Page 22 of Wingwoman
I shook the judgmental thought from my head. It was mean and uncalled for. If being in my industry had taught me anything, it was that women, no matter what their hair color was, are beautiful. End of story. And to judge a woman based on that mademethe dick. Not Josh.
A gorgeous blonde woman popped into my head. Viv’s youngest daughter, Julianne—my future step-sister. She had silky blonde hair down to the middle of her back, striking blue eyes, and cheekbones so sharp, you could shave your legs with them.
She was also sweet. And smart. And owned her own company. As much as I tried to distance myself from Viv’s kids, she was the one who didn’t take no for an answer.
Yet, my stomach turned at the thought of introducing her to Josh. If they hit it off? It would mean I’d have to deal with them as a couple for every holiday, every family event for as long as my dad stayed married. Which, if his track record was any indication, wouldn't be too long. Even still, it would keep Josh in my life for far longer than I ever wanted.
I took a deep breath and started a new search, looking instead for various well-known society women in the Austin area who might be single. I left a few vague messages with well-known talent agencies and managers in the area, not mentioning Josh by name, but asking if they had a series of headshots they could send over.
But so far the woman that made the most sense as a muse for Josh… was Miss Texas.
She was a good fit. Maybe even the perfect fit.
She was beautiful. Poised. Great at being in front of a camera and red carpet ready. However, based on her Miss America interview, she seemed down-to-earth. A true Texan. And best of all, her “job” right now was being Miss Texas. Her job was making appearances. And doing charity work. But otherwise, she wasn’t working, which meant she’d have time to be there as his muse as needed.
I left a message with her manager, then poured myself a glass of wine and hit play on the playlist of Josh’s albums. If I was going to be working for the man, supplying his next muse, I needed to find out what sort of art my client would be feeding. And I wanted to hear what Nina had mentioned—about all his songs being about heartbreak. I didn’t want to send a client into a relationship knowing it was guaranteed to spoil like milk.
Who am I kidding? I wanted to know for my own sake. In case I landed in the position of muse myself.I swallowed down my feelings of panic at the thought.
Been there, done that.
I sighed, sliding down into a hot bubble bath, glass of wine in hand, and closed my eyes as the music played. I arranged the playlist specifically to be from his earliest work to his most recent music to get a sense of what his producers were implying: that he had lost his magic.
I’ve never been one for country music. It was too… I don’t know. Twangy. Not my thing. And it was almost like most country singers purposefully exaggerated their accents to fit the genre.
But Josh’s music wasn’t like that at all. It was soulful. Deep and cutting, and that first album was both gutting and relatable in a dark way that I immediately understood why he won Best New Artist both at the Grammys and CMAs.
It was beautifully written and poignant. And I was left wondering who this Jenn girl was he’d sang about over and over—he even mentioned her by name in one song. She held the key to the sort of muse Josh was seeking. This was the album he was trying to replicate. Soshewas who we needed to find. Not literally, of course… but the figurative Jenn. His next muse.
I also heard the problem with his later albums and understood what his producers were saying. The music became repetitive after the first two albums. Stale. He sang over and over again about heartbreak and sex. And one-night stands.
And that was it. The depth had gone from an abyss you couldn’t see the bottom of to a kiddie pool at the Y. His music went from art to kitsch.
God, I hoped Miss Texas was it. It seemed plausible. Could I be that good at my job? That my first prospect would strike gold with Josh? With a deep breath, I leaned over the edge of the bathtub and sent the email to Josh. Then, with another sip of wine, I sank deeper into the bathtub to relax.
I only got about five minutes of relaxing bubble bath time before my phone rang. I rolled my eyes as I stood up and kicked the drain open. I reached for my cell phone with my pruney fingers, fully expecting to see my dad’s number glowing on the screen. Instead, it was Max, my best friend and the woman who was the yin to my yang. While I helped people find their “person,” she helped them plan their dream weddings. And our other best friend, Carrow, is a divorce attorney who hated her job so much that she changed careers and began her own private investigation firm catching cheating bastards. Her words, not mine. From hitched to ditched, that’s what the three of us specialized in.
I answered the phone, putting it on speaker then slid my arms into my robe. “Hey Maxi Pad,” I said, feeling my smile widen as her voice came over the speaker.
“Stop calling me that!” she squealed. “I hate that nickname.” My grin widened.
“That’s the whole point.”
“Okay, fine,” she said. “Hopper.” And just like that, my smile faded. That nickname was also not a good memory.
“Okay, fine,” I said. “No nicknames. Truce?”
“Truce.”
I twisted my hair into a towel on top of my head, then cinched my robe tighter and walked out of the bathroom. “So, for what do I owe this call?”
“Just… checking in on you. We’ve been worried.”
I gave a humorless chuckle and fell onto my bed. “I’m… fine. I just wish I could talk my dad out of this stupid wedding. He’s been married four times, Max. At some point you’d think he’d give up on the whole nuptials thing and maybe, I dunno, live with a woman for a few years first.”
Max sighed on the other line. “Take it from me, because trust me, I should know. I’ve seen more than my fair share of weddings—weddings of couples madly in love and couples who clearly should not be getting married—nothing you do or say will change your dad’s plans. All you can do is love him and be there for him.”
I groaned. “Can I at least sayI told you soto him when this marriage blows up?”
