Page 28 of Time Out

“Good.” He knocked his knuckles to my jaw, and I slapped his hand away. “Then chin up, kid. We’ll get you all situated.”

Cole would help. He knew about the shock of getting a girl pregnant. He understood being a single dad.

Right. I probably should have gone to him first, but as soon as Dawson walked into the locker room, I’d needed to tell someone.

“Thanks, Butler.”

“Don’t thank me. I’m forever going to give you shit for this. All rookies know to wrap it up every damn time.”

Defensiveness rose up in me before I saw the teasing glint in his eyes. He was just giving me shit, so I didn’t tell him Belle’s theory of the hot tub making things go wonky.

Whatever. How it happened didn’t matter now.

Now, the only thing that mattered was finding Maggie and making things right.

Worldwide Music Productions, the company Belle said her family started, was a shiny, all mirrored glass, high-rise building in the heart of Nashville. You could see the building all the way from mine, which was how I came up with this plan. It was Wednesday, and I had workouts in the morning. I needed to get back to the training center later for more film in the afternoon, but every time I looked out the windows from my condo, little Miss Moral Support came to mind.

Dawson was right. She’d had the decency to leave us alone the other day, so she had some trust in me not to be a complete prick. She’d help me get an in with Maggie again.

At least, that’s what I was hoping as I walked up to the shiny stainless steel door handles, pulled and strolled into the lobby of WWMP. The lobby was as shiny and glassy and mirrored as the outside, and the three-level interior atrium boasted a water fountain in the middle, a gleaming silver electric guitar sticking out from the center standing at least forty feet into the air. The feature was enormous and eye-catching as water burst forth from the top of the instrument and flowed down the neck, over the strings, creating its own form of music.

Before moving to Nashville, I’d been a simple country boy from Nebraska, son to a factory worker and dental hygienist. I’d gone to school at Clemson, and the school had taught me a lot about all things Southern—especially the girls who grew up fawning over Clemson athletes, dreaming of taking home a Clemson ball player to daddy. Nashville was a different beast and there were times the size of this city, the rich musical history, and the money everywhere made me shake my head in awe.

There I was, a rookie and making millions, fascinated and dumbstruck by a musical statue bursting out of an indoor pool, for crying out loud.

Around me, voices echoed along with the click of women’s heels on tiled surfaces. I dragged my eyes off the water fountain to the man and woman manning the security desk.

“Hello, I’m here to see Belle Connelly.”

This good old Nebraska boy could Google with the best of them, so I’d done my research. It wasn’t like Belle hadn’t been in the media since her mother, Scarlett, entered the CMA’s red carpet, showing off her large, round abdomen twenty-four years ago.

“Do you have an appointment with Miss Connelly?” the woman asked. Her bright red painted fingernails were more like claws, and they tapped slowly on the keyboard in front of her.

“No, ma’am, but if you could call her and let her know Davis Hall would like a few minutes of her time, I’d really appreciate it.”

Her dark eyes narrowed before she nodded. “One moment then.”

“Thank you.”

I moved away from the desk, sliding down to give her the illusion of privacy. Not like she needed it. Her eagle-sharp gaze stayed glued to me as she tapped a button on the headpiece protruding from her ear and wrapping around her cheek, ending with a small microphone in front of her equally red and glossy lips.

Shiny.

Everything was so shiny in here. Guess that’s what happened when you owned and ran the world’s largest country and rock music production company and multiple labels.

“Mr. Hall?”

“Yes…” I glanced down at the name badge over her maroon and gold-lapeled suit coat. “Vivian. That’s me.”

“Miss Connelly said she’ll meet you outside her office.” She tore off a printed piece of paper and handed me a visitor sticker. “She’s on the seventh floor.”

Huh. Seventh floor out of at least twenty-five. Interesting. Somehow, with her name and personality, I’d expected to take a private elevator straight to the top, where I knew her grandfather was still CEO and president. Her father held the VP title.

I hadn’t worn a ball cap like I’d taken to doing in the last couple months when I went out in public, and I’d dressed to impress with a pair of black dress pants, snake-skinned loafers, and a light-blue dress shirt. I felt like I was dressed to go to prom, still unused to the required dress code of suits on travel days, and it was difficult not to dip my head in fear of being recognized as a half dozen more people joined me in the elevator. I was the only one in dress pants, the other men all in frayed jeans and cowboy boots, and the women in equally casual dresses. I almost felt like I was back in Nebraska, getting ready to pull my weight on the Duke’s family farm over summer vacation. When the elevator on floor seven opened, it took me a second to realize it was my stop.

“Excuse me,” I said, and turned sideways to squeeze through a group of four women gushing over their new Christmas gift jewelry.

A lot of bling. A lot of bling on their hands and wrapped around their throats almost blinded me as I stepped off—and almost directly into Belle.

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