“Will that work?”
He nodded. “Thank you. Can I take you out for a drink tonight? No business, just get to know you?”
Clara pulled her phone out of her back pocket. “Thanks, but I have one guilty pleasure and it’s on TV tonight.”
A bead of sweat rolled down the back of his neck. He forced a smile. “What might that be?”
“Reality TV at its worse. Ever heard of Nashville Ex-wives Club?”
He knew the blood had just drained out of his head. Damn if he fainted this would be over.
“I’ve heard of it.”
“Never miss a one. That Little woman is such trash she makes me laugh. But I’ll see you tomorrow. Ten.”
He only nodded as Clara left the theater.
Well, this was over. Once Clara found out about his connection with Patricia Little, she too would exit stage left.
Warner left the theater just in time to see a tow truck drive away with his pickup.
It was official—Nashville hated him.
Chapter Two
Warner had been in the Riverside Building numerous times. When one was a courier, every building in downtown was familiar. Those days seemed much easier now as he walked through revolving doors.
He knew it was hot, but he was sweating more than normal. It was stupid. He’d sat in front of music execs that could make or break him. So why did this woman, whom he didn’t know, make him so nervous?
A glance at his watch and he realized it was ten o’clock straight up. He’d hoped to have been there a few minutes early, but then again, that wouldn’t be his style. He was just lucky he wasn’t late.
Clara was already there seated by the front bank of windows. There was an iced coffee drink in front of her and she was looking at her iPhone.
When he approached the table she looked up at him and gave him a grin. It wasn’t a smile—it was a grin and that did something funny to his stomach.
“Mornin’,” she drawled out.
“Mornin’.”
“I got here early with my brother, so I already have had two coffees. Hope you don’t mind I started without you.”
He shook his head. “No, that’s fine. I don’t drink coffee. Your brother works in the building?”
She sat back in her seat and the grin turned into a smile. He was humoring her with his sporadic talking in circles.
“He works in a corner office upstairs.”
“Corner office?” He sat his bag on an empty chair. “He must be important.”
Clara shrugged. “I suppose. So what did you want to show me?”
That was more like it. Get down to business and stop trying to make small talk. So far she hadn’t said anything about his picture prominently displayed on the mantel of Patricia Little’s home during last night’s episode of that trashy show, so maybe she hadn’t noticed, or maybe she’d missed it. Could he be so lucky? After all, he’d caught it and it hadn’t helped that Patricia mentioned him by name and called him untalented.
Warner pulled out the chair and sat down. It wasn’t but a split second later he realized he still had his sling bag over him and it was choking him. He tried to finesse his way from under the strap and pull it over his head, but the strap caught his sunglasses, which were now stuck in his hair.
There was the great possibility that he was going to hang himself before he got to show her any of his work. This was so stupid.
He managed the bag over his head and he was sure he heard his glasses crack. The bag fell to the floor with a grand thud. There were probably a few cracked CDs in there now. Great!
Warner reached for his sunglasses and tried to pull them from his hair without leaving a huge hole from the number of strands he could feel himself pull out.
Finally, he was free of his captor and the torture device—his sunglasses—which looked only slightly bent out of shape.
Now he had to make eye contact with this beautiful woman across from him and hope she wasn’t laughing.
Her gaze was out the window. She hadn’t seen him at all.
Thank God!
She turned her head back toward him. “So, show me your work.”
“Right.” He tucked the bent glasses into the front of his shirt and reached for his bag. He unzipped it carefully, hoping the contents wouldn’t spill out all over the floor, as that seemed to be how things in his life were going.
The sheets of music he’d brought with him had taken the form of the folder, which had curled up in the bag. Well, it was just paper.
He slid them across the table to her.
Clara picked them up as she tucked her leg under her. She liked things casual, this came across loud and clear. There was no diva mentality built into her. She was very comfortable in her skin and he wished he was equally as comfortable in his.
She tapped her fingers on the table as she looked over the music. It was playing in her head, he knew what that looked like. No one had to tell him she was musically inclined. It radiated from her like the confidence she exuded.
Her lips twitched as she read, as if she were singing the song. The mangled CDs might be worthless—she didn’t need them.
Clara flipped to the next page and went through the same motions, but then she tilted her head as if something didn’t make sense. But she kept going, her head bobbing to the beat she obviously heard in her head.
Warner had his hands clasped tightly under the table as he watched her. It had been almost five minutes and she hadn’t said a word.
Again she flipped to the next song and this time she smiled.
“Someone jade you? This one screams revenge.”
He gritted his teeth. “Ex-stepmother. She’s wicked.”
The smile on her lips grew and then she bit down on her lip and nodded. “These are amazing,” she said as she lay down the papers.
“You really think so?”
“Yeah. The melodies are great. The music is fluid. I like them.”
“Will you record them—for demo?”
Clara tilted her head and gave him a long look of consideration. Then she picked up her drink and took a small sip before setting it back down. “You really haven’t heard me perform.”
“I listened to your entire rehearsal.”
“That is totally different.” She picked up the music again and sorted through it. She pulled out one piece and looked it over before laying it atop the rest. “I like this one the best.”