The annual charity event at Americana Land has been a staple on the philanthropy social calendar for over ten years. The funds go to a local hospital to help pay for uninsured children’s care so that their families aren’t wiped out during an already difficult time. I would never suggest anything that would compromise that. But before I can tell Ben that, Carson jumps in.

  “I’m aware,” Carson grits out, his frustration with his father’s reminder apparent. “This would actually be completed before the charity event and the concert series kick off. There’s no timing conflict, and that project has its own dedicated team, as it has since it began. Mike was already aware of the proposed dates of the new concert series, and since we’re consolidating to a single date, it actually makes things less congested on the calendar.”

  Tense silence stretches between the two men, and though I’m in the middle of this whole thing, I feel on the outside of whatever quiet conversation is happening in their posturing and mental games. This has been going on for a long time and won’t be solved in one conversation. Especially one had during a professional and personal crisis.

  “Done.” Ben Steen’s decision is as easy as that. One word.

  There’s still more to unravel here, but I can take that one step at a time. First, I need to fix the image issues, then I can help Carson figure out how to communicate with his dad. For now? The focus has to be on this massive undertaking of a project. I have faith that Carson and I can do it together. With his team, of course. And maybe then I can work on helping the two men find some common ground to settle their shit.

  CHAPTER 13

  CARSON

  “Los Angeles,” I note, looking out the window of the chartered private plane. “Or Van Nuys, technically, I guess.”

  Dad would never have approved anything other than flying business class, but after Jayme worked some of her negotiation magic with a local pilot for hire, we proved that it was actually more cost effective for us to fly out on a private plane this morning for our meeting with Jazmyn Starr and then fly back tonight. If we’d flown one of the major airlines, the next flight home would’ve required an overnight stay, and while I would’ve been more than okay with a night alone with Jayme, the hotels are expensive and booked solid for some convention plus an award ceremony that’s in town.

  “Same difference,” Jayme quips, glancing out her own window.

  She’s had her nose buried in her notebook since we left, not impressed with the sunrise from our vantage point or the view of the Hollywood Hills as we fly in. But it’s given me time to study her covertly.

  When she stepped out of her sleek black Lexus this morning, my eyes nearly popped out of my skull like one of those cartoon cats when they see a sexy kitten strutting by. Her white suit is pristine and fits her as though it were custom-tailored for her body, and the red high heels are the perfect touch of badass boss. I’d honestly developed an instant fantasy of joining the Mile High Club and writing our names in the sky, but Jayme was all business.

  After reviewing our strategy for this meeting, she retreated into her planning and plotting, and I logged onto my laptop to get some work done too. But still, I couldn’t help but glance over as she’d cross and uncross her legs, lick her lips as she read silently to herself, and do a giddy wiggle as she received an email from another social media artist hungry to participate in the festival.

  “Have you flown in here before?” I ask.

  “Huh?” Jayme says, her finger marking her place on the page. “Oh, yeah. Bunches of times. Anytime I’ve had to come to LA, this is where I fly in if I can. Van Nuys is better for private planes, but you can still get where you need to go with relative ease, or what constitutes as ease in LA.” She laughs at her own joke, but LA’s traffic is truly no laughing matter.

  “How long do you think it’ll take us to get to the record label’s office?”

  “Well, it’s roughly five miles away, so probably . . . an hour?”

  “Perfect,” I answer dryly, “so nothing crazy.”

  The plane touches down, and we roll to a smooth stop. The ding lets us know we can unbuckle and prepare to deplane. Before we get very far, the flight attendant comes out from her area near the cockpit. “Do you need anything for your ride? Coffee, water, a snack?”

  “No, thank you, Lisa,” Jayme tells the woman. “We appreciate the easy flight. See you this afternoon?”

  Her camaraderie with the woman is natural, much like with everyone. Jayme puts people at ease within moments of meeting them, Lisa included, and then works her magic.

  “Yes ma’am. Have a lovely day, Jayme . . . Mr. Steen.”

  See? Lisa is calling me by my last name, but she and Jayme could probably go out for drinks tonight and be besties before morning. She’s amazing that way, and I’m glad she’s with me for this meeting with Jazmyn Starr.

