You're Still the One (6 page)

Chapter Four

Home sweet home.
Two weeks after her exciting night at Country Roads, Arabella dropped her bags in her motel room and released an excited noise from her mouth. It was more than a laugh, more than a giddy squeal. It was the sound of freedom.

Everything about this town was perfect. The air held a certain energy, the people were incredibly friendly, and during the ride over she’d spotted a jazz quartet playing on the corner two blocks away. New Orleans had music in its blood, every bit as much as Nashville, only here no one knew who she was.

Ella joined her bags on the mattress, falling back freestyle and laughing aloud as she bounced. The floral print on the bedspread was hideous, the walls a strange mustard color, and the carpet in the hallway had definitely seen better days. But it was hers, hers until she found an apartment, anyway, and she’d chosen it on her own.

Her father expected her to be staying in some fancy place off Canal Street or in the Garden District, but that wasn’t her. That was the prim façade, the image. This
place was
real
. It was low-key. She could throw herself across the mattress and watch TV stark naked if she wanted to—not that she ever would, or that she couldn’t in the pricier hotels, but they’d always felt stifling. Here she could breathe.

Her cell phone buzzed on the dresser and Arabella bounded off the bed to retrieve it. “Let me guess, you miss me already?” she said in lieu of hello, not bothering to check who was calling.

“
Yes
.” Lana tacked on a long-suffering sigh for dramatic effect, and Ella rolled her eyes at the theatrics. “I came home today and there were no fresh baked cookies waiting for me. No lavender lemonade or fresh squeezed orange juice, either. Ella, I had to drink Snapple from a bottle and rip open a carton of Oreos. Do you see what you’re doing to me?”

Arabella laughed. “My sincere apologies for leaving you snackless, prosecutor. Good to know you only love me for my cooking.”

“Future prosecutor,” she corrected, “and not
only
for your cooking. I also love your magical ways with the laundry.”

That was her, domestic goddess extraordinaire. She couldn’t help it. Taking care of people made her happy, and even though her father hired people to do such things around the house, Arabella had always pitched in alongside them, eager to help. It made her feel closer to her mother.

“I left you detailed instructions taped to the washing machine,” Ella said, walking over to the large window overlooking the oak-lined Carrollton Avenue. “And you know that if you get in a pinch, Honey would love for you to visit. Just be prepared for a dose of unsolicited advice along with your pressed unmentionables.”

Linda “Honey” Mabry was Arabella’s surrogate grandmother and the closest thing she’d had to a mother since she was six years old. Honey had bought Ella her first training bra, had been the one to dry her tears when Matt Hightower broke her heart in the tenth grade, and she, along with her spitfire granddaughter, continued to push and prod Ella to step out from the shadows and into the spotlight. She’d also made it abundantly clear as of late that she
was ready for great-grandchildren, and she didn’t much mind letting anyone within listening distance know it. Unfortunately for her, Lana had no plans of ever marrying, much less procreating.

“Don’t I know it,” she mumbled. “Listen, you just better not think about going and falling for some hot Cajun guy, because I’ll drive my happy butt down there and snatch you back. Test me on this.”

Arabella’s smile fell from her face, and her laugh came out forced. “I wouldn’t dare,” she said, wishing away the pressure behind her eyes. “Besides, you know falling in love didn’t make the cut.”

Lana hesitated on the other end, and for a moment, Ella feared she’d ask again. Ever since that night she’d approached Charlie, her best friend had been pestering her for details, but so far, Arabella had kept mum. Lana knew that they’d kissed, and she claimed to have seen the haze of sexual tension in the air, but Ella had refused to say anything other than that he’d been a complete gentleman…and even hotter up close than she’d remembered.

She wasn’t sure why she felt the need to keep the details to herself; she didn’t usually keep secrets from her best friend. But everything about that night felt precious. Fleeting. Almost as if by discussing the tiny moments that made up her short time with Charlie, stains would suddenly appear, tarnishing it, making it less special, and she couldn’t allow that to happen. That night was all she’d ever have.

