“Then let’s go.”
Both of them stand up like this is all a done deal. I do too, because it feels like the thing to do, but I don’t follow them as they head toward the door. “Hold up a second here. Who are you talking about? I think I’m entitled to know who you want me to work with on this. It’s not just any song to me. I think that’s fairly obvious.” I blow out a breath, scrubbing my hands across my face before they fall to my waist, locking around my hips. “Look, I trust you guys. I’d just like to have some input in this decision before you march me down to meet some woman who you think will be perfect for this.”
They exchange glances again before Ethan grasps my shoulder, giving me a small shake. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” I open my mouth, ready to argue when he continues with, “Just shut up and come with us. You just said you trust us. So…trust us,” he emphasizes. “I think it’s easier if you two meet first and figure everything else out after.”
“You’re serious?”
“I am actually. The person we have in mind is absolutely perfect for this. Doesn’t mean it’ll all fall into place.”
“Okay…” I draw out the word, not at all comfortable with this. “Fucking Jasper and his goddamn ideas,” I mutter under my breath.
I should never have written the goddamn thing in the first place. I should have stuffed it into some random journal I don’t keep and left it to waste away. Me and my impulsivity. Me and my fucking mouth. Me and my need to scrub myself clean of the woman who has stained me for longer than she should have.
All I have to do is meet the woman they have in mind. I don’t have to say yes, I remind myself.
I take a deep breath and reluctantly follow.
The elevator carries us down to the studio floor. “This way,” Lyric says as we meander down the long corridor until we’re practically at the end. “Now,” she starts, stopping me before we can enter, her eyes piercing mine, “the key is going to be getting her to agree.”
I open my mouth to ask why this woman wouldn’t agree, but before I can get it out, Ethan’s pushing me through the door and into the recording studio.
This room is large. Larger than many of the previous ones I’ve used. There are two gray leather couches on the left side of the room with a coffee table between them. On the opposite side is a bank of plush black leather recliners. A producer is working behind the massive soundboard with headphones on, tapping things into the board’s touchscreen. He must hear us enter because he looks over his shoulder with a smile and a nod.
“How’s she doing?” Lyric asks. My eyes scroll up to the person in the booth behind the glass. A woman with dark brown—nearly black—hair wearing headphones of her own, is singing into a large microphone that’s obscuring the majority of her face. The only part of her that’s visible, other than her hair, is her closed eyes.
“Good,” the producer says. “Really good. She’s totally on point. Here, check it out.” He flips a switch and then the room fills with a voice that instantly gives me chills. It’s exquisite. Full, rich, powerful, and unbelievably sexy. It’s the sort of voice that makes you stop whatever you’re doing just to listen. The words or genre don’t even matter. She’s just that good.
And familiar.
I’ve heard her before somewhere I can’t place.
Lyric doesn’t say anything as the three of us stand here in silent awe, flanking the producer while this woman sings her heart out. It’s not even the lead on the song. She’s singing backup on some country ballad, but God, I can’t imagine a voice like that won’t overpower and steal the song.
After she finishes singing, she clears her throat and asks, “Do you need me to go again?” in a raspy voice.
The producer looks at Lyric over his shoulder before pressing a button on the soundboard. “That was beautiful, honey. I laid it down and I think it’s set. Can you come on out? You’ve got company.”
“Sure. Just give me a sec.”
I twist to face Lyric and Ethan, who are both grinning like deranged lions who were just let loose on a pack of Zebras. I see the thrill in their eyes. And after hearing this woman’s voice, I understand why. But I also see the nerves, the non-verbal conversations they’re having with each other, which gives me pause. They intimated more than once that she might not do it. The fact that a voice like that is singing backup and not solo tells me there’s a story here, and the last thing I need right now is someone else’s drama dropped in my lap.
But still…that voice.
“Hey, Lyric!” the woman exclaims, stepping out of the booth.
“Naomi!” Lyric returns equally as exuberant, suddenly all warm smiles. “You were killing it!”
The girl named Naomi laughs as she walks into the room to join us. She throws her arms around Lyric’s neck and then Ethan’s, standing on the balls of her feet to reach him. “I didn’t know I was going to see you two today. This is such a nice surprise.” She laughs lightly, warm and genuine, and even though I don’t want to like anything about this woman, I feel her laugh.
“I’m so happy we caught you before you finished up. I have someone I want you to meet.” Lyric steps back, and I’m suddenly face-to-face with the woman. “Naomi, I don’t know if you’ve met Gus Diamond from the band Wild Minds. Gus, this is Naomi Kent.”
My breath lodges in my throat as I stare into the most beautiful blue eyes I’ve ever seen. Brighter than firecrackers, they’re almost electric. Her coffee-colored hair is thick and glossy, curling just under her perfect tits. Her full pink lips turn up into a smile, and I realize I’ve seen her before. In person, yes, despite never being introduced, but that’s not why I recognize her.
I know her face—hell, everyone in the world does.
She’s been famous forever, but looking at her now, all I can think about is the last time I saw her. She is not only famous, she’s infamous.
What happened to her at the Grammys two years ago slingshots to the forefront of my mind, and I instantly frown despite my efforts not to.
Fuck. Naomi Kent. The Naomi Kent.
Roger Kent’s daughter. Amaya Kent’s daughter. Not only did she have her own insanely successful career, but her father was a famous singer/songwriter. He wrote songs and played with absolutely everyone who was anyone in the nineties and two thousands. Her mother was Amaya, a pop queen. She had a bunch of number one hits before she died, I forget how.
But that’s not what’s really sticking in my mind. This woman was Florian Heart’s fiancé. The one he publicly humiliated that night at the Grammys. I was there. Everyone was there. It’s all people talked about for months after.
Naomi Kent is an artist. A true one. Music royalty. Brilliant and capable and talented so far beyond me, we’re not even in the same stratosphere.
And beautiful. Damn, she is so beautiful.
No wonder Lyric and Ethan don’t think she’ll agree.
Before I can even make sense of what I’m doing, I take a step forward and reach out my hand, for no other reason than to touch her. “Hi,” I say, wondering if she can hear the wonder in my voice. The way my heart is suddenly beating off-rhythm. “We haven’t been formally introduced until now, but I definitely already know you.”