Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

SKYLAR

" O h, hell, no." I shut the curtain on the rain falling outside my window. The dingy third-floor apartment view having everything to do with the cloudy, gloomy skies and not the sparkling shine that had been on my windows before the storms came through a few hours ago. "Blind dates are not my thing. Especially music industry meetings disguised as pseudo-blind dates. Hell, dating isn't my thing."

I pictured Ainsley's eye-roll as if she stood in front of me, crystal clear and in full color. "Dating might not be your thing, but blind dates are a guaranteed avenue to write a damn song, Ainsley."

"No," I huffed as I spun around and faced the lonely, empty apartment I'd been renting for the better part of six months. "It's absolutely not. Heartbreak, rainfall when your heart is breaking, and drinking after a heartbreak are."

"Ains. Come on. Think of it as not a blind date then, and more of a hey, ‘ I listened to your demo and one of my bandmates caught you at the Bluebird' situation."

The couch creaked as I plopped down and threw my head back. "We both know the only reason half of these agents make these stupid ‘meetings' is to hookup. So, blind date. Definitely not a meeting if it's at a bar. Like, don't most people meet at an actual office for these things? Or, at least a recording studio."

Eye-roll number five thousand and three hit me virtually in the face as she sighed. "Not when it's Rhylan Morgan's people."

Fuck me. I should've known it had to be someone so high up the Nashville food chain for her to keep pestering me.

I blamed the lack of female artists and songwriters on the male-dominated hierarchy of this damn town. Unless you hooked up with one of the more well-known songwriters and co-wrote, getting anything played, let alone noticed, by radio was a no-go.

Two years ago, I'd been a twenty-two-year-old wide-eyed girl with a dream. Straight out of college and high on the damn nights I'd played at the local country bar and thought I had what it took.

And when Talon Records, one of the biggest labels in Music City, signed me to a developmental deal that included my skills as a songwriter, I'd been so sure I'd hit the big time. Starry-eyed and na?ve as hell.

One flop of an album later, I still had to fulfill my contract for songwriting.

For other people, to sing the words I wrote.

According to the execs at Talon Records, my voice wasn't marketable. But they loved my songwriting.

Until I'd gone viral. A performance two months ago that I'd done with just my guitar at one of dozens of local songwriter showcases along Music Row. Suddenly, the label took notice of my ‘talent'.

With a co-writer, of course.

But Rhylan Morgan? The biggest country star of the last decade and the man whose bandleader had been at the showcase had slipped me a card when I stepped off stage wasn't someone I'd ever imagined I'd ever cross paths with, even in my wildest dreams.

It was like shooting for the moon, finding another galaxy.

Out of my league. Not to mention fifteen years older than me, sexy as sin, and newly divorced. Rumor had it his wife, who was eight years younger than him, had cheated on him with the opening act he'd had before Jagger Sullivan stepped in.

Certainly felt like I was being checked out for a blind date, and not a collaboration.

For the millionth time, I wished I'd never signed that damn contract. Because Talon Records owned me, and the next twenty songs they decided I could record. Creative freedom out the window. Hell, they were even trying to dictate what clothes I wore, how I styled my hair, and the shade of damn lipstick I put on when I left the house.

All the dreams I had of singing my songs at the Opry were fading fast, becoming lost in the abyss.

I just had to find a way out of it all before I lost more than my damn soul to this town.

The rain outside continued to fall as I tried to figure out a way of the meeting that would no doubt turn out to be another failed attempt at some creepy hookup.

Twenty-four felt more like thirty-four the last year. Which was more than enough to write a few country songs over. The pile of journals sat in a neat stack, color-coordinated to match whatever mood the pages of lyrics fit. Unfinished, sometimes a line or two. Others, full on songs that gave Taylor Swift's infamously ten-minute ode, and fucking masterpiece, to shame. At least lengthwise.

At least she had experienced heartbreak. And love.

The only heartbreak I experienced was the one with a record label who didn't know what to do with me until I was a hot commodity. But, not hot enough to trust on my own, even though two of the songs I'd written had become top ten hits. For other artists.

Ainsley added, "I know, it sucks. But it's something. Just…go and see what he has to say."

My heart sank at the idea of yet another disappointing meeting, even if a glimmer of hope settled into my heart. "If I go, promise me you'll think about the song?"

Ainsley and I met at a coffee shop two years ago to the day. I arrived with stars in my eyes, and hope and dreams in my heart. And when she and I sat down one day over lattes and blueberry muffins, we discovered our mutual love of songwriting. Unfortunately, I had already signed with Talon, but Ainsley wrote and sometimes performed with her cousin, Jagger Sullivan, who just hit the number one spot on the country music charts. With a song they co-wrote.

And then Rhylan Morgan recorded one of their songs, catapulting their status even higher.

"For a city girl, you sure do have more sass than the damn goat my mama brought home last summer."

I rolled my eyes. "Oh please, you pretend you're such a country bumpkin, but I've seen your handbag collection, Ainsley. At least this Chicago girl knows her labels. And only your mama would name a damn goat Chanel."

She snorted. "Poor guy is so confused. She should've named him Versace or something. Coco Chanel, he's so not."

I laughed and remembered again why I loved her so much. I huffed out a breath. So what if not answering my phone and ignoring my voicemails was an avoidance tactic that failed me miserably because the label knew Ainsley and I were best friends?

"Listen, Jagger said the guy asked for the meeting himself. Called him and everything when you wouldn't answer your damn phone. Just give it a chance, ok?"

And her cousin also signed on to their label? Jagger had a penis, and they paid attention to him. In return, he made sure both she and Finn, the third party in their songwriting trio, written into his contract negotiations and not left out in the cold like I had been.

Must be nice , I thought, then cringed at for being so petty. "Fine. But I swear, if some creepy guy tries to grab anything that doesn't belong to him, I won't be responsible for my actions."

She snorted. "I pity anyone who tries to lay a hand on you without asking first. I've seen you throw an ax, remember?"

Oh, yes, I did . I snickered. "Bullseye, every time."

She laughed. "I kinda hope he hits on you just so you can tell me all about it in the morning."

Resigned to my fate, I sighed. "When does Rhylan's guy want to meet?"

"Tomorrow night. At Jagger's songwriting showcase. He's meeting with Jagger after, too. So, see? Not a date!"

"Fine."

She cackled. "At least you know the music will be good."