But, Lana didn’t ask again. What she said was, “Ah, yes, the infamous summer list. You do realize you’re the only person I know who makes a to-do list to enjoy herself, right?”

Outside, bells clanged as a distant streetcar slid to a stop along the cables, letting on a fresh batch of passengers. The process was familiar, orderly, not unlike her lists. Arabella was tempted to recite research about how recorded goals and strategic plans had higher success rates than merely winging it. She considered sharing studies that proved it reduced stress, bred creativity, and kept you efficient. But Lana had heard all that before.

Plus, before she could, her friend added:

“Your lists may be my favorite thing about you, cookies notwithstanding, and even I can admit this one’s pretty epic.” Lana’s smile could be heard over the phone, and Ella exhaled a breath. This list
was
epic, and so unlike any she’d ever put together. Of course, this was the first time she’d ever truly left home and felt free to experiment. “Just know that I’m expecting a call every time you cross off another one of those suckers, and I will want details.”

“If I don’t tell you, then it didn’t happen,” Arabella answered, turning away from the window with the hope of adventure rising in her chest.

Nine items remained on her list, each one more daring than the last. Some demanded physical bravery, others required mental and emotional courage. Strangely enough, those would prove the hardest. Reaching out and taking what she wanted, asking the hard questions as to what that would even be, wouldn’t come easy. For so long, she’d told herself she wanted whatever her father wanted. It was the two of them against the world. The thought of possibly disappointing him with her decisions was almost crippling, but if she didn’t step out now, when would she? Four years living with Lana, the queen of no regrets, had proven Ella was bottled up…this summer was her chance to finally uncork.

A few minutes later, Arabella let Lana go with promises of mailed cookies as soon as she found herself an apartment or a kitchen, whichever came first, and then she tabbed over to her messages where a text remained unanswered. It’d been waiting for her when she stopped for lunch in Tuscaloosa.

Heading into a meeting now, but let me know when you get settled at the hotel. Don’t go into the city alone after dark. Love you, princess.

Ella sighed, her fingers hovering over the keypad. Her father really was a big softie at heart, and she loved him more than anything. But that text was part of the problem. He still saw her as a child, a
princess
, incapable of knowing the potential dangers of walking a strange city alone at night. It’s not that he meant to undermine her intelligence with his unsolicited advice or intend to shake her confidence with his expectations for her future. But that’s exactly what he did.

Arabella typed out a quick reply, then shut off her phone, needing some distance from home. That was another reason this summer was so vital. In New Orleans, she could be anyone she wanted to be. Daring and confident, or an everyday college grad. Unless someone lived and breathed the industry, they wouldn’t know her from Eve, which meant they wouldn’t look twice if she said something foolish or did something crazy. Here, the world was her oyster. Back in Nashville, she was Music City’s darling, Lana’s homemaker bestie, and the daughter of one incredible, loving, stubborn man who would forever see her as his little girl.

Emphasis on the
little.

…

“Sausage biscuit,” Charlie declared, tossing a wrapped sandwich on Mike Hebert’s desk with a grin. “Who loves ya, baby?”

Strange Wheel’s renowned sound engineer shook his head with an amused smirk, a look Charlie was getting used to seeing on the older man’s face. “You do, I suppose.” The man chuckled low to himself, but he unwrapped that biscuit with gusto, and when he took a massive bite, his eyes lit up behind his wire frames.

Charlie called out a greeting to Hunter and Pete, then lobbed each of them a wrapped biscuit, too, feeling like freaking Santa Claus. The crew here were good guys, hard workers and honest dudes, but they were way too serious. They’d needed the likes of him joining the ranks to liven up the place. Even better, working here kept him busy enough that the constant void barely registered. That wasn’t to say he wasn’t lonely, because he was, but concentrating on his future was more important than the feel of a woman’s touch.

Yep, any way you sliced it, agreeing to Stone’s proposal was one of the best decisions Charlie had ever made, second only to co-founding Blue with his best friend when he was nineteen.

