“Would you sing someone else’s songs?”
She smiled sadly. “Then I wouldn’t be June Bee. My fans love my lyrics as much as my voice.”
Funny. I hated her lyrics. Each verse was like a paper cut to my soul. She was a songbird, though, and I’d never tire of her voice.
She rose and took her plate to the sink. Goddamn, her ass looked good in those jeans. “I’m also worried about the quality. I don’t want to go on tour with duds, but if the album’s delayed, the tour will be delayed and then it might just go away.” She stared out the window above the sink for a few moments. “These kinds ofthings can be so dependent on popularity and perception. I have to strike while the iron is hot.”
“You’ll knock it out of the park, June Bug. You always do.”
She smiled over her shoulder. Longing slammed into my chest and stole my breath. What would it be like to see her like this every day? To wake up to her half-naked in my hallway like last week? To talk to her when the girls were preoccupied?
It’d be heaven. I’d always known that. Just like I’d always known her needs came before mine. And that was why, in two months, I would walk her to the door and make sure she left town.
CHAPTER SEVEN
June
I leaned over Wynter’s shoulder. She was clicking through the mock-ups she’d made for the Christmas campaign. My smiling face shone back at me from several snapshots. Me with a stocking hat and a glass in my hand. Me holding a frosted metal cup with a mound of whipped cream overflowing the top, a candy cane in my other hand as I laughed. Me in a snug red velvet dress Wynter had worn last year to the Christmas party for Myles’s distillery in Denver.
The smiles were real. My second-oldest brother, Teller, liked to make smart-ass comments while I was modeling to keep me real—his words, not mine.
The image that kept drawing my eye didn’t include a smile. A simple stemmed glass with a candied cherry at the bottom was on the floor. Inside the glass, bourbon was mixed with sparkling apple cider and a dash of cinnamon. It was a lovely and fresh cocktail, but I hadset it down to play “What Child Is This.” A slow, mellow song that often helped me escape the fast-paced bustle of the holiday season.
Christmas lights were blurred behind me. I wasn’t wearing a Santa hat or the red dress. I had on a long-sleeved cream shirt and jeans with my favorite cowboy boots, and I was sitting on a stool. My expression was distant. I wasn’t looking at my guitar or at anyone else. I had let the music calm the frenzy of the photo shoot, which was one of the tamest of the ones I’d done. Wynter didn’t like chaos, and it wasn’t Copper Summit’s brand. She’d had the drinks already prepared and had played bartender while I’d changed outfits and the photographer had set up the next set.
A band around my chest tightened. I looked sad. Melancholy. Alone. The picture encapsulated how I’d felt for years.
At the same time, it was also the real me. I might’ve fought Lucy on the level of sex in my brand—gotta attract the men—and which of my songs I would publish, and I’d argued with the record label about my lack of twang and how much skin to show on my album covers, but I hadn’t won all the decisions. If it wasn’t for my social media following lending me their collective voice, I’d be a blond on stage in Daisy Dukes with my abs showing. Nothing wrong with that, but it wasn’t me.
I had an indie vibe. I didn’t do overtly sexual. Sometimes, I had bad days. And this image said all that.
Wynter’s stare burned into the side of my face.
I straightened, forgetting the image. I had to play the game a little longer. “I can’t believe Myles hasn’t stolen you for Foster House’s marketing.”
She crossed her arms. “Their team does just fine. Hehires only the best, and more importantly, he hires people who can work with him.”
“He’s barely in the office anymore, so that helps.” Wynter and Myles lived on the portion of land Daddy had given her. When needed, Myles commuted to the outskirts of Denver, where the Foster House distillery was located. Many times, Wynter and their daughter, Elsa, traveled with him. “But you worked with him just fine.”
Her mouth tipped up in a knowing grin. “We worked way too well together at times. Anyway”—she swiveled back to her computer screen—“is there any image you don’t want me to use?”
This was one reason I wouldn’t let my music career collide with the work I did for Copper Summit. My family had all the freedom and they respected me and the rest of their employees.
How many times had I argued with Lucy about venues I didn’t want to play in, artists I didn’t want to open for, or images I didn’t want posted by the social media manager she’d hired?
Too many fucking times. The respect I’d gotten from working with my family had delayed my breakout by years. The way I stuck to my convictions about how I’d be presented or how I did business was only one of the reasons I’d watched women younger than me rise to fame faster.
I pointed to the image of me playing the guitar. “Don’t use that one.”
“I didn’t realize Kyra was shooting you then.” Her tone was apologetic.
“No, it’s fine. I like the shot, but it feels personal,you know? It’s not Copper Summit and it’s not June Bee.” For now.
“Speaking of which—why haven’t I seen anything about your sudden departure from Nashville?”
I wrinkled my nose. “I’m not that big of news.”
She tapped her fingers on the desktop and stared at me.
