Page 40 of Muddy Messy Love

“Well, that was strange,” Tej says as we turn onto King Street.

I look at him. “How so?”

“Mr. B stopping to chat. Thought we’d get a nod at most.”

“Do you always call him that?”

Tej winks. “Just to make him feel old.”

I smile and shake my head. “You’re evil.”

Tej shrugs. “Someone needs to keep him grounded.”

Speaking of age, I school my expression and conjure indifference. “How old is he, anyway? Do you know?” Googledoesn’t seem to, and who isn’t on social media these days? Cole Benedict. That’s who.

Tej tilts his head to the side and considers me. “Why’s that, Aves? You interested?”

I scoff too loudly. “No. Of course not. He’s old. And…weird. Yeah,soweird.” I mentally facepalm.Weird?Cole is anything but weird.

Tej arches a brow, his teasing smile morphing to smug. “Twenty-seven.”

My eyes widen. “Twenty-seven? That’s all?” He’s younger than Beth, and only nine years older than me. What’s nine years, really?

Tej nods. “Twenty-seven. Three measly years older than yours truly and a hundred times more successful.” The shine fades from Tej’s smile, and he stares at his guitar case leaning next to him in the footwell.

My shoulders slump. Cole’s in a league of his own, and everyone knows it. “At least your talent will take you somewhere.” Unlike mashing mud.

“You think so?” Tej asks, rubbing his knee.

I scrunch my brows. “You serious right now?” He doesn’t answer me, rather drops his gaze to the empty seat between us, playing with the seatbelt buckle. “Oh my God.” I elbow his arm. “Despite hundreds of screaming fans, you don’t know how good you are.”

He shrugs. “Figure if we’re that good, we’d be signed by now. At least, that’s what Papa reckons.”

I shake my head. “It’s a matter of time. In three years, I won’t be surprised if everyone knows your name.”

“Thanks,” he says. “Sometimes, I need to hear that.”

Nine

“Ms. Masters.” Chantel risesfrom her chair as I enter Benedict Kane early Monday morning.

Curiously, I approach her desk. “Morning, Chantel.”

“Good morning,” she says, resuming her seat with a small sigh. “Mr. Benedict would like to see you in his office.”

“He does?”

She nods. “Immediately. Take the elevator to level four. You’ll see his assistant on exiting.”

I search her expression for clues as to the reason, but Chantel only stiffens, tightening her smile like she’s in pain. All signs indicate Cole’s not summoning me for an early promotion or declaration of lust, nor to discuss the qualities of air-dry clay. So what’s this about? I’ve been punctual. Polite. Great with the kids, friendly to the parents, and pleasant to my colleagues. I haven’t done anything wrong. Unless…it’s about my case. Did something happen? Did the magistrate change her mind? Am I going to juvie after all?

A middle-aged woman waits at the elevator as I approach with a thumping heart. When the golden doors slide open, I slip in before Hannah or the children spot me. My companion smells like old money, and when the elevator bypasses her floor, ascending straight to level four, she’s less than impressed. She eyes me up and down, her raw silk ensemble shimmering as large gold hoops wilt her earlobes. By comparison, I’m a hobo who’s stumbled in from Collins Street lost, or at the very least, unworthy of level four. But she needn’t worry. I’m well aware.

With a deep breath, I exit the elevator. Unlike the foyer, the top floor is minimalist and modern with crisp white walls, steel instead of brass, and pale chevron timber floors. Cole’s assistant is a round woman with salted curls and kind eyes who smiles as I approach her desk. “Go straight in, Ms. Masters.” She motions to a hallway of frosted glass that reflects the triptych of tall paintings hanging opposite. “First door to the left.”

Thanking her, I advance to the hallway and halt outside Cole’s door. His name is see-through on the glass, the letters like small islands floating in a frozen lake. I knock twice.

“Enter.” Cole’s voice has that icy snowman edge, but I obey, clicking the door shut behind me. With the posture of an aristocrat, he sits in wingback leather, regarding me with steepled hands. Gone is the sparkle of mirth in his eyes. Back is that vertical crease between his brows. “Take a seat,” he says, motioning to the twin chairs facing his desk.

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