Page 11 of Just Business

Nope! I went out. Alone.

Josie

What?! Who even are you? Did you have fun?

I did. It was an interesting night.

Josie

Interesting how?

Oh, you know what karaoke night is like. Lots of interesting performers.

I don’t know why I’m being intentionally evasive. I’m unsure about that entire interaction last night, but eventually, I’ll have to tell her all the details. Josie will totally approve of this huge plot twist. Hell, she’ll probably be disappointed that I didn’t crush my lips to his. She’d cut me off there, though. No one-night stands for us, forreasons.

Rising to sit cross-legged, I grab my laptop from the nightstand and open it to Google him, hoping for some clue why he’s here. Instead, I find myself clicking on the images link. Picture after picture pops up on my screen. Some of the recent ones show him looking pretty rough on tabloid websites, but in older photos, he’s perfectly posed for red-carpet events with the gorgeous pop star, Celeste, on his arm.

Before I can stop myself, I’m opening a new tab and typing her name and Austin James into the search bar. It appears that whatever was happening between them has ended because there are tons of newer photos of her with another man. After allowing myself exactly ten minutes of doom-scrolling through image after image, I snap back into the reality that I’m an average girl living in an average town. I’m not famous, and I’m not even beautiful. I know I’m attractive-ish, but it’s mostly because there aren’t many people to look at here. I’m a big fish in a small pond, so to speak, which means I’m nowhere near the beauty of the woman in all his posts.

I let out a loud “ugh,” annoyed at myself. Closing the tab of Celeste images, I navigate to my email and spot one that must have come in right after I left last night. It's a studio session booked for two weeks, starting this morning at nine. My eyes dart to the top right corner of my screen, where the time reads 7:50 a.m. I’m a planner, and spur-of-the-moment bookings aren’t my favorite, but after the cancellation yesterday, I desperately need money to keep things afloat.

A full two-week booking will at least cover this month’s bills, but there won’t be much left over. Something is better than nothing, right? It’ll make a small dent in the pile of debt I was saddled with.

My eyes roam the screen, double-checking that I have all the necessary information. The name on the booking is Tyler Kent. His name doesn’t ring any bells, but right as I’m about to Google him, a loud crash sounds from downstairs, jolting me out of bed toward the source of the noise. Honey has knocked over a half-full cup of water on the kitchen table, and in her mad dash to escape the spill, she’s also knocked over my thick stack of unpaid bills that were bound by a rubber band. The rubber band snapped and now wet bills are scattered all over the floor. I’m frantically grabbing paper towels to clean the mess, all thoughts of a Google search evaporating from my mind.

Once the mess is cleaned up, I pop a K-cup into my Keurig and brew a cup of coffee, scarfing down a granola bar while I wait. Once it's ready I head back up to my room to get dressed. I slip into my favorite thrifted jeans and my fadedDolly for Presidentt-shirt, and with a final swipe through my long hair, I’m ready for the day. Tossing my laptop into my messenger bag, I hitch it over my shoulder and head over to get the studio ready. My house is right across the street, a few yards away.

I’m fishing through my bag for my keys as I approach the parking lot, but my steps falter when an all-too-familiar green van catches my eye. After a moment of standing there with my mouth agape, Austin looks up through the driver’s window and lowers his aviators, our eyes meeting. Slowly, he climbs from the van, his shocked expression probably mirroring my own. Cocking my head to the side, I try to make sense of why he’s in my parking lot. I mean, it’s obvious why he’s here, but my brain’s a little slow on the uptake.

Just yesterday, I saw an article claiming his tour was cut short. Apparently it’s true, or at least some semblance of truth, since he’s now standing in the parking lot of my studio in my tiny town. Tentatively, I approach while giving myself a stern talking-to.Act naturally. You’re a grown-ass woman. You deal with men every single day of your life. Last night didn’t happen. This is just another client on your schedule.

This close and in the daylight, I register all the details I missed last night. Details my Google search failed to capture. Though his facial hair has gotten long, it looks good on him. His honey-brown hair, which was hidden by a ball cap last night, hangs loose today, a stray lock falling across his forehead. It’s slightly damp, the ends curling up at his neck. He looks damn near perfect. But then I notice his nose is slightly crooked, like maybe it’s been broken, and that small detail brings him back down to the level of us mere mortals, as if he’s just the boy next door. He stretches his arms above his head like he’s working out some stiffness, and the hem of his shirt rides up, exposing a trail of hair right above his belt buckle. My face heats, and I force myself to look away.

His clothes are wrinkled, and there’s an air of general dishevelment about him. But it’s not until he opens the sliding back door to grab his guitar, revealing the seats lying flat with a heap of rumpled blankets and a travel pillow, that it hits me.

“Oh my gosh! Did you sleep in your van?” I’m unable to mask the shock in my voice, especially since I know for a fact he could afford to buy our motel and probably half the town.

He turns back to me, rubbing the back of his neck, wearing a sleepy expression. It’s such a charming, boyish gesture. One corner of his mouth quirks up in that barely there smile I noticed last night, but it never reaches his eyes. They’re the same shade as the cloudless summer sky above us right now. They’re also kind. Austin James has kind eyes. But when did the light in them go out?

“So, I had a little mix-up with the motel.” He drags out the word “so” like it has several o’s. “They overbooked, and the bartender last night informed me I might be living in my van here for a few days.” He jerks his head toward the van. “Lucky for me, that truck stop one town over has a shower with endless hot water.”

I’m aware that you can’t believe everything you read online, but from what I’ve read, this man is arrogant and cocky. The thought of him using a truck stop shower almost makes me laugh. Maybe this is exactly what his ego needs. A little bit of deflating. And that’s exactly what I’ll do.Deflate, Deflate, Deflate.

Clearing my throat, I square my shoulders and plaster on the most professional-looking face I can muster.

“I’m Penny Miller,” I say, sticking my hand out for him to shake.

His brows pinch together, but he reaches out and takes my tiny hand in his very large hands. “Austin James.”

“Well, I’m assuming you’re my nine a.m. session? You’re a few minutes early, but you’re welcome to come in while I set things up.”

He hasn’t dropped my hand yet, and it takes every ounce of concentration to form complete sentences. All my senses are focused on how my hand feels in his. Finally, I step back and start walking toward the door of my building, him following behind me.

“Are you new to the industry?” I ask over my shoulder. “Your face isn’t ringing a bell.” Lies, all lies. At this point, anyone who listens to country music has heard his name and probably has his songs on their playlist. His face is on the cover of magazines at the grocery store checkout and probably in at least one-third of the population’s For You Page on social media.

My hands shake as I unlock the side door to the lobby, nerves jangling with every movement. I steal a glance to check if he's noticed, but he's staring at me, wearing a quizzical expression. “I’m Austin James. Country singer?” There’s an incredulous uptick in his words at the end, and I have to work to keep a straight face.

“Hmm, that’s not familiar to me, but so many musicians come through here who are just starting out that they all start running together.” I pop one shoulder in a shrug and head inside, feigning far more confidence than my erratic heartbeat suggests.

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