You'd Be Mine(3)

“The past few years, school. She wanted to finish high school in one place.”

I nod. I was the same way, but the label wore me down my senior year. It helped that my brother died. I had no reason to stay home.

“More recently, it seems psychological. She’s wary of the industry after her parents.”

I shrug back into my seat, passing the phone to Fitz. “Not much I can do about that. I don’t blame her.”

Fitz presses the screen of his phone, turning off the voices and putting it in his shirt pocket. “Which is why you might be the best person to talk to her. You’re currently in the industry.”

“Yeah, but it’s different. Singing was an escape for me, my ticket out.”

Fitz shakes his shaggy head. “Maybe so, but you can see it, can’t you? You recognize her passion? Because I sure as hell can, and I have maybe half as much as you and that girl. She’s a performer. It’s written all over her face.” He sits back and re-crosses his knee over his leg. “Go up there and get her.”

Chuck clears his throat. “You forget. We’re not asking. We’re telling you. Either you tour with Annie Mathers or you don’t tour at all. I’m willing to take the loss on your contract. We have plenty of eager young talent ready to fill your spot.”

I narrow my eyes as Fitz tenses next to me. I still him with a hand. The thing is, I don’t think that’s the complete truth, but I’m not willing to risk it. If that means I have to go to Michigan to convince a girl to tour with me, so be it.

“When do I leave?”





2



Annie


may

michigan

The first time I saw Clay Coolidge, I was fifteen. It was at a summertime music festival in Chicago. There was a Young Stars competition that was little more than a gathering of braces-faced kids from farm towns who came up together in their church choirs. He hadn’t become Clay yet. He was singing under the name Jefferson Clay Coolidge. A girl doesn’t forget a name like that. It sounds like something out of a vampire book or some Civil War–era hero. On a beautiful sixteen-year-old boy from Indiana, it translated into a honey accent and swooping hair, imprinting on every teenage girl in the audience.

I haven’t seen him since, until today.

Now he’s sitting at my kitchen table. His eyes are as dark and lovely as ever. His sandy hair is wavy across his forehead, and his long legs are stretched out and crossed at the ankles. My cousin, Kacey, is sitting across from him, sighing. My seventy-year-old gran is bustling around in her frilliest apron making hand-squeezed lemonade of all things.

Let the record show, the Rosewood ladies have no chill.

“Gran,” I start, trying to keep the exasperation out of my voice, “I think Clay would be just fine with concentrate.”

To his credit, Clay straightens. “Oh yeah. For sure. In fact, Mrs. Rosewood, I’m great with water. No need to fuss.”

My gran waves a dripping hand near her ear, ignoring us. Kacey shifts in her seat, flicks her dark hair over one shoulder, but it falls flat since she cut it to a bob over the weekend. She sighs again, her eyes not moving from Clay’s handsome features.

He squirms, and part of me glories in his discomfort. Kacey is a lot when you first meet her. My gran starts muttering about someone not refilling the trays in the freezer, and I decide to throw the guy a bone. “Hey, um, Clay? Let’s take a walk and discuss whatever it is you came all the way out here to discuss.”

Clay scoots back his chair with a loud scrape and is up before the words have half a chance to settle. I shoot Kacey a look and speak slowly. “Why don’t you go fetch Jason? I sent him a text, but you know his phone is on silent. Probably up all night on his PS4 again.”

She makes a petulant grab for her keys. “I’m not his momma,” she says.

I push through the screen door without responding. “We’ll be back, Gran.” I lead Clay down a mown path that winds to the back acres that will be hayfields come harvesttime. My grandpa hasn’t farmed in years, but he rents out the land to a few different neighbors. Right now, it looks like the Logan boys are planting.

Once we’re out of earshot, I turn to Clay, still a little in awe that he’s here. “So, they’re really pulling out the big guns if they’ve flown you out to the middle of nowhere.”

He doesn’t deny it. “Does that surprise you? Even if you sucked, your name alone would guarantee butts in the seats.”

I snort, despite myself. “Classy.”

He shrugs, and somehow, it’s charming rather than indifferent. “I only mean you had to know it was coming. You released the clips, after all. Label’s probably had someone on the lookout for you since birth.”

“Yeah, well. I don’t much care for the inside track. I can make my own way, thanks.”

Clay nods, reaching down to pick up a large stone and tossing it under the tree a few yards away. It’s a telling move. One showing a familiarity with farm life. Stones can wreak havoc on expensive equipment.

“You’re a conundrum, Annie Mathers. A natural artist, clearly talented, with a name that would open any door and an offer that’s likely the best you could hope for. Why’re you playing coy?”

“You just said it. My name,” I say. I reach down and pluck at one of the billions of yellow dandelions dotting the grass. “They want Cora Rosewood 2.0.” I roll the stem between my fingers before meeting Clay’s penetrating gaze. “Did you know the Late Night duet with my mom was the most-viewed episode of all time? I was six. I thought Willie Nelson was my actual grandpa until I was ten. I knew the words to ‘Coal Miner’s Daughter’ before I learned my alphabet. My freaking birth announcement was on the cover of People magazine’s country music issue.”