Nolan grunts. “Three, if you count the bonus track.”
Raelynn ignores him. “You’re going. I need you to show up sober, dressed like a dignitary, and ready to charm the living hell out of every old-money donor in a five-mile radius. This is not an ask, Piper. It’s a career move. One that sets you up for platinum sales and international dates.”
Which I already have.
But she means for the next album, and all the other next albums she’s hoping I re-sign with Reverie Rest for.
She’s not wrong. If I were advising me, I’d probably slap myself for even hesitating. Instead, I try to imagine what it would feel like to walk into a room where I’m not just the entertainment or the headliner. Not the one everyone’s whispering about, even if half the whispers are complaints about my outfit or my hair or my “frankly appalling disregard for social etiquette.” (Direct quote, from a newspaper review of my first world tour. I printed it on a t-shirt.)
I can’t imagine it. That’s not my life anymore. I’m Piper Sumner, multi-platinum and award-winning artist. Not the teenager Raelynn discovered from my videos going viral online.
Nolan shrugs. “You could do worse.”
I want to ask what, exactly, is worse than a ballroom full of aristocrats and their Instagram-influencer offspring, but Raelynn’s already barreling forward.
“You’ll need to do a completely new setlist. Something more… elevated.” She doesn’t bother to elaborate, but I know exactly what she means. My first two albums were acoustic indie, dripping with heartfelt lyrics and strategically tasteful harmonies. Then the label pivoted me into pop, and I startedcharting with breakup anthems and songs about glitter and sex and very little else. “They want the old you, but with the new you’s production values. I need a draft by Tuesday.”
“Why do you make it sound like I have a secret twin hidden in the attic?” I can do it, but the fact she thinks I can justmagicshit out of anywhere all the time is something else.
Raelynn glances at her phone. “I have to go. There are three press calls, and the royals’ PR team wants a wardrobe preview before the end of the day. I’ve already scheduled a fitting. Please, for the love of god, try not to destroy the stylist.”
I mock-salute. “Yes, ma’am.”
Raelynn is gone before the air can cool. Her intern trails after her. The room is suddenly huge, echoing with the aftershock of her energy.
I let my head thump back against the foam wall and close my eyes. “Well. That’s a first.”
Nolan clears his throat. “You’re not excited?”
“I mean, define ‘excited.’” I open one eye and peek at him. “On the one hand: exposure, philanthropy, and free canapés. On the other: socialites and at least one attempted scandal.”
Nolan grunts again. Most of the time that’s all I get from my bodyguard. But every now and then I see past the hard-walled exterior Nolan puts up. “You say that like it’s a downside.”
“If it ends up as clickbait, I hope they use my good side.” Then I realize and pull out my phone to text Raelynn. “I’ll have her make sure you’re fitted for a suit, too.” There’s no way in hell I’m chasing after Raelynn on foot over this. That woman moves far too fast when on a mission.
He nods. “Thank you. I’ll be right beside you.” He says it with such a matter-of-fact seriousness that I think he means more than just standing in a corner and looking intimidating. Then he glances at my hair, which is currently a riot of pink, and adds, “Maybe avoid the explosives this time. No royal party fireworks.”
“It wasone time,” I protest, “and it was literally a birthday cake sparkler.”
The corner of his mouth quirks up into a twist again. “The fire alarm says otherwise.”
I release a half-hearted sigh.
There’s an ease to our banter that makes me ache a little. Nolan is, by any reasonable metric, absurdly attractive—think “Viking warlord in a craft brewery” vibes—but he’s also smart and infuriatingly loyal. But he’s my bodyguard, so nothing can happen.
Sadly.
My life feels like the movies much of the time, but not ever that aspect.
I stand up and stretch. There’s a familiar pop in my lower back that, when it goes off, releases hours of song-writing tension. “Well. Guess I’m getting fitted for a ballgown and learning how to curtsy better.”
Going to need about twenty Handsome Hands Bakery videos to calm down enough to sleep after, too.Who said some mild baking ASMR wasn’t soothing?
Nolan actually chuckles. “I’d pay to see that.”
“Shut up. I’ll bring you a tiara.”
He leans against the doorframe with his arms crossed. His gaze softens just a fraction. “If anyone could pull it off, it’s you.”
