Love Songs Page 2

  “Tomorrow at ten. Starbucks. Riverside Building.”

  “Will that work?”

  He nodded. “Thank you. Can I take you out for a drink tonight? No business, just get to know you?”

  Clara pulled her phone out of her back pocket. “Thanks, but I have one guilty pleasure and it’s on TV tonight.”

  A bead of sweat rolled down the back of his neck. He forced a smile. “What might that be?”

  “Reality TV at its worse. Ever heard of Nashville Ex-wives Club?”

  He knew the blood had just drained out of his head. Damn if he fainted this would be over.

  “I’ve heard of it.”

  “Never miss a one. That Little woman is such trash she makes me laugh. But I’ll see you tomorrow. Ten.”

  He only nodded as Clara left the theater.

  Well, this was over. Once Clara found out about his connection with Patricia Little, she too would exit stage left.

  Warner left the theater just in time to see a tow truck drive away with his pickup.

  It was official—Nashville hated him.

  Chapter Two

  Warner had been in the Riverside Building numerous times. When one was a courier, every building in downtown was familiar. Those days seemed much easier now as he walked through revolving doors.

  He knew it was hot, but he was sweating more than normal. It was stupid. He’d sat in front of music execs that could make or break him. So why did this woman, whom he didn’t know, make him so nervous?

  A glance at his watch and he realized it was ten o’clock straight up. He’d hoped to have been there a few minutes early, but then again, that wouldn’t be his style. He was just lucky he wasn’t late.

  Clara was already there seated by the front bank of windows. There was an iced coffee drink in front of her and she was looking at her iPhone.

  When he approached the table she looked up at him and gave him a grin. It wasn’t a smile—it was a grin and that did something funny to his stomach.

  “Mornin’,” she drawled out.

  “Mornin’.”

  “I got here early with my brother, so I already have had two coffees. Hope you don’t mind I started without you.”

  He shook his head. “No, that’s fine. I don’t drink coffee. Your brother works in the building?”

  She sat back in her seat and the grin turned into a smile. He was humoring her with his sporadic talking in circles.

  “He works in a corner office upstairs.”

  “Corner office?” He sat his bag on an empty chair. “He must be important.”

  Clara shrugged. “I suppose. So what did you want to show me?”

  That was more like it. Get down to business and stop trying to make small talk. So far she hadn’t said anything about his picture prominently displayed on the mantel of Patricia Little’s home during last night’s episode of that trashy show, so maybe she hadn’t noticed, or maybe she’d missed it. Could he be so lucky? After all, he’d caught it and it hadn’t helped that Patricia mentioned him by name and called him untalented.

  Warner pulled out the chair and sat down. It wasn’t but a split second later he realized he still had his sling bag over him and it was choking him. He tried to finesse his way from under the strap and pull it over his head, but the strap caught his sunglasses, which were now stuck in his hair.

  There was the great possibility that he was going to hang himself before he got to show her any of his work. This was so stupid.

  He managed the bag over his head and he was sure he heard his glasses crack. The bag fell to the floor with a grand thud. There were probably a few cracked CDs in there now. Great!

  Warner reached for his sunglasses and tried to pull them from his hair without leaving a huge hole from the number of strands he could feel himself pull out.

  Finally, he was free of his captor and the torture device—his sunglasses—which looked only slightly bent out of shape.

  Now he had to make eye contact with this beautiful woman across from him and hope she wasn’t laughing.

  Her gaze was out the window. She hadn’t seen him at all.

  Thank God!

  She turned her head back toward him. “So, show me your work.”

  “Right.” He tucked the bent glasses into the front of his shirt and reached for his bag. He unzipped it carefully, hoping the contents wouldn’t spill out all over the floor, as that seemed to be how things in his life were going.

  The sheets of music he’d brought with him had taken the form of the folder, which had curled up in the bag. Well, it was just paper.

  He slid them across the table to her.

  Clara picked them up as she tucked her leg under her. She liked things casual, this came across loud and clear. There was no diva mentality built into her. She was very comfortable in her skin and he wished he was equally as comfortable in his.

  She tapped her fingers on the table as she looked over the music. It was playing in her head, he knew what that looked like. No one had to tell him she was musically inclined. It radiated from her like the confidence she exuded.

  Her lips twitched as she read, as if she were singing the song. The mangled CDs might be worthless—she didn’t need them.

  Clara flipped to the next page and went through the same motions, but then she tilted her head as if something didn’t make sense. But she kept going, her head bobbing to the beat she obviously heard in her head.

  Warner had his hands clasped tightly under the table as he watched her. It had been almost five minutes and she hadn’t said a word.

  Again she flipped to the next song and this time she smiled.

  “Someone jade you? This one screams revenge.”

  He gritted his teeth. “Ex-stepmother. She’s wicked.”

  The smile on her lips grew and then she bit down on her lip and nodded. “These are amazing,” she said as she lay down the papers.

  “You really think so?”

  “Yeah. The melodies are great. The music is fluid. I like them.”

  “Will you record them—for demo?”