  Today has to go right. There’s no other option.

  I take the steps down first, offering Jayme a steadying hand, but she alights the stairs to the tarmac below as though she’s floating, not balancing in precariously sexy heels. Damn . . . those heels!

  We climb into a waiting Mercedes, and the driver begins expertly navigating through the airport traffic.

  “Let me send a text to Steve confirming our arrival,” Jayme says, clicking on her phone.

  Steve Capetti is Jazmyn Starr’s manager, and a surprisingly slick one considering Jazmyn is still relatively new to the scene. But her star is rising fast, and Steve is a big part of why that’s happening. It was a process just to get his personal cell number, and now Jayme is texting him as though it’s no big deal.

  This festival is going to happen. We’re going to make it happen, and Americana Land will be not just recovered from the bad press but the feature of tons of good publicity. All at my hand, with Jayme’s guidance. For once, I’ll be the best I can be.

  I think it over and over, letting it become a mantra, never considering that anything but this will be true.

  “Shit!” Jayme hisses.

  “What’s wrong?” My fight or flight instinct flips on instantly, and I’m ready to fight . . . for the festival, for Americana Land, for myself.

  “Steve says Jazmyn is hungry. She wants to meet at a restaurant instead of his office.” Jayme looks thoughtful, her fingers poised to respond but not until she considers every angle.

  “What do you think? It feels spontaneous, but I’d bet it’s not,” I suggest.

  Jayme looks up at me, smiling. “Oh, it’s a total power play. But I think it’ll actually work in our favor. A fun mimosa-filled brunch instead of a dry office meeting? Done. Plus, I think we might be able to get some fake-sneaky shots and plant some gossip about ‘why is upcoming sensation Jazmyn Starr meeting with Americana Land’s bad boy?’ That would get some buzz started before we even promote the festival.”

  “Impressive.”

  She preens at the compliment dramatically, slipping her hair behind her ear. “I know.”

  I wait while she types out a response to Steve and then clarify, “I thought we wanted to show me as a good guy?”

  Jayme throws me a sassy wink. “We do, but people love a bad boy too. It’s all about the nuances.” She frowns at her phone. “Uhm, excuse me, Carlo?” The driver looks up into the rearview mirror. “Change of plans. Can you take us to . . . Green Goddess? It’s on Victory Boulevard.”

  Carlo nods in answer, then carefully types on the large screen on the dash. “About a twenty-five minute ETA.”

  Jayme types on her phone once more and then sets it down to give me her full attention. “Do we need to go over things again?”

  We don’t. We’ve talked about this meeting, the contract we had legal prepare, Jazmyn Starr herself, and dissected the whole thing from every angle. Still, I’m nervous. Or excited. Or both?

  I’ve got a lot riding on this—my reputation, my team, Americana Land, and maybe most of all, my relationship with my dad. If I can pull this off, I’ll be proud of myself, and surely, he’ll see how far I’m willing to go for our name and legacy. If it implodes, I don’t know if I’ll recover from it. This failure would be a hundred times worse than the Abby Burks incident.

  But I answer, “Yes, let’s do it one more time.”

  We roll through everything in Jayme’s notebook once more, and before I know it, Carlo is stopping the car at the curb in front of a building with so many windows that it looks like a greenhouse. Vines drape across the front, ivy climbs the sides, there are plants shoved into every nook and cranny of various brass plant stands, and there’s a huge stone statue of a nude woman by an arched wooden door.

  “Green Goddess,” Carlo proclaims needlessly.

  I open my door, offering Jayme a helping hand to exit the car. “Are we eating brunch or planting a garden?” I question quietly where only she can hear me.

  “Both?”

  “Just don’t check the types of greenery too carefully. I don’t think those are all garden-variety ferns.”

  Jayme chuckles, and her heels click-clack on the brick sidewalk as we make our way to the door. “We’ve got this, Carson. I promised you and I meant it.”

  Her quick vow as I open the door and we step inside means more than she’ll ever know.

