“All right,” he drawls. Someone gets his attention on the opposite end of the counter. “Let me know if you need anything.”
“I’ll take a monitor engineer, if you have one of those handy.”
He stills. His hand tightens around a glass for half a second before he gestures for another bartender to cover him. Then he turns back to me, amber eyes sharp.
“What would you need a monitor engineer for?” His voice is steady, but something thrums beneath it.
I let the moment stretch, watching the curiosity creep in, watching him almost take a step closer, like he’s toeing the edge of something dangerous.
“I’m a musician,” I say. “My tour starts this week.”
Something flickers in his gaze. Then it’s gone. “I was packing upyourconcert over the summer.”
“That’s right.”
“You’re Lou …” His brow furrows.
“Williams. But I perform as Lucy Jane.”
“Ah.” His eyes rove over my face, not in a “shoot, this girl’s hot” kind of way, but rather a “there’s something familiar about her” kind of way. And I can see the moment it clicks. “You’re Winona Williams’ daughter.”
“Guilty,” I say, acting as though it doesn’t bother me, like I’m not already tired of how often I’m going to have this conversation in the coming months and years.
He doesn’t blink, though. Doesn’t react at all. I don’t know what I expected when he made the connection, but it’s not this, this … utter disregard. Frustration builds in me, though I don’t know why. We don’t know each other. I don’t need to impress him.
Yet, somehow I hear myself add, “But no one knew I was her daughter until after I got my record deal. Including the label. I earned it.”
“Good for you.” He says it without a hint of sarcasm. Flat, yes, but not cruel. Just quiet. Like he’s not sure what to do with the information—or with me. For a second, something flickers behind his eyes, gone before I can name it. “Well, good luck with the tour.”
That’s it? No double take? No curiosity? I should be relieved—but instead, my jaw tenses. “Ash told me bands come through fairly often. Ever run sound for ‘em?”
He takes someone else’s order, and, with the patience of a cat watching a mouse, I wait for him to get a glass, pour, and take payment.
“Your music … it ain’t my scene,” he finally admits.
I swallow. I bet he was a huge fan of my momma’s. A purist. Not someone who likes the blend of pop-folk-indie I bring to the country scene.
But because I’m me, I push him anyway. Maybe it’s because I’m desperate. Maybe it’s because he’s the only person who doesn’t seem dazzled by the name “Lucy Jane.”
Or maybe it’s just habit—prove myself, win the challenge, move on.
“Well, that’s too bad,” I say, clicking my tongue. “Because I hear you’re quite the music fan, and I’m performing at Hot Strings Hall with Connor Nash in three months.”
Patty goes still.
Not just still—frozen. It’s like someone pressed pause on him mid-breath.
Then, just as quickly, he exhales and turns away. “You a big fan of Nash?”
“Huge fan,” I say. “Duncan and Nash was the band that made me want to make my dreams a reality.”
“But let me guess,” he says, not quite scoffing, but definitely not smiling. “Nash’s first solo album is the one that sold you on his genius.”
“It’s my favorite album of all time,” I admit. “But don’t tell my momma.”
Another beat of silence. Another long pause. He’s looking at me like he’s searching for something in my expression, something I don’t even know I’m giving away. Then he nods. “When do you need an answer?”
My heart kicks up a notch. “Wait, do you actually have sound experience?”
