I lean my head against the small plane window and close my eyes. When has taking a break ever resulted in something good? Isn’t it just another way of saying goodbye?

The plane takes off, and I feel like I’ve left a large chunk of myself behind.

LA is…not what I expected. Oh, I thought there would be sun, sea, and palm trees. And LA has that in spades. What I did not realize is that a good chunk of LA is made of long, slightly downtrodden strip malls.

That all changes when