  Clara tilted her head and gave him a long look of consideration. Then she picked up her drink and took a small sip before setting it back down. “You really haven’t heard me perform.”

  “I listened to your entire rehearsal.”

  “That is totally different.” She picked up the music again and sorted through it. She pulled out one piece and looked it over before laying it atop the rest. “I like this one the best.”

  “Love Song? Why?”

  She laughed. “Because it isn’t your normal love song. The guy is a bumbling idiot, but all because he’s in love with a girl. I like that.”

  He felt the blood drain from his face. She just might be the most perfect woman in the world. The girl he’d written the song about didn’t care for his bumbling idiot ways.

  “Do you have plans tomorrow night?” she asked.

  Warner shook his head.

  “I’m playing at The Stage with a friend. Come see me really sing.”

  He hadn’t actually thought she was a performer, not like that. He’d been so mesmerized by her voice in the truck he’d forgotten that she might actually be someone who was just like everyone else and wanted fame and fortune in Nashville. Why would she want to help him?

  He nodded his acceptance to the invitation.

  A man came up to the window behind her and tapped on it. She turned, smiled, and gave him a wave.

  He gave Warner a nod and though he tried to smile, Warner was sure he smirked at the man. There was a case at the man’s feet. It looked like a banjo.

  Wow, he could pick them. Beautiful woman with an amazing voice, who was already a performer with some boyfriend who wore his hair long and a bandanna like a rock star. Warner might as well go find a bicycle and become a courier again. With any luck he could be hit by a delivery truck the first week.

  Clara held up a finger to the man and he nodded. “I have to go.”

  “Sure. Sure.
”

  She looked down at the song. “You’ll come and listen to us tomorrow?”

  “Us?”

  “Me and Randy. Randy Sayner—heard of him?”

  That was a name going around Nashville like a wild fire. “Sure, I’ve heard of him.”

  She nodded to the man who had turned to watch the people in the plaza. “He’s got the goods.”

  Warner felt his stomach tighten.

  Clara swung her bag over her shoulder. “Can I borrow this?” She picked up the piece of music and looked it over again. “I’ll give it back, I promise.”

  Oh, hell. What did he have to lose? This beautiful woman was going to steal his song and he was going to get run over by a delivery truck. No fretting there.

  “Sure.”

  “Thanks.” She picked up her drink and took another sip. “I like you. You’re cute.”

  Certainly that hadn’t been what he thought she’d say. “Thank you,” the words choked out.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow. We start at seven-thirty.”

  “Okay.”

  She turned to walk away and then turned back. “Hey, Warner, just for the record. I don’t think you’re a talentless moron. I think that title belongs to Patricia Little.”

  With a wink Clara was gone and Warner was sure he was going to lose consciousness and fall right out of his chair.

  Clara knew exactly who he was. Crap!

  Clara walked through the door and out to the plaza where Randy stood watching people walk by. She looked back into the Starbucks where Warner shoved papers back into his bag.

  “What’s with the guy?” Randy asked as they started down the street.

  “Song writer. Wants me to demo his work for him.”

  Randy nodded. “Nice.”

  “He’s cute too.”

  Randy looked back. “Just your style. Blond and a complete mess.”

  “What does that mean?”

  He laughed. “You would die if you married a suit.”

  Clara nodded. “You’re right.” She handed him the song she’d borrowed from Warner. “This is one of his pieces.”

  Randy took the paper and looked it over. Obviously the song played in his head as he read it. “This is good.”

  “It is, isn’t it?” She took it back and looked it over. “Think we can pull this together and perform it tomorrow?”

  “It’s simple enough.”

  She thought of the look Warner would have on his face when he heard his song. That would be priceless.

  Then she thought about putting him to the true test of who he was. The entire Keller family would be there to see her and Randy perform. Warner could certainly use a dose of family, she was sure. It had to be horrible to have lost your father and your stepmother was some reality TV show hag.

  In the right hands, Warner Wright could be a super star. In her hands, he could be taken care of.

  There was a tightening in her chest as Randy grabbed her hand and pulled her across the street. Why did she want to take care of Warner Wright?

  Clara hadn’t noticed she was hungry until Randy mentioned stopping into a small diner before they rehearsed. She hadn’t eaten breakfast. She’d only downed those coffee drinks and now she was shaky. It wasn’t quite lunch time, but that didn’t seem to faze Randy. Then again, not much did.

  She’d ordered eggs and toast, but she didn’t realize she really hadn’t eaten much when Randy reached across the table, grabbed hold of her hand, and stopped her from just pushing her eggs around.

  “What’s up with you today?” he asked releasing her hand.

  She set down her fork. “Do you know who Warner Wright is?”

  “That guy you met at Starbucks?”

  “Yeah. Did you recognize him?”

  Randy bit into his toast. “Should I?”

  “You know who Patricia Little is, right?”

  “Hag.”

  She snorted a laugh. Who in Nashville didn’t know Patricia Little? She’d wrecked the OX’s career. No one was going to forget that.

  “Have you ever seen her show?”

