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Somewhere on the opposite side of the room, Lyla’s husband mumbles something into his phone. It’s so loud that I can’t hear what he’s saying. But that doesn’t matter. We’ve done this so many times, I know the lines. “Well, I don’t care what Jerry wants. I’m occupied.”

I pause for roughly four beats and look at Lyla critically. “I’m not sure, but I may be onto a new lead.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the nearest man angle his chin my direction. His eyes skirt down me, taking me in: female, dark-brown hair in overworked bun, simple pearl studs, black sweater, boring shoes, alone, tapping occasionally on my tablet.

In an office I’d hardly look out of the ordinary, but here? Surrounded by middle- and high-class groups looking for a night on the town? I stick out like a sore thumb.

A posh, intellectual, savvy sore thumb who clearly can predict the best and brightest in the biz.

In other words, the competition.

I tap on my tablet with the phone cradled on my shoulder while Lyla sits on the barstool and sings her heart out. Maybe it’s the lighting or the venue, but tonight she truly does look and sound better than usual. The spotlight on her long, curling blond hair glinting perfectly against the backdrop of a black wainscoted wall. Her voice crystal clear, feminine, yet hinting of power and soul as she strums the song I remember her writing late one evening at university.

I tap a few nonsensical words on the tablet with my sternest I-am-important frown—LEMONADE PICKLES DAIRY FARM—and see the man raising his posture slightly and craning to see the words. Looking for some clue as to who I am, no doubt. What I think. How important my opinion is.

Lyla’s voice begins to tip up into a long, eight-beat note, the penultimate moment of her ballad, and I lift my gaze as if surprised. As the note lingers, my long-held bored expression slowly cracks. As if I’ve spent years watching nobodies, hoping to find that lost treasure, weary and exhausted as I work this lonely road. And then, suddenly, I’ve found it. My fingers slowly drop from the tablet as if I’m not even aware of them, as if they are doing what they are meant to do on their own: find and press against my chest. My heart. Because this woman onstage is it. She is the one.

Honestly. I should’ve become an actress.

Lyla ends the song and applause begins, just as I snap to attention on the phone. “Peter,” I say, scrambling for my tablet and hastily rising. “I’ve found her. I don’t care if we’re booked up. Let’s just pray she doesn’t have an agent yet.” I take a step toward her and then pause. “What do you mean you want to hear her first? Peter, we’ve got to snatch her up before somebody else will. I can’t wait until you hear her—”

I pause.

“Well, of course I’m right. I was right about my last lead, wasn’t I?”

I pause and let fury cloud my face. “Yes, but don’t you dare make me recall the moment you lost us Dierks Bentley because you thought you had time to take a bathroom break.” I dart my head around and, in the swift glance, see Garrett working his own corner, using the same script.

This is the part where I squeeze my eyes shut, look furious, and respond with, “Fine. I’ll meet you outside, but you’d better hurry.”

The plan is to follow the call with me grabbing my things, rushing outside looking terribly important, then dropping the charade and popping in next door to scroll through Pinterest before sneaking back ten minutes later to try the routine on somebody else.

For the record, we’ve been fairly successful.

In six months we’ve gotten three lurkers after her show, two approachers who gave her their card, and one who seemed incredibly eager but, when push came to shove, never called her back. It’s only a matter of time, though. These are just the bites before the big catch.

But just as I squeeze my eyes, right as I’m on the verge of giving my showstopping finale, a voice pops up beside me.

A strong voice. Masculine. And one, I realize with instant trepidation, I know. “That’s a pretty low blow to bring up Bentley.”

My eyes open, and I find myself face-to-face with Will Pennington. He’s lost some of the business-y exterior, wearing a simple taupe crew-neck sweater, dark jeans. But perhaps what’s most relaxed about him is the amused expression in his eyes. The slight smile raising his lips. How much has he heard?

I can’t help but cringe as I think about what I look like now—an absolute tablet-carrying, booking agent–imposter nutcase.

The man in the black across from me pauses. He is halfway into rising from his seat, too, possibly off at this very moment to make a go at Lyla during the pause between songs.

Shoot.

I can see the hesitancy in the man’s face, like my response in this very moment will tip the scales one way or another.

My eyes dart to his attire, making a final assessment. All-black, but not the typical, corporate all-black I’ve seen a hundred times before. No, this guy has a light beard. Black sweatshirt with bleach-white cords hanging down on both sides. Sneakers that look so new and unassuming they must cost hundreds. Eager eyes. Sleek black business card already in one hand. Classy font with fussy numbers in gold writing.

He looks new. Not new as in, “Hey, I just started this company yesterday in my basement,” but new as in, “I’m the little guy working in a totally overwhelming, posh agency, and I’d better bring in some big fish or I’m out of here.”

New and lowly in big and flashy. The perfect combination.

Shoot. There’s no choice here. Not when this very moment could be the one we look back on as the moment that changed everything.

“Peter!” I cry out. “You’re so . . . quick!” I swivel to face Lyla, now on her fourth song. “What do you think? Didn’t I tell you?”