Page 17 of Four More The Merrier

The dashboard clock confirms my worst fear - I dozed off. My reflection in the rearview mirror makes me wince. The carefully applied makeup has smudged under my right eye, and my hair...

"Oh god." I yank my emergency brush from my purse, attacking the auburn mess that's decided to rebel against gravity. "This is not happening."

A quick dig through my purse produces a wrinkled pack of mints. I pop three, hoping they'll mask the stale coffee breath. The new dress is wrinkled where I slumped against the seatbelt. I smooth it frantically, but the creases mock my efforts.

"Good enough has to be good enough," I mutter, gathering my courage and my guitar case. The label's glass doors loom closer with each step, my heels clicking an anxious rhythm on the pavement.

Inside, the lobby gleams with polished marble and success. A sleek reception desk stretches before me, manned by a woman whose perfectly coiffed hair makes me want to crawl under a rock.

"Quinn Dupree," I say, trying to project confidence instead of 'I just woke up in my car.' "I have an eight o'clock meeting."

She eyes me with the kind of practiced neutrality that somehow still manages to judge. "Take the elevator to floor six. Second door on your right."

I check my phone - 7:59. At least I'm not technically late. Yet.

The elevator ride gives me one last chance to check my reflection in the mirrored walls. I've looked better, but I've definitely looked worse. Here goes nothing.

9

LYLE

Islouch in my chair, drumming my fingers against the conference table while Jarron and Austen bicker about last night's after-party. The coffee in front of me has gone cold, and our manager keeps checking her watch.

"What you wanna bet she's still stuck in South Dakota," Austen snickers.

"A round at Gibbs Terrace says she took daddy's advice and drove back to whatever suburb spawned her," Jarron adds.

I roll my eyes. "Give it a rest dipshits. Not everyone's born with a silver spoon and their granddaddy's connections." I'm speaking from experience. Just because I'm related to Jarron and Austen doesn't mean I came from the silver spoon side.

"Oh, here comes Saint Lyle with his working-class hero speech," Austen says.

The door opens, and my next comeback dies in my throat. The woman who walks in makes everyone sit up straighter. Auburn hair catches the fluorescent lights, and her burgundy dress hugs curves that'd make a saint question his vows. But it's her eyes that grab me – hazel and sharp, taking in the room like she's cataloging every detail.

Jarron leans forward, his signature smirk spreading across his face. The one that makes teenage girls swoon and their mothers clutch their pearls. "I'm not sure how you got past security honey, but I'll tell you what, you show me what's under that dress, and I'll sign whatever you want."

My jaw clenches. I kick his chair under the table, but he ignores me.

She doesn't flinch. "Unless you're the one signing my check, I don't need your signature. I'm Quinn Dupree. You're opening act."

Her voice carries a hint of Nashville twang, but there's steel underneath it. She's nervous – I can tell by how her fingers grip her purse strap – but she's facing us head-on.

"Holy shit," Austen whispers, and Jarron elbows him.

Monica clears her throat. "Miss Dupree, I'm so glad you're here, please have a seat. We were just about to begin."

She walks to the empty chair across from me, and I catch a whiff of something like vanilla and coffee.

"Nice to finally meet you," I say, offering a smile. "Heard you had quite the adventure getting here."

"That's the understatement of the year." She replies as she settles into her chair, pulling out a notebook and pen. Ole Beauford's eyes haven't left her since she walked in, and his face has gone the same shade as his pearl snap buttons. I file that in my memory to ask him about later.

"So," Jarron drawls, leaning back in his chair. "You're gonna tell us why you couldn't make it to soundcheck? Some of us take this profession seriously."

I catch the slight twitch in Quinn's jaw. "Car trouble. As I explained to your management."

"Right, right." Austen runs his hands through his hair. "The whole 'my car broke down' excuse. Real original."

"Would you prefer I made up something more entertaining?" Quinn's pen taps against her notebook. "Maybe I was wrestling alligators in South Dakota? Or got abducted by aliens?"

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