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Not Sam. Giselle’s ex, Sam.

Aside from one lackluster dinner date with Sam my first week on the job two years ago, I can’t think of a single other instance when we’ve spoken alone. The date had proven we were so incredibly ill matched for one another that we spent a solid twenty minutes talking about the weather just waiting for the bill to arrive. Ever since, we have both mutually skirted around each other. Keeping things professional. Giving the polite nod in greeting here and there, discussing in one group setting or another a contract when necessary, but never anything more.

After all, while he’s nice-looking enough, I never felt that spark for him.

He never really felt that spark for me.

We were just two single people of similar age, with reasonably similar interests, who thought it was worth a shot to see where that door led.

Which, for the record, was nowhere, unless you wanted to count it leading to a fractured relationship with the resentful, ex-girlfriend boss.

No, that date only opened to a cinderblock wall.

Right?

“Well . . . I’d better get . . . that . . . book,” he says, edging around me.

“Oh yes. Good plan,” I say, although in reality I have less than no clue as to what he’s referring to. I move out of his way, jutting my own thumb backward while trying not to trip on my heels. “I’d better get back downstairs too. For . . . dinner with Lyla . . .”

He nods fervently, as though he agrees this is absolutely riveting and essential information, and turns around. The second he is out of sight I stride down the hall.

Sam. Sam?

I can’t help but feel a wave of disappointment, although I don’t really understand why. So . . . so what if Sam is my mystery editor? That wouldn’t change anything. He’s . . . helping me with a project just as well. His points are valid. I’m finally able to work through my manuscript. This is a win-win here. I haven’t lost anything.

But if that’s so, why do I feel like something’s lost? The magic deflating slowly like an expired balloon?

It doesn’t matter, I tell myself firmly. And besides, it’s too early to tell.

Right. Because our lawyer Sam routinely has to go up to check out advance copies of books for his contracts.

Sure.

Again, not that it matters.

At all.

Chapter 11

Tablets and bars. They are a stellar combination.

I lower my new (blue-light, completely nonprescription) glasses over the bridge of my nose to give a critical look at Lyla onstage. It’s a bit challenging to see her here, though, all the way in the back behind the cluster of tall, bald men who look like they’ve all had too much to drink.

C’mon now, I want to say to the man one table over. This view is pathetic. Of all the spots in this bar, you pick this one?

The music is painfully loud, as is apparently the requirement for all places playing live music anywhere. But the room is at least on the classier end of the joints where Lyla normally has her gigs. Honestly, when we (I say “we” because Lyla, her husband, Garrett, and I are basically one unit in all things Lyla-let’s-get-you-to-become-a-country-star) got the call last Thursday that the Polar Star was inviting her to come play, we all about lost it.

I mean, this is a fair skip and jump from the greasy floorboards of O’Mainnin’s and Stateline.

This is the Polar Star.

The bouncers wear matching polos. The air smells like smoked brie and cigars. And most important, scouts attend regularly.

My phone starts ringing on my lap as Lyla starts her third song.

Game time.

I pick it up with the frazzled, busy attitude of one hating everything about this moment. “What?” I say into the receiver, loudly. “I’m busy.”