The black Lamborghini pulled up in front of Solberg Records, sliding right up to the curb near the entrance in a no-parking zone. The doorman at the huge glass double doors glanced out, but didn’t exit to tell us to move.

“You’re so famous you can park in a no-parking zone and not get towed?” I asked, partially awed.

“This from the guy who parked my Jeep on a sidewalk in front of the music building. At least I’m still on the road,” Ten cracked.

“That Jeep is so ghetto people probably saw it and thought it broke down there. This Lambo? Not quite as pathetic.”

Ten smirked. “True.”

“Want me to open my door and fall out? Make a big scene, act like I’m injured and we’re gonna sue? Free parking for life then.”

“You’re here for a job interview. I think trying to blackmail free parking isn’t the best way to get hired.”

I sighed and muttered, “People are so touchy these days.”

“I’m not coming in.” Ten went on.

I turned in the seat to face him. “What?”

“If I go in there with you, it’s going to look like their direct competition is scoping out their business plans. I told you Rolland Solberg wants my record label’s top spot, and I’m the main reason he can’t get it.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t take this deal,” I replied, thinking about what he said.

“Why?”

“Because this banger I’m about to write might kick you out of the top spot.”

Ten gave me the finger. With both hands.

I held up mine. “Down, boy. We can’t afford any accidental angry whizzing. I didn’t bring an extra shirt.”

Ten dropped his hands. “You piss on an audience one time,” he mumbled.

“So I’m going in alone.” I glanced back at the giant shiny building. I wondered if birds ever flew by just to check themselves out.

“Not exactly.”

I raised an eyebrow at him, and he sighed. “Becca’s meeting you inside.”

I made a horrified face.

Ten laughed. “I know, but she insisted. Not only does she want to rep you on the deal, but she wants info.”

“What kind of info?”

“The kind that tells her what Solberg is up to with Aerie. I’m sure Becca will report back to my label with the 4-1-1.”

“Business rivalry.” I pursed my lips.

“Well, considering Solberg is trying to steal Aerie right out from under us…”

“Aerie is with Time Track?” I asked.

“Yeah, so why on earth would she ditch them to sign with number two?”

I held up my hand and pointed to my ring finger. “Bling-bling.”

Ten made a noise. “Maybe. Anyway, she’ll meet you upstairs. You’re going to the executive level.”

“Maybe I should’ve worn a tie,” I commented.

“Do you own a tie?”

I nodded. “It has Darth Vader on it.”

“Probably good you didn’t, then.”

My voice was sage. “Yeah, maybe they only like the Light Side.”

“Get out of my car, Nate.”

“Luke, I am your faaa-ther,” I said, doing my best deep voice and heavy breathing.

“Out,” he ordered again, but he was laughing.

The second I was on the sidewalk, he pulled back out into traffic without missing a beat. It was like everyone on the road just sort of paused to make room for him on the pavement.

I had no idea how long this meeting was going to last, but I was a little more nervous because of what Ten said. Was Solberg trying to steal an artist from his label? Was that legal?

It probably was legal. Anything in this business seemed to be if you threw enough money at it. I wouldn’t exactly call it ethical, though.

Come to think of it, they probably would have appreciated the Vader tie. They seemed to be part of the Dark Side.

I made a sound. The man in a suit walking beside me glanced over. “Should have worn a Star Wars tie with that,” I told him.

He hurried away.

Maybe he wasn’t a Star Wars fan.

The doorman opened the door for me, and I stepped in, the AC blasting me instantly. There were several rows of elevators, all labeled with different floor numbers. Off to the side, there was one elevator with golden paneled doors and a plaque above it with the words Executive Level.

I went to the doors, about to push the button, when a white-gloved hand reached out to stop me.

“Ah!” I said, shocked because this dude came out of nowhere. I glanced around. He was wearing a funny hat and jacket. “Were you hiding in that plant?” I demanded, jabbing my finger at a gigantic green thing nearby.

“I do not hide in plants,” he responded. He was British. “You walked right by me. You were distracted by the shiny door.”

“Think that’s real gold?” I asked.

“This goes to the executive level.”

“I can read.” I pointed to the sign.

“I was beginning to wonder,” he muttered.

My eyes narrowed, and I shoved his hand away and hit the button for my ride.

“You cannot go up there without an appointment.”

“I have one.”

He gave me a withering stare. “Name.”

“Nate Roth. To see Rolland Solberg.”

The man seemed surprised, then spoke into some kind of phone/walkie talkie. A second later, his eyes slid to mine, still surprised. “Identification, please.”

I fished it out and handed it over. “I was having a good hair day in this pic.”

The man rolled his eyes, glanced at it, then cleared his throat. The elevator opened. “You may go.”

“Dilly, dilly,” I said in my best Brit accent. I waved at him as the doors closed between us.

The cart chimed when I arrived on the executive level, and I emerged into a small hallway with an intricate tile medallion on the floor. Ahead of me, out into the main room, a sparkling crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling. I couldn’t help but wonder who they paid to clean that.