  “That reality show? Are you kidding me? Why rot my brain?”

  Even though she agreed with him, she just couldn’t help herself. “Well, see, when they interview Patricia Little she’s always in front of her fireplace. And on her mantel she has all of these family pictures.” She began stirring her eggs again. “I’m not sure what the point of the family pictures are. I mean, none of the kids are hers. She doesn’t talk nice about any of them anyway.”

  “Clara, you’re not making much sense.”

  No, she wasn’t. “Warner Wright is one of Patricia Little’s stepchildren.”

  Randy stopped chewing and just stared at her. Then he swallowed hard. “The man who wants you to sing his songs is the stepson of the woman who took down the OX and ruined his career?”

  “In all fairness he’s her ex-step-son.”

  “Not sure that’s comforting.”

  Clara set down her fork again. “I don’t think he has anything to do with her. I mean wouldn’t he have mentioned it?”

  Randy shrugged.

  Clara thought about the song and about the man. Her family had secrets too—scandal even. But nothing compared to that of Patricia Little’s drama.

  She pulled her phone out of her pocket and began searching for information.

  “What are you doing?” Randy choked out.

  “Looking for information. Why is his picture still in her house? How long ago was she married to his dad?”

  “Why does this matter?”

  “I don’t know. I like him.”

  “Why?”

  Clara looked up at him and smiled. “He’s just my type right?”

  Randy laughed. “You’re a mess.”

  Clara searched for Patricia Little’s husband with the last name of Wright. Lewis Wright had been her second husband. “Oh, God.”

  “What? Did he ruin someone’s career too?”

  She looked up at him. Tears were welling in her eyes. “His father committed suicide.”

  “Damn.”

  “That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “You know what I hear in all this? He has baggage.”

  “I have baggage.”

  Randy wiped his mouth with his napkin and then threw it at her. “Clara Keller has no baggage.”

  She bit down on her lip. He was right. She might come from the most eclectic family ever assembled, but her life had been squeaky clean. The only drama that had ever come about in her life was her mother’s cancer, which she beat, and most recently the admission that her brother’s fiancée was actually the baby her aunt had given up for adoption. Okay, when she thought about it, that did sound like some television drama. Though it just wasn’t that way. Her family wasn’t that way. The only person who was having a hard time dealing with her brother Ed’s fiancée was her cousin Tyler. But even he understood it, even if he did find it hard to deal with.

  “Do you think I’m crazy to want to help him?”

  “Yes.”

  She dropped her shoulders. “That was a very definite answer.”

  “You like to perform. You like to be on stage at the theater. He’s asking you to record.”

  “So.”

  “So, that’s not what you’ve wanted all this time.”

  He was right. It sucked to have a best friend who knew you so well.

  “It’s not like he wants me to be the talent for his songs. He just wants me to be the voice on the demo.”

  Randy shook his head. “You’re going to fall for this guy and you’re going to get hurt.”

  “I am not.”

  “Not what? Going to fall or get hurt?”

  She didn’t like how this conversation was going and worse she didn’t like that she couldn’t answer him.

  Perhaps she needed to get to know him better. After all, she knew nothing except for what Patricia Little told the whole world on her trashy reality show.


  Tomorrow, after the show, she’d get to know Warner Wright, but for now she needed to convince Randy to buy her breakfast. She had just realized she’d used all her money on Starbucks.

  Chapter Three

  Only in Nashville could a bar be packed on a Wednesday night when the entertainment wasn’t a big name.

  Warner figured he could very easily get lost in the crowd which had gathered at The Stage, but the only table open was only feet from the stage under the enormous mural that decorated the wall.

  He made his way through the people and sat down.

  “Oh, no. I already have a seat for you,” the charming voice he’d already fallen in love with spoke from behind him.

  Warner turned to find Clara Keller, in a flowy white shirt and hip hugging jeans, standing behind him in some angelic glow with the lights illuminating the red highlights in her hair.

  He felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. That was a lot to observe when all he wanted to do was hear the woman sing.

  “You have a seat for me?”

  Clara pointed to the raised seating area just behind him where all the tables had been pushed together and every seat was taken, but one. “Your seat awaits among my fans.”

  Warner’s palms began to sweat. He recognized the man from the theater, her uncle. Oh, dear Lord! If that was her uncle, and they were all staring at him with grins on their faces, this must be her family. Was the woman crazy? She wanted him to sit with her family? He wasn’t ready for that. He wasn’t ready for any of this. God, no wonder they kept kicking him out of record exec’s offices. If he was a mess like this now, how could he possibly think he could have an artist criticize his work and change it?

  He swallowed hard. He should be used to being under a microscope. Patricia Little had put him under one.

  Seriously, he was having second thoughts about all this. Again, the bike courier job seemed like a better deal—in New York!

  Clara took his hand and led him toward the group. The first man to stand narrowed his eyes at him. Warner’s mouth went dry.

  “Warner, this is my father Carlos.”

  The man extended his hand toward him and Warner shook it. “It’s nice to meet you, sir.”