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AnnieMathersAlways loved this song, but that bridge? *chef kiss*
JeffersonCoolidgeAbout damn time.
SparklegrrlI like this more than the original!
IversMusicWait. I thought this was about Lorelai Jones
FaltercationColter always claimed it was…
IversmusicIs Lorelai Jones the new Layla??????
Momof3weeee*fans self*
Eddvark85Drake sang it better, but I’m digging the unplugged feel
BakersDozenTheBandWe knew you could write, but singing and playing? A man of many talents!
Musky.MarenI knew you had it in you, Huckleberry.
ShelbySpringfieldRiggsGet ’em, Tiger.
JaketheSnakeI heard Boseman wrote all of Colter’s songs
FaltercationWorst-kept Nashville secret
CameronRiggsLooks like someone needs a music video… I might know a guy.
CMT*eyeballs*
Arlo.in.the.fedoraGlad to see our luncheon helped!
LorelaiJonesHuck, could not be prouder of you, darlin’.
Arlo picks up my phone, powering it down and tossing it onto my desk with a thud. “If you aren’t gonna answer, and believe me, I understand why you aren’t, then let’s just conserve the battery, and by default your sound engineer’s sanity, hm?”
“Sorry,” I apologize distractedly. “It’s just Drake. Or his lawyers. Or Drakeandhis lawyers.”
“Or, you know, CMT calling our offices. Pretty eventful stuff. Incidentally, boss, I wasn’t aware we had a landline listed. Anyone who knows better just reaches out to you or me directly.”
I’m clicking around on my laptop, putting together a couple of demo tracks I lined up for Coolidge, aside from the duet, to play for him today. “We don’t have one listed. I haven’t bothered because then I would have to hire someone to answer said landline.”
“We should set up a voice mail at the very least.”
“Someone would have to check it and respond. You want to be that person?”
Arlo scoffs, adjusting his hat. “I’m a sound engineer.”
“And I can’t be answering it, because I’m the fucking CEO, so what we’re gonna do is let it ring, without a voice mail, and if they really need to get ahold of either of us, they’ll call our cells.”
“I’m sensing tension.”
I continue clicking around, unseeing. “I’m not tense, I’m tired and I’m busy and I’m preparing for our next client who is supposed to arrive any minute and I can’t concentrate with my phone ringing and vibrating every forty fucking seconds with notifications from Colter because he’s anxious about his precious Grammy nod. I just need a moment of fucking peace and quiet to hear myself think.”
“Riiight. Got you,” Arlo stage-whispers before turning for the door. When he reaches it, he glances over his shoulder with what I am positive he thinks is a jaunty smirk. “And so we’re clear, youdon’twant to know when there’s a powerhouse brunette pacing outside our front doors?”
I raise a single eyebrow, but my gut tells me I already know the one he’s talking about, and therefore I’m rolling back in my chair to the lone window, peering through the slats in the wood blinds. “What is she doing outside?”