Oomph. I knocked into something and bounced back. Something else hit the floor with a thud, and lighter, scattering sounds filled my ears.

There was a loud gasp. “Watch it!” a woman practically shrieked.

“Careful,” I told her. “You screech any louder and that light fixture’s gonna crack.”

Her dark eyes rounded so wide I was worried I might see her brain. “Did you just nearly run me over and then insult me?” She glanced down at her bag, which had toppled onto the floor and spilled out like twelve pounds worth of crap.

“Are you moving?” I asked, bending down to pick it up.

“Here, Ms. Boone, let us help you,” said a bulky man in a dark jacket and jeans, appearing at her side.

“I got it,” I said, waving him back. My hand closed around a metal thing with handles. “Is this a torture device?”

“Give me that!” She snatched it out of my hand and dropped down beside me to grab the bag and shove it inside.

“Ms. Boone—”

“I got it, Mac. Thank you,” she said.

I grabbed a glitter-saturated notebook with the word Sparkle on the cover and sat back. “I’ve always wanted to know what girls write in their diaries,” I quipped and started to crack it open.

She gasped and lunged at me. I was expecting it, so I jolted backward, holding the book out of reach. We both went down right there on the lobby floor, my body under hers.

“Don’t you dare read that,” she gasped out, wiggling up my body and reaching for the notebook I was holding over my head.

All her squirming was making me forget about the book. She smelled nice. Light and fresh… with a hint of fruit.

Sort of like an upscale version of Fruity Pebbles.

Did I mention Fruity Pebbles is my favorite?

I was so distracted that she ripped the book out of my hand and made a triumphant sound. “Ha!”

I grabbed her by the waist and rolled, pinning her beneath me.

“Hey!”

“You smell like my favorite cereal,” I told her.

Her eyes widened. “Mac!”

I was hauled off her in seconds, my hands restrained behind my back as Mac towed me backward. She scurried to her feet, pulling down her cute little skirt. It was kinda flouncy; it floated out around her hips like a giant red ruffle.

Her top was hot-pink lace and her sneakers weren’t actually sneakers, but heels.

Aerie Boone was hot. Way hotter in person than in any tabloid.

She bent to pick up the rest of her scattered stuff.

I started to move forward to help her, but Mac tightened his hold. I glanced over my shoulder at him. “You can let go now.”

“I’ll let go when security gets here.”

“If you mean that British guy that’s in charge of the elevator, he’s not going to be much help.”

Mac’s lips turned upward as he fought a smile.

“Just let him go,” Aerie said. “Clearly, he’s a moron.”

Mac released me, and I bent to pick up a lipstick and a roll of Lifesavers near my feet.

“How did you even get up here?” she asked, flustered.

I opened up the candy and pulled out a green one. I made a face and offered it to her. “I prefer red.”

She stared at me, dumbfounded. I shrugged and stuck the Lifesaver in my pocket, then fished out the red one that had been beneath it. After popping it in my mouth, I folded the end and handed it to her along with the lipstick.

She took the items. “You just ate my candy.”

I grinned.

Becca turned the corner at that moment and spotted us. “What’s going on here?”

“She dropped all her stuff,” I explained.

“I dropped my stuff because you weren’t watching where you were going,” Aerie snapped.

“Maybe you’re the one who ran into me,” I pointed out.

She gasped, surprised I would suggest such a thing.

“We’re going to be late,” Mac announced.

Aerie tucked the handle of her bag in the crook of her arm and spun away. I watched her go, that red skirt bouncing with every step.

Becca cleared her throat. “Pissing off the woman you’re supposed to work with is not a smart idea.”

“I didn’t do anything,” I answered.

Ten’s manager made a sound. “You don’t argue with girls like that.”

“Girls like what?” I asked.

“Girls with money and power.”

I cocked my head to the side. “You talk about Ten like that when he’s not around?”

Her eyes widened a fraction. “What?”

I held her eyes, my stare steady. “You do know that girls like that, and men like Ten—hell, any celebrity or artist—they’re just like everyone else, right? They’re people. Maybe they wouldn’t have chips on their shoulders if people like you didn’t talk about them or to them that way.”

Becca opened her mouth, then closed it, then opened it again. I could tell she was surprised. Surprised I’d opened my mouth and nothing stupid or benign came out. Surprised I didn’t make a wisecrack or buckle under her she-devil attitude.

I might be a goofball, but that wasn’t all I was.

“We need to get in there.” She gestured ahead.

“Lead the way.”

On the way to Rolland’s office, we passed by his personal assistant who motioned us forward. “He’s expecting you.”

“Thank you,” Becca replied and kept walking.

Before she could pull open the large wooden door, I caught her hand. “I’m assuming they don’t know you’re here digging for info for Time Track?”

Her gaze sharpened. “I’m a talent manager. I don’t work for any certain label or company.”

“Except the one who employs your highest-paid client. And the one who offered you a fat check for intel.”

“That would be unethical.” She countered.

I smiled. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell.”

“You’re a lot smarter than you let on.”

I pulled open the door and motioned for her to go ahead.