Page 1 of Second to None

CHAPTER1

Levi

Macclesfield, Monday, July 21st

I woke up to paws sauntering across my dick. Lovely. Then again, it was the most action I’d seen in months, so maybe I shouldn’t be complaining.

Next stop—my stomach. By the time my lids had come unstuck and my eyes were open, Alba was purring, kneading both the duvet and my chest in what Emily called making biscuits.

Seven on the dot, was it? My daily wake-up call had arrived. No need to set an alarm, really, although I still did.

“I'm awake,” I told my feline bed companion. “You can get off me now.”

She peered at me as though assessing the truth of my statement. To show I meant business, I tickled her chin. Graciously, she accepted my affection for a minute or so, purring, before she jumped off the bed to check for mice underneath. Places to go, things to do.

Yeah, me too.

One, wake Emily. Two, coffee. Three, pack the muffins I’d slaved over last night because apparently, store-bought birthday treats would lose my seven-year-old points with the other kids.

Hi. Levi Blake—former superstar, mentor of hopeful musicians, and aspiring baker. Nice to meet ya.

After I’d woken Emilyagainand shepherded her through all the usual morning things, we left five minutes behind schedule. As usual. She was no morning person, and with school holidays just around the corner, she clearly sensed that my grip on family discipline was slipping. Even the reminder that this was a special Monday since she got to celebrate her Saturday birthday with the class didn’t keep her from dragging her feet.

Man, at only twenty-seven, I was getting too old for this shit. Although in fairness to Emily, I wasn’t a morning person either. Ran in the family, didn’t it? My sister had been the queen of the snooze button who’d reigned over an empire of missed alarms, forever scrambling to get Emily ready before the daycare closed its doors. God, I’d give so fuckingmuchto mock her just one more time, to mimic her frantic scrambling while she laughingly told me to shut my trap.‘You try raising a child, Levi. Then we’ll talk.’

How about now, Jess? Can we talk now?

Fuck. I exhaled and released my impossible wish into the clear brightness of a summer morning.

* * *

Manchester,Monday, July 21st

Cosma.

Unusual name and the same cheeky confidence I’d had at seventeen—ready to take the world by storm and blissfully unaware of the price. She came highly recommended, though.

The second she opened her mouth, I got it.Fuckyes. This was why I’d stayed in the music business, despite everything: because once in a while, you found a voice that stopped you cold, reality melting away. Cosma had that kind of voice.

She finished on a long, sweet note, her timbre reminiscent of Amy Winehouse, and stood with her head ducked as I ended the recording. Alone in the dimly lit booth, equipment strewn around, she looked every bit as young as she was. Not quite so confident after all, was she? Five-foot something, with a cascade of dense, springy curls framing her pretty face. Baggy clothes that didn’t quite hide a slightly curvy figure.

They would want her to lose weight. If she took me on as her mentor, I’d fight tooth and nail that any change to the way she looked, talked, walked? It would be her call.

I pressed a button. “Brilliant, love. Thank you. That was amazing.”

“Yeah?” She fiddled with the ring on her thumb, glancing up through her lashes.

“Yes. You’ve got a voice to melt glaciers.” No wonder Jace had told me she’d be right up my street—I thrived where soul met pop, while he specialised in a blend of hip hop and R&B that didn’t truly suit her. “How about we grab a coffee? Or tea, if you prefer. Have a chat about your future.”

Raw hope flashed across her face before she masked it. “Sounds good.”

Like all true Brits in their natural habitat, we talked about the weather on our way to the coffee shop. Yeah, it’d been an unusual drought—could really use some rain, couldn’t we? Weeks without so much as a drop. Her parents made her water the balcony plants every evening, a chore she griped about just like any normal teenager who lived at home. Well. Not that I’d really know because at her age, I’d covered three continents in as many days.

The café was one of those that drew a sizable day crowd of people working on their laptops, the space humming with quiet conversations and the clacking of keyboards, plants and bookshelves livening up the bright interior. Like many here, I was a regular, so people tended to leave me alone.

Cosma and I grabbed two high chairs by the ledge that ran alongside the window front, overlooking Lever Street’s red-brick buildings and its mix of freelancers, artists, and young professionals. Maybe it was hometown bias, but I’d always preferred Manchester’s creative scene to the more polished, sprawling vibe in London. Manchester felt authentic, tied to its industrial past and working-class roots. Settling in nearby Macclesfield hadn’t been a choice, not when Emily had needed stability and I did too, in a way. But this suited me.

I took a sip of coffee, then turned to smile at Cosma. “All right, love. So here’s the deal: I think you’ve got what it takes. I’d be honoured to work with you—help you develop your own image and sound, something that’syou. Not some narrow little box people might want you to fit into.”

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