Page 6 of Perfect Composition
“You were going to give yourself heartburn. Now, let’s talk business.” Before Simon can say anything, I rattle off names. “ABBA, the Who, Paul Simon, Elton John, Alanis Morrissette, just to name a few. It’s been done.”
“But see, I believe you can dream up something that’s next-level,” he argues.
“You flatter me and I think give me too much credit.”
“Evangeline doesn’t think so either. We’re so certain of what you’re going to be able to produce, Beckett, we’re willing to step away from any commitments next spring. That gives you close to nine months to come up with the book.”
My heart starts pounding in my chest. “And you? What about you?”
“I’m so certain that you can do this, I want to talk Bristol into financing it.”
Christ. I just clench my jaw. “And if I say no?”
“Then we’ll figure something else out. But Beckett, you have a story to tell. What it is, we’re not certain.”
“You’re giving me too much credit. I’m not even sure if I know what it is yet.”
He flashes a smile that makes him look remarkably like his brother for just a second. “You know what you need to do?”
“What’s that?” I ask.
“You need to fall in love.”
“That is the very last thing that will ever happen in my life, Simon. I’ll agree to do the music without a contract first. Trust me.”
He bobbles his glass “Excuse me?”
I open my mouth to repeat what I said, but his hand slashes through the air. “That’s complete and utter bullshit, Beckett. You have one of the biggest hearts of any guy I’ve ever met. You’re funny, not all that bad-looking…”
“Are you planning on writing my online dating profile? Because if you are, be certain to mention I’m filthy rich due to your wife.”
He flicks me off. “So, I don’t get it. Is it the gold diggers? I mean, Bris knows some great—”
“I refuse to fall in love.” My voice, devoid of emotion, is more potent for its absence of feeling.
“Care to share the reasons?”
“There’s just one.” I hold his gaze steadily when he finally lifts his eyes to mine.
“Oh, hell. There was a woman once, wasn’t there? And you’re not over it?”
I try to dodge the question with one of my own. “Must we keep talking about this?”
“With the ridiculous nondisclosure agreement you insisted your lawyer have me sign? Yes.”
A flicker of amusement cuts through the memories of my life in Texas Simon has unwittingly aroused. My lawyer, Carys Burke, essentially threatened to cut off Simon’s balls if he so much as breathes a word about our negotiation to anyone. “It’s more because it’s unfinished business. Maybe I need it to remain that way,” I muse.
“You left someone behind?” he guesses.
“I never let her know I’d be leaving so suddenly. Never told her I’d never be back. Then, one night, I ran into one of her brothers at a club after one of my shows.” The sick feeling of seeing Jesse Kensington washes over me. I reach for my water and take a sip.
“What happened then?”
“I asked how she was. He mentioned she had a beautiful daughter. And I felt those words like a punch to my gut.”
“Beckett, how old were you when you left her?”
“Eighteen.”
