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“One hell of a show you’ve been putting on,” Carl congratulates.
I force a smile, not letting any exhaustion show. I’m four months into a ten-month tour with dates in cities across the US and Canada. Venues sold out in sixteen minutes, according to my manager.
“I don’t want to disappoint anyone.”
Carl chuckles. “You could stand onstage for a couple of hours, wearing a cowboy hat and holding a guitar, and every person in that stadium would say they got their money’s worth.”
I laugh, too, because I’m not sure what to say in response to that.
Fans come with critics. I’ve seen and heard plenty of comments suggesting my success has everything to do with how I look onstage and nothing to do with what I’m singing. And, yeah, I’m getting paid regardless. Getting paida lot. I could retire tomorrow, and my great-grandkids would be set for life.
He’s complimenting me—I think—but it’s a little insulting as well.
“You ready to get started?” Carl asks.
I glance down into my almost-empty mug. “Yep. Just need a little more coffee. Long night.”
Carl claps me on the shoulder. “Completely understand. Take your time. Come down to the conference room whenever you’re ready, and we’ll get started.”
“Will do.”
He heads into the hallway while I walk back toward the coffee maker.
I shouldn’t be chugging caffeine. My plan for after this meeting is to go back to the hotel and take a nap to make up for being up most of the night.
But I don’t feel like leaving this kitchen. Not yet.
“See you at lunch, Piper.”
“See ya,” she replies.
The blonde—Mia—gives me a tiny wave, then hurries away.
I expect Piper to follow. But she walks over to me instead.
“Move,” she instructs. All the enthusiasm from talking to Mia has disappeared from her voice, reverting to unimpressed.
I stare at her, not comprehending. “What?”
“Linda made the coffee this morning. And I love her to death, but she’s a terrible barista. If you want a decent cup,move.”
I slide to the right, watching her dump the rest of the pot into the sink and rinse it out.
“You don’t like me.”
It’s a statement, not a question.
Because I’m certain she doesn’t, and there’s something refreshing—and annoying—about it. It intrigues me, mainly because I’m used to being liked. Setting aside celebrity, I’m accustomed to being the easygoing guy who’s friendly with everybody. Once I grew up and got over myself, I realized it was easier to ride in the boat than to rock it.
“Not a country music fan.” Piper glances at me. “No offense.”
Considering my fans like to refer to me as the King of Country, we both know it’s plenty offensive. But instead of irritated, I’m more amused by her half-hearted attempt to temper the insult.
I cross my arms, ignoring the way the granite countertop digs into the base of my spine as I lean more weight against it. And the fact that I’m making my entire team—plus the most powerful man in music—wait so I can defend the genre I grew up on to a stranger. “What’s your issue with it?”
Her nose wrinkles as she measures out scoops of coffee grounds. “With country music? Lack of variety mostly. Every song is about broken hearts or pickup trucks or beer bottles.”
“Ghostland’s biggest hit is about a whiskey bottle, and it sounded like you’ve listened to their music.”
