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Chapter 1
Dani
I’m pacing my apartment, wondering for the third day in a row what to do with myself and frustrated that I can’t go into work. Usually, my nights are spent at the high-end boxing club where I work as a ring girl and a waitress. Though, I must admit, I’m not a very good waitress. I have to be extra charming so customers don’t notice my innate clumsiness. But one of the bartenders, Billy, sent me a text telling me not to come in for a few days. Apparently, there was a mix up with the schedule, and they have too many people. The club manager, Carla, decided to divvy up the shifts according to seniority, and since I haven’t been there very long, I didn’t get as many hours. I’m especially disappointed that I don’t get to work tonight during the high roller event. Those are the nights I make the most tips. I almost texted Carla to beg for more hours, but if she told Billy to text me about my schedule instead of calling me herself, that must mean she’s really busy. The last thing I want to do is get on her nerves.
Normally, I’d try to book a singing gig during my time off, but I didn’t have enough advanced noticed of this impromptu free time, so I didn’t have a chance to schedule anything. I’m trying not to panic about the lost income, but each day that passes has me more and more worried. After tomorrow, if Billy tells me not to come in again, I’m definitely calling Carla. I need to know if I should start looking for another job. I really like this one, though, so I hope I won’t have to. Being a ring girl is easy, and it’s given me some much-needed practice in the art of stage presence. I hope to one day become a famous singer, so I need to be comfortable in front of a large crowd. The singing gigs I get at local bars just don’t compare to the crowds of spectators drawn by the fights at the club.
My phone rings, and I walk quickly to my bedroom to grab it off my nightstand, hoping it’s Carla telling me to come in after all.
Nope, it’s just my twin sister Ella.
“What?” I ask a little rudely, letting my frustration over my job leak into my voice. I immediately feel guilty for snapping at her; my situation isn’t her fault.
“My boss is the worst,” she whines. I feel a pinch in my chest at her defeated tone, and I feel guilty all over again for being so gruff with her. Ella is one of the hardest working people I know. Somehow, she manages to balance a full-time job working with a music industry titan and taking classes at night to earn a degree in restaurant management. I don’t know how she finds the time. She’s complained about her boss before, often referring to him as an emotionless android or a sentient block of ice. I might be jealous that she gets to work in the industry I love, but I do not envy her working for a man like that.
She explains how she desperately needs time to study, and I suggest that she call in sick to get a day off. But Ella’s already done that, and she’s afraid she’ll get fired if she pulls that trick again. Then, she asks me to do a switch, which is both ridiculous and intriguing. I don’t think we’ve tried that since high school when I’d asked her to break up with my boyfriend for me when I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Ella had traded places with me, and I’d always wondered what she’d said to him since he’d never looked me in the eye again after that. She never gave me a straight answer when I’d asked her about it.
When she tells me I can have her pay for those days, I’m almost convinced to agree. Ella makes a lot more money than I do, mostly because her job requires a high level of organization and attention to detail, whereas mine mostly requires that I show up on time and look good in a bikini. I still struggle with that first part, but I know I’ve got the second part down.
When I don’t immediately agree, Ella throws in a clencher. “You’ll be able to use the recording studio after everyone leaves,” she says.
The recording studio. I’ve never been in a real studio before, despite the number of times I’ve begged Ella to let me visit her at work. It would be a dream come true for me to be able to record a demo on quality equipment. And I’m certain that Bronson Records, where Ella works, has the best equipment money can buy.
“I’ll shower and head there now,” I tell her.
“No, come here first,” Ella says. “I have some work here I need to give you. Hurry. Leave now, so you won’t be late. You can wear one of my outfits.”
“What’s wrong with my clothes?” I ask teasingly. I’m well aware that nothing in my wardrobe is appropriate for a corporate office. “Don’t worry,” I assure her as I throw some pajamas and my toiletry kit in a bag and head for the door, “I’m already heading toward the subway.”
“No, there’s no time. Get a taxi, I’ll pay for it,” she says urgently.
“Wow, you must really be desperate for time off,” I reply.
“You have no idea,” Ella mutters, which makes me frown.
Just how much stress is she under? Ella definitely has some workaholic tendencies, something I suspect she got from our father. After this phone call, I’m even more worried that she’s running herself into the ground. I’ll work for her the next few days while I’m off from the club, but then, she and I are going to have a serious talk about how thin she’s stretching herself. I won’t stand for anyone hurting my twin, even herself.
