her list of life goals did not include being the picture teenage boys used to jack off into their socks.
“I saw their covers,” she said. “They both looked beautiful. But I don’t want to be on the cover of Rule.”
Lex exhaled loudly, obviously annoyed. “Except for the Sunday Night Football theme song, you’ve shot down all my ideas.”
Because your ideas suck.
“You have two weeks to come up with something else,” he warned. “If you don’t, we’re moving forward with mine.”
“Okay,” she agreed, confident she could come up with something better than what he proposed.
Lex tossed back the remainder of his drink and set the empty glass down with a thump. “You’re lucky your looks match your voice. If you were ugly, you wouldn’t have won American Star, and River Pearl wouldn’t have signed you.”
He didn’t notice the look she gave him—the one her best friend referred to as the “death stare.” His heart should have immediately stopped beating. Too bad it still was.
After carefully folding her napkin and placing it on the table beside her plate, she fished a hundred-dollar bill from her clutch. She put the money in the middle of the table, right next to the flickering votive candle.
She slid out of the booth and looked down at Lexington Ross. Aware other people might be watching, she smiled widely. Only someone who knew her well would be able to tell she was struggling against the urge to dump her sweet tea over his head.
“I won a Grammy for my songwriting. I performed in front of forty thousand people when I was sick with the flu and had a fever over one-hundred-and-two. I finished every album ahead of schedule. And none of that had anything to do with the way I look.” She tilted her head toward the Benjamin on the table. “That should cover my dinner. If it doesn’t, take it out of my next royalty check.”
She left him sitting in the booth and strolled out of the steakhouse as if she hadn’t a care in the world. At least Wally hadn’t accompanied her to dinner. Her manager was intensely protective, more surrogate father than employee, and he probably would have gotten in Lexington Ross’s face and made a huge scene.
She’d had a great relationship with Jim Healy, the previous head of River Pearl Records, and had been upset when she heard he’d been fired. Now that she’d met his replacement, she was even more upset.
As she waited for the valet to retrieve her Camaro, she huddled next to a planter overflowing with vibrant purple crocus. Although the calendar said spring was only a month away, the chilly evening air made goose bumps pebble up and down her arms.
Her hands were shaking, but not from cold. Anger made them shake. Only one person could calm her down right now: her best friend, Amelia O’Brien.
Ava Grace checked the time on her phone. Amelia lived with her husband, Quinn, in San Francisco, which was on Pacific Time. It was nine o’clock in Nashville, so it was seven o’clock on the West Coast. Amelia should be home from work by now.
Once Ava Grace was in her car and heading out of downtown on Interstate 65, she used her Bluetooth to call Amelia. Her BFF picked up on the first ring.
“Hey, chickadee.”
Amelia didn’t sound as upbeat as she usually did, and Ava Grace immediately pushed her own problems to the back burner. “Everything okay, Millie?”
“Yes. I’m just tired.”
“Did Quinn keep you up all night again?”
“No.” Amelia snickered. “But he woke me up early.”
Quinn couldn’t keep his hands off his petite, redheaded wife. Ava Grace was glad her best friend had married a solid guy who adored her. No one deserved love more than Amelia.
“Is your dinner already over?” Amelia asked.
“Yes. I just left the restaurant.”
“How’d it go?”
“Not great. Lexington Ross is an asshole.”
Ava Grace spent a few minutes filling Amelia in, explaining what Lex said about her fan base and his suggestions to attract male fans. She also repeated his insult, the taste of the words bitter on her tongue.
When she finished, Amelia said, “William Howard Taft.”
Despite her lingering anger, Ava Grace smiled. Her best friend didn’t curse like most people. Instead, she used the names of U.S. presidents as imprecations.
Ava Grace heard Quinn’s voice in the background, but she couldn’t make out his words. “What did he say?”
“He wants to know how your dinner went. Alright if I tell him?”
“Go ahead.”
While Amelia shared the details, Ava Grace moved into the left lane to pass an eighteen wheeler. She lived about an hour outside the city, in a town called Hendersonville. Before Amelia had moved to San Francisco, she and Ava Grace shared an old farmhouse.
“Quinn wants me to put you on speaker,” Amelia said.
Suddenly, Quinn’s baritone filled the car. “Hey, AG.”
Before Ava Grace had met Quinn, no one had ever called her anything other than Ava Grace or Miss Landy. But Quinn had a habit of giving people nicknames they didn’t ask for—he called his wife Juice, for God’s sake—and he’d shortened Ava Grace’s name to AG.
“I think I have a solution to your problem,” Quinn said. “You should partner with Trinity.”
This wasn’t the first time Quinn had mentioned partnering with Trinity Distillery, a small company in San Francisco that produced bourbon. Quinn and Trinity’s CEO, Jonah Beck, had been in the same MBA program at Stanford.
When Beck had launched Trinity with his buddies, Gabriel Bristow and Renner Holt, Quinn provided the start-up capital. Supposedly, he was a silent partner, but Ava Grace couldn’t imagine him being silent about anything.
Quinn continued, “I can get in touch with Beck and set up a meeting.”
Beck.
She clearly remembered the first time she’d set eyes on Jonah Beck, more than two years ago at Quinn and Amelia’s wedding. Beck had been a guest too.
His deep laugh caught her attention from across the room ... that and the way his broad shoulders filled out his light blue dress shirt and the way his butt looked in his charcoal suit pants.
With his wavy, chocolate-colored hair, Beck was one of the most handsome men she’d ever seen. And that said a lot, since she was acquainted with famous musicians, movie stars, and pro athletes.
Beck was more than just handsome, though. He was one of those guys who had it—that special something that made women fluff their hair and swing their hips.
They hadn’t spoken at the wedding, but when they were officially introduced several months later, she realized he was even better-looking up close. His eyes were the same color as a triple shot espresso, and just like that highly caffeinated drink, they gave her a jolt.
When he looked at her, she felt it everywhere. She’d never experienced anything like it.
“Are you there, AG?” Quinn’s voice dragged her back into the phone conversation.
“I’m here.”
“Do you want to come to San Francisco and meet with Beck or not?”