  At the hostess stand, we’re greeted by a young woman with thick blonde dreadlocks interwoven with metallic beads, huge round-framed glasses, and oversized linen overalls. She presses her hands together in a prayer motion and bows her head. “Welcome. Thank you for including us on your journey today.”

  Uh, what? I suddenly feel like Alice entering Wonderland. I was kidding, but maybe there is something ‘special’ in the greenery planted outside.

  “Hi, we are meeting Steve Capetti here. I’m not sure if he’s arrived yet?” I look past the hostess to scan the restaurant, but there are so many plants, I can’t see much.

  “Right this way.” The hostess takes a few steps deeper into the forest of greenery and I realize she’s barefoot beneath her linen overalls.

  “Is that legal?” I whisper to Jayme. “Seems like it’d be a health violation.”

  She shrugs. “It’s LA.”

  I know she’s right, but I prefer Jayme’s sexy heels to dirty, naked feet.

  At the table, Steve and Jazmyn have their heads bent together in deep conversation, but they part and smile warmly as we approach. Well, Steve does. Jazmyn gives me an up and down and then does the same to Jayme. She’s plainly sizing us up. Steve is too, but he’s more discrete about it.

  I do the same, getting to know who and what I’m up against for today’s meeting. Surprisingly, Jazmyn Starr looks exactly like her filtered photos and TikToks. She’s wearing bold, smokey eye makeup with a thick streak of lime green eyeliner that matches the shoestrings laced through the holes along the sleeves of her black and white striped shirt. There’s also a gathering of lime and gold safety pins in her left ear and a stack of rings on every finger. Except . . . I think the constellation of dots around her eyes are tattoos, not makeup as I’d thought.

  Though I’ve never seen Steve, he’s exactly what I expected—a pro. Dressed in what can best be called California executive, he’s got on designer jeans, an open-throated dress shirt, and a sport coat that I can tell is deceptively casual. It looks off the rack . . . but probably costs more than some people’s monthly rent.

  He likely found Jazmyn online and, seeing talent, hitched his wagon to her star. I imagine talent managers, like department managers, are sometimes excellent and sometimes useless. I hope Steve is as quality as his thousand-dollar sunglasses.

  “Jayme! Carson! Nice to finally meet you in person,” Steve greets us, standing to offer his hand. Jazmyn doesn’t move, simply staring at us straight-faced. She looks bored already. On one hand, maybe she’s already made up her mind about the concert and wants to sign and be done. On the other hand, maybe she wants to be anywhere but here. At home, the beach, or maybe Dunkin Donuts?

  Jayme shakes Steve’s hand, then offers hers to Jazmyn. After a long beat where I consider that she might not follow through, Jazmyn does finally shake Jayme’s hand. I take the cue and shake both their hands as well.

  Sitting down, a waiter appears. His curls are standing up wildly, and his slouchy jeans and band T-shirt look vintage or at least well-worn, possibly slept in, but he’s thankfully wearing shoes. I’d estimate his most recent shower at four days ago. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  “Water for now, please,” I answer.

  “Spring, sparkling, or electrolyte?”

  I must make a face of surprise because Jazmyn barks out a laugh, but I manage to answer, “Spring is fine. Unless you’ve got a bourbon?”

  Jayme knocks my knee with hers under the table, but I see interest blooming in Jazmyn’s eyes. I’m not opposed to a bit of self-deprecation if it gets us what we want—Jazmyn signing on the dotted line.

  “Would’ve thought they’d serve water from the hose in a plant-heavy place like this,” I joke, and Jazmyn smiles vacantly. Is she on something, perhaps? If so, what, and should I be concerned about it?

  “Can you imagine?” Jazmyn intones. “Tap water? Gross. I’d rather drink piss straight from a stranger.”

  I can tell she’s waiting for a reaction, testing us, so I fake a shiver of disgust at the very thought. And I must pass her test because the mood at the table becomes much more comfortable.

  Score one for me. But LA is a strange place.

  “Steve says you want me to perform at Americana Land.” It’s a flat statement, no excitement or interest, which is especially concerning considering this is supposed to be an easy meet-and-sign deal. If anything, the money alone would make all but the most jaded performers sit up and take notice, and Jazmyn is too young and too new to be that careless about the bankroll we’re offering. “That’s where Abby Burks was assaulted.”