By the time I get to Ella’s apartment, she’s already chosen an outfit for me. She rushes me to change, then herds me right back out the door after demanding we trade phones for the day. Apparently, her boss likes to text her, rather than actually have a conversation. I roll my eyes, but Ella says it’s a good thing that he never looks at her too closely, it will make pulling this switch even easier.
So, dressed in a snug pencil skirt and boring, beige blouse. I walk to Ella’s office. It isn’t far, and with New York traffic, walking will be quicker than getting a taxi, even in the demure heels Ella gave me to wear. They have nothing on the sky-high stiletto sandals I wear at the club, so they’re nothing I can’t handle. I’m surprised when I reach the building that looks just like every other building on this block. It’s tall and modern, and I’m a little disappointed. I’ve always thought of the music industry as flashy and sexy. But this building screams utilitarian.
The vibe is completely different when I walk through the doors though, and I gasp in delighted surprise when I take in the lobby. It’s decorated in a modern aesthetic with funky chandeliers, white couches forming a small seating area, and a large, shiny black reception desk with a marble counter. Repeating Ella’s instructions to myself, I bypass the reception desk, giving the woman sitting there a small smile. Taking the elevators to the top floor, I find Tate Bronson’s office, stopping to admire all the gold and platinum records lining the halls, along with the posters of all the stars who are signed with his label. I feel a hint of envy, but mostly I’m just excited to be there, soaking up the ambience. Maybe I’ll get to rub elbows with some of my favorite artists before the next few days are up.
I go into Tate’s office without knocking, because apparently, knocking wastes time. True to Ella’s word, he doesn’t even glance up at me, which is a shame because even with his head bent over his computer, I can see he’s gorgeous. And exactly my type of gorgeous with wavy, almost-too-long, dark blonde hair, sexy scruff covering a strong, sharp jaw, broad shoulders that his tailored suit jacket can’t begin to hide, and his hands…I get weak in the knees and feel an unexpected throb between my legs as I look at them. The sleeves of his crisp white shirt are rolled to his elbows, and long, tan fingers with short nails fly over his keyboard. Forcing myself to look anywhere else, lest he catch me ogling him—something I’m sure Ella has never done—I look around his office. There’s a selection of guitars hanging on the walls, another that’s old and beat up is on a stand next to the couch. That’s the one he plays, I think to myself with a smile. I wonder if he uses a pick or if his fingers are callused from strumming it. I wonder what those fingers would feel like stroking my skin.
Shaking those thoughts from my head, I realize he’s been giving me instructions the whole time I’ve been daydreaming about him. Damn it, I’m supposed to be Ella, who can’t stand this guy. I really don’t want to ask him to repeat himself and risk his wrath, so using all my brain power, I manage to figure out that he told me to get the filing done that he left on my desk. Then, I think there was something about a meeting, but I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do about it. I’m sure I can find it on Ella’s day planner. She records everything. Mr. Bronson stops talking abruptly, and I realize I’ve been dismissed. I pull the paperwork that Ella gave me out of my bag and walk over to place it on his desk.
If only he’d look up, so I can see his eyes. Are they intense or dreamy? Or both? I’m betting they’re a sweet, chocolate brown. As I place the papers next to his computer, he stops typing for a beat, then continues as if nothing happened.
But as I move to walk away, he demands, “What do you think you are doing?”
Startled, I stammer, “Um, I-I finished the paperwork you wanted last night. So, I’m giving it to you.”
“Why would you do that? What am I going to do with them? You know these need to be mailed out immediately. Why haven’t you done that already?”
The entire time he speaks, he doesn’t look away from his computer or stop typing. This guy must actually be a robot. No one can multitask like that. I walk back to his desk and pick up the stack of papers. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking, I’ll get these sent out right away, sir.”
His fingers stutter over his keys for a moment, and I wonder if I said something wrong. But he doesn’t say anything else, just grunts and continues typing. I assume that means I’ve been dismissed, so I walk out of his office with the papers in hand. As I go, I look down at what I’m holding for the first time and realize it’s a stack of rejection letters ready to be mailed out to hopeful musicians. I’ve received plenty of these letters over the years, and I hum in sympathy and commiseration, hugging the letters to my chest, as if it’ll somehow soften the blow when their recipients read them.