The small office at the end of the hall was his as of a week ago, and he dropped into his desk chair with a smile. It felt good having tangible work to accomplish while the band was on hiatus, and Strange Wheel provided an excellent opportunity to further his foundation. After finalizing the details of his niece’s trip the night before, Charlie had told Abby how things were coming with Life & Lyrics, and hearing her enthusiasm further proved he was headed in the right direction. Everything in his life was suddenly coming up roses…so it would be nice if he could stop thinking about a certain mysterious brunette.

Charlie groaned and shoved his hand through his dark hair. Why was she haunting him? It wasn’t the abrupt ending, either. She’d been easy to talk to, witty and fun, and the feel of her lips was imprinted on his skin. Never in his life had a woman affected him like this, so it stood to reason he’d never see her again. He closed his eyes with a sigh. It was probably for the best.

“Morning, Mr. Tucker.”

A manila folder dropped on his desk, and Charlie raised his head to see Beth, the young wisp of a thing who worked the front desk. She was a relative of Mike’s, shy as all get-out, and she refused to call him Charlie. She made him feel ancient as shit, but at least this time she hadn’t called him
sir.

“Good morning, sunshine. This the list of local bars and clubs we discussed last week?” He opened the folder to find a huge stack of papers inside.

Beth nodded. “Yes, sir.” Charlie gritted his teeth. “I included every bar I could find that advertised open mic nights in Jefferson, St. Tammany, St. Bernard, Plaquemines, and Orleans Parish. The owners’ names and phone numbers are listed on there as well.”

“Awesome.”

One of the things Strange Wheel tasked him with was community outreach and broadening their name within the Greater New Orleans area. Sure, the industry was taking note of their innovative style, but they wanted local musicians to know they had a place right here ready and willing to make their recording dreams come true.

Charlie glanced over Beth’s work and gave an impressed nod. “You sure you’re only sixteen?” The spreadsheet she’d put together wasn’t only extensive, it looked complicated as hell. Creating something like this would’ve taken him forever. This generation definitely had a leg up on technology. When he lifted his eyes, he found her gnawing on her lip, a pink blush stealing across her pale cheeks.

Dammit. The poor thing wore her heart on her sleeve. The other guys had made it obvious she had a crush on him, and if Charlie didn’t want to hurt her feelings, which he didn’t, he’d have to be more careful with how he praised her. “Thanks for this,” he said, closing the folder and tapping the cover with his finger. “Good work.”

She beamed and started fiddling with her hair, lashes low, as she hung around unnecessarily, and he proceeded to attempt looking as important and harried as possible. He shuffled papers around and fired up his computer. Honestly, this job was a cakewalk, but he was a freaking champ at appearing busier than he really was. It came in handy whenever Tyler got into one of his organizational fits.

Beth shifted her weight and cleared her throat, and when he didn’t respond, began inching her way toward the door. She made it halfway there when she spun around. “Oh, sir?” Again with that word. Withholding a sigh, he raised his eyebrows in question. “Arabella James is here.”

It took Charlie a full thirty seconds to remember that Stone’s daughter had used an alias to apply for the position, an honorable attempt to withhold her identity. “Great. I’ll be right out to meet her.”

With that, Beth closed the door, her smile dimmed, and Charlie rapped his knuckles on the desk.

He’d known this day would come—hell, it was the reason he’d been hired—but he’d been dreading it all the same. He had nothing against the girl. The intern position wasn’t exactly rocket science; Hunter was handling it just fine, so Charlie was sure Arabella would, too. But the role of glorified babysitter rankled.

Charlie loved working at Strange Wheel. Loved the fast-paced energy of recording, the rush of experimentation he got on the producing side of things. Arabella “James” Stone would only distract from that. Now that he was here, he wanted to immerse himself in music, not keep tabs on some haughty prima donna.

“You made your bed,” he muttered to himself, mock-stabbing himself in the chest with a Bic pen as he shoved to his feet in surrender. His rolling chair careened toward the wall and crashed with a dull
thump
. “Now you have to make the best of it.”