  Jayme stiffens beside me.

  “No,” I growl. Jayme places a light touch to my hand on the tabletop, not intimate but it’s enough to stop the rage bubbling up at Jazmyn’s accusation. “I mean, yes, we want you to perform. No, Abby Burks was not assaulted.”

  “That’s not what she said.”

  Jazmyn’s digging for a story, but I don’t have one to give her. I’ve said my piece and am moving on with Jayme’s help. That’s what we’re here for. So I give the barest-bones, detail-free, calmly practiced answer. “Ms. Burks created a scene where it looked as though she was shoplifting and then was intentionally unhelpful in getting the confusion straightened out. Including resisting being escorted to a more private space by our onsite security guards.”

  “So she was asking for it?” Jazmyn follows up with a taunting smirk of her black-painted lips.

  “Of course not,” I snap. “Not in the way you mean. I would never, and my staff would never, behave in an objectionable manner like that.”

  Jazmyn flashes a ‘gotcha’ smile. “Touchy.”

  Fuck. I walked right into that one. But those unfounded accusations have been hard to hear, and defending myself and my team is my first instinct. Especially when I know we didn’t do anything wrong.

  In a stern voice, Steve says, “Jazmyn, could we not?”

  She rolls her eyes before schooling her face back to blank disinterest. “Whatever.”

  Great, things are going just great.

  Jayme clears her throat then plasters a bright smile on her face. “Why don’t we order some food and then discuss the exciting plans we have?”

  As if summoned, the waiter reappears. “Our special today is oat grain hoecakes with goat milk crème fraise, kale salad with homegrown bean sprouts, feta, and a raspberry vinaigrette, and chef-designed quiche. Served with fresh-squeezed orange juice mimosas.” He cuts his eyes around the table. “Or I can get you a menu?”

  I get the sense that no one takes that option but rather orders the special regardless of what it contains. I glance at Jayme, then Steve and Jazmyn, and seeing no arguments, I say, “Four specials would be great. Thank you.”

  And on the way out of here, I’m getting some real food. There’s got to be a decent taco truck somewhere between here and the airport.

  “Great, shall we get to it, then?” Steve suggests as the waiter slips away. “We’ve had our lawyer review the contract, and everything seems to be in order, but I understand there are some updates?”

  I nod confidently. “Yes, some exciting ones. During our initial conversations, we were aiming to present a series of concerts, topped off with a Jazmyn Starr special.” I offer her a smile, hoping to intrigue her with this next bit. “But I think we’ve come up with something much better.”

  “Better than a Jazmyn Starr concert?” Jazmyn says doubtfully, examining her nails. “Good luck with that.”

  For a newly signed artist whose primary audience is through Spotify and YouTube, she’s beyond confident. I hope her show stands up to that confidence.

  “How about a one-day, jam-packed festival of music from a list of up-and-coming artists? We’ve already got quite a few on board, but we need our headliner act.” I expect that to be a dangling carrot Jazmyn can’t resist. I mean, isn’t that the point . . . all teens and young adults are into this festival set-up? Instead, her eyes narrow.

  “Like who? I’m not playing with just anyone. I’m very selective.” She almost purrs the word but somehow makes it sound like a threat at the same time.

  Meow. Retract those claws, kitten!

  “Of course not,” Jayme rushes in. “But we’ve done our homework. We’ve already talked to Marquis, Alien Babies, DJ Swizzle, Saint Sabotino, and best of all . . . DJ Amalfo.”

  Jazmyn leans forward, her hands slapping on the table. “Amalfie is going to be there? Why didn’t you say so?”

  “The festival is only one day,” I continue. “If you wanted to visit Americana Land as a VIP guest the day after, I could arrange a tour. Walk onto rides, all the food treats you want, front row seats for the parade.”

  I’m selling the Americana Land experience as best I can, but what I’m really thinking about is squeezing as much good PR as I can get out of this particular stone. Unfortunately, it seems that Jazmyn is still not quite on board as she twists her lips and rolls her eyes.