I pull out my phone. It feels like an honor to be asked to pick what we listen to. Honestly, it’s a little bit nerve-racking. I scroll through my playlists looking for something that feels right, and then remember the demo sitting in my inbox.
I glance up at Eleanor, watching as she lifts onto her tiptoes and leans closer to the mirror while she curls her eyelashes. I connect my phone to the speaker on the bedside table and hit play.
While the music plays and Eleanor does her thing, I busy myself by tidying up the room—depositing the room service tray in the hall for housekeeping to pick up, and remaking the bed. Then I’m out of things to do and venture into the bathroom to perch next to Eleanor, who is using her fingers to blend some makeup under her eyes.
“You want some concealer for that shiner?” she asks, and I’m half-certain she’s joking, so I shake my head.
“No,” I say, and reach for a travel bottle of mouthwash. “But I’ll borrow some of this if that’s okay.”
She nods and moves on to her own dental hygiene. In the middle of brushing her teeth, she pauses to ask: “Who is this?”
I’m still swishing mouthwash, so I spit into the sink and say: “A band one of my reps sent me.”
She finishes up and rinses her toothbrush, then wipes her mouth on a towel. “They’re really good. Are you going to sign them?”
“I want to.” I turn to rest my hip against the marble counter and watch as she considers two shades of lipstick, both of which look identical to me. “But I’m not sure what kind of budget my boss would give me for a band like this. Or whether it’s worth signing them if I don’t think I can break them out, you know?”
Eleanor puts one of the lipstick tubes back in her bag. “I get that… but it’s always a risk, isn’t it? Sometimes even the bands that get the biggest marketing push don’t meet their targets. But if you can figure out a way to break out the band that no one else will take a chance on, that’s the sweetest win.”
For so long I’ve been chasing the next big thing, telling myself these high-profile artists are my ticket to a promotion, which will afford me more freedom in who I sign. But I’ve gotten a promotion, and I still haven’t made any changes to the kinds of bands I bring to the label.
Eleanor’s right. Seeing a band succeed because of my efforts—not just because the label threw enough money at the album to ensure its success—is what I take the most pride in. The kind of thing that might make someone like Eleanor proud too. And I want that. I want to be worthy of her.
“I think I’ve been too chickenshit to take that kind of risk.”
Eleanor hums. “And you’ve got a perfect track record going for you. Wouldn’t want a flop now.”
It’s a jab, sure, but she doesn’t say it harshly. Besides, she hit the nail on the head.
“Guess I’ll have to make sure they don’t flop.”
Eleanor swipes her lipstick on, turning her mouth crimson. “Cocky,” she says, before grabbing a tissue from the box on the counter and blotting her lips.
“If you like them, I’d say they have a pretty good shot.”
Her gaze flicks across the mirror to meet mine, and she arches a brow. “I do have an impeccable ear.”
I smile and tip my head in acknowledgment. She does.
She starts packing away all of her makeup, and it hits me how different Eleanor is from the idea I had of her before this trip. She’s not effortlessly cool, at least not in the superficial ways I’d assumed. She’s drawn the curtain back and allowed me to see her fix her makeup and scrape at the rogue drip of maple syrup that’s dried on her robe—all these things that make her so fucking real. The fact that she trusts me enough to let me in might be the greatest privilege of my entire life.
She pulls me out of my own head with a loud huff. “I have sex hair.”
I stand behind her, smirking as I look her over the mirror. She’s not entirely wrong. I reach out and twist an unruly wave around my finger. It blows my mind that she allows it. And that it feels so natural—that all of this does. Brushing teeth together and watching Eleanor get ready, like we’re already in that place.
“You look great, baby.”
Her cheeks go ruddy, and Iknewshe’d give me a good reaction to that pet name. Makes me wonder what other terms of endearment might make her blush.
She reaches across the sink to plug in a curling iron. “You’re obligated to say that. You gave me the sex hair.”
I break out into a grin. “I did, didn’t I?”
Another huff, and she needles an elbow into my rib cage. “Go away. I have to fix this and we need to get going.”
I drop a kiss on her shoulder blade, right over herhummingbird tattoo, before giving her space. I flop back down onto the bed and grab my phone, opening the email from my rep about this band.
I smile as I imagine how psyched he’ll be as I type out my response:
