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Harper smiles, nods, then mouths something at Piper that looks a little likeBe nicebefore continuing down the hall toward the central conference room.
I should follow her. Go grab sustenance from the spread that’s been set up specifically for me.
Instead, I stroll deeper into the kitchen. “Coffee any good?”
Piper shrugs. “Depends on what your standards forgoodare.”
I experience a stupid thrill from the way her gaze lingers on me as she continues to sip from her mug. Attention from strangers is nothing new. But my response to it is a first.
I go through the same routine I just saw her complete—pouring coffee into a clean mug and then adding a splash of creamer from the fridge.
“What’s with the rain boots?” I ask, finally voicing the question that’s been circling my head since I first spotted her standing here.
“Excuse me?”
I glance over, then deliberately down at her choice of footwear. “It’s not raining. Doesn’t even look like there’s a chance of it. So…what’s with the boots?”
Piper drinks more coffee, obviously deliberating if she’s going to bother answering my question. I’m not even sure why I decided to ask it; she can wear whatever shoes she wants. But for some reason, I’m certain it will bother me—never knowing.
A petite blonde woman walks into the kitchen before Piper decides about answering. She smiles at Piper, then flushes scarlet when she sees me.
More recognition.
I don’t know why I’m suddenly keeping track of every person who recognizes me.
Except…it bothers me. Thatshedidn’t.
“Hi.” The blonde’s voice carries the breathy, awed tone I’ve heard many times before.
I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to it though. It’s hard to not hear it as the heavy weight of expectations. To not worry whether I’ll ever live up to the ideal.
I stand onstage and sing for a living. And while I love it and feel lucky I get to, I’ve never understood the importance it’s assigned. Most of the time, I still feel like a kid, looking for an escape from the crappy hand life dealt me.
Based on the way Piper’s lips twitch, I’m not the only one who thinks I’m overrated.
“Hey there.” I smile in an attempt to put the blonde at ease, and it has the opposite effect.
Her cheeks flame brighter, which I wouldn’t have guessed possible. She wobbles a little on heels that still put her height shorter than my shoulder.
The woman breaks eye contact, looking at Piper instead of me. “Hey. How was the concert last night?”
“Amazing,” Piper gushes in an enthusiastic tone that totally transforms her voice. “Their usual bassist was sick, so they had someone from the opening act step in on the fiddle. It changed their sound completely. More Ghostland than Afternoon Daydream.”
“Cool,” the blonde says, sounding unsure that’s the right adjective.
Piper rolls her eyes. “Mia! You said you would listen to the playlist.”
“I tried to, at the gym. But I can’t listen to sad,stare out the window at the rainmusic on the treadmill. It messes with my pace!”
Both women seem to have forgotten I’m in the room with them, which hasn’t happened in a while. Maybe that’s why I’m still standing here like an idiot, watching them bicker like siblings.
Until a loud exclamation of “There’s my superstar!” fills the kitchen.
I startle at the unexpected sound, then turn to face the familiar voice. Carl Bergman, the head of Empire Records. The guy you want in your corner if you’re trying to make it in music. The man collects talent like trophies.
He’s beaming at me like I’ve made his whole year just by standing in the building. I make him a lot of money, and it sometimes feels like that’s all I’m boiled down to—a commodity.
“Carl, nice to see you.” We shake hands, and his bright smile somehow expands.
