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But the lawyer didn’t answer immediately. “No, sir, it’s not. You do have the contract in front of you, correct?”
Dammit! He couldn’t let this guy know he wasn’t able to read the lines and curves on the page.
“This legal jargon is Greek to me,” he said, trying to cover. “Could you go over the main points of the contract?”
There, now, he didn’t sound like a complete dumbass.
“Sure, the contract focuses on the new songs you’ve written. Mr. and Mrs. Luxe are offering the same terms as your last contract. You’ll retain the rights to the composition and the sound recordings. If you’re comfortable, you can skim over the first page, then initial at the bottom.”
Shit!
He cleared his throat. “About that…”
“Is there an issue, Mr. Paige?”
There was a huge issue. It would take him hours if he tried to go line by line. He opened the drawer and eyed a neon yellow highlighter. He reached for it, then froze. A familiar shame left an acrid taste in his mouth. He couldn’t highlight a contract. It wasn’t a child’s coloring book. It was a legal document.
“We’ve got a courier en route to retrieve the papers as soon as you sign. As I mentioned, time is of the essence. We’ve got a lot of moving parts, thanks to the merger,” the lawyer clarified.
The muscles in his chest tightened. “I understand.”
“Initial next to the red arrow, Mr. Paige.”
He stared at the sheet covered in a blurry wash of black and white gobbledygook. Robotically, he flipped the pages and spied the red arrow. At least his messed-up mind could find that. He bypassed the highlighter and removed a pen from the drawer. Staring at the sticker, he held the pen’s tip above the line. It hovered a millimeter from the page, poised to sign. All it would take were a few strokes, but he hesitated.
What the hell was happening?
He’d wanted this ever since he, Trey, and Leighton had formed Heartthrob Warfare. He’d promised them he’d do what it took to get to this point. But he couldn’t sign the document.
“If you’ve initialed, sir, go ahead and turn to the last page,” the attorney directed, when muffled voices on the other end of the line began speaking again.
Utterances that had an oddly familiar ring to them. Did he know the people in the room with the Luxe attorney?
He leaned in as a few words filtered through the speaker.
Harper.
Buzz.
Star potential.
Representation and promotion.
“Mr. Paige,” the attorney continued as the side conversation stopped. “I apologize for the interruption. My colleagues reminded me of one last item to address. Has your wife expressed interest in becoming a recording artist? My colleagues cited significant buzz around her thanks to her performance at the first and the secondCelebrity Bake or Bustchallenges. We understand that you collaborate with her, but we’re curious whether your wife has had thoughts regarding her own recording career. My colleagues are interested in your take on the situation.”
How was he supposed to answer that?
It was Harper’s dream, but was she ready?
His pulse kicked up as he looked from the phone to the contract he couldn’t read, and another question lingered in his mind—a selfish question that triggered his deepest fears.
Harper had been the magic behind his success.
Could he transition to a new genre of music without her by his side?
