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PROLOGUE—ONE YEAR EARLIER (LARINDA’S STUDIO)
LARINDA
“Babe, ya can’t wear blue if I’m wearing blue. That’s rule number one in power couples’ couture. Ask Alonzo.”
No. Because for the seven millionth time, I don’t know Alonzo and have no interest in tracking down a stranger just to ask him a question like, “what’s rule number one in power couples’ couture?”
Also, pretty sure the answer isn’t, “you can’t both wear blue.”
I adjust the phone while gazing longingly at my computer monitor several feet away. Instead of arguing with Jarvis about—I’m not even sure—I could be at my desk reviewing the killer tracks I received from some producer friend of Nash’s.
Val Andrews.
Apparently, this guy is twenty-two and completely unknown, which is also all I know about him. Well, and he’s ridiculously talented. He seemed nice enough the few times we spoke on the phone, but he could be an ogre and I’d still be as excited as I am to meet him in about five minutes. The tracks he sent were incredible—way beyond what I expected, even beyond what I thought my music could become, if I’m honest. How he made this happen with limited direction and resources, I have no idea, but I’m giddy at the thought of what we’d accomplish together in an official capacity.
Well, I was, until my boyfriend called to inform me that the dress I bought seven months ago for the wedding of a movie-star friend was no longer an option since it would clash with his tux. Actually, no. It would clash with the pocket square of his tux, which is also blue, but not a coordinating blue. I begged Jarvis to swap out his pocket square for something that would go with my tailored eight-thousand-dollar gown I’ve had ready for weeks but… a lapel pin? I don’t know. As usual with him, I got lost in the confusing web of Jarvis McKinnley’s ego. For some reason he’s right and I’m wrong, like always.
My phone buzzes against my ear, and I pull it away to see a text from my assistant, Steve.
They’re here.
Eek!!
“Okay. We’ll have to pick this up later, Jar. I have an important meeting.”
“But, Linda?—”
“I’m sorry, hon. I have to go.”
“The wedding is only a month away!”
And that wouldn’t be an issue if I could wear my dress and he wore a—I don’t know—black/white/green/violet/pretty much any other color pocket square.
“We’ll figure it out. Maybe Alonzo can find a coordinating blue pocket square.”
I’m not sure if his silence is due to the horror of considering a different pocket square or the suggestion that “Alonzo” would be the one in charge of securing it. I probably should find out who Alonzo is and what he does.
“I’m not arguing with you about this right now, Larinda!” he huffs out.
“Okay, perfect. Same. Have a great ni?—”
“Hold on! This meeting isn’t with that nobody producer, is it?”
Ugh.
“Yes. And he’s not a nobody.”
“No? Who’s heard of him? Nobody. So he’s a nobody.”
“Fine. Right now this second, he is, but he won’t be soon. You’ll see.”
“What I see is my girlfriend’s future being flushed down the toilet by some loser. I still don’t get why you’d pass on Rufus Ricard for a snot-nosed kid.”
“He’s not a loser, and I’m passing because Rufus Ricard makes my music sound like everyone else’s.”
“Hate to break it to you, sweet cheeks, that’s the formula that sells. You want to make money, you make the music that makes money.”
“Okay, well, maybe I’m tired of only worrying about the money if it means making the same thing as everyone else. Maybe there’s more to this. Maybe there’s more to me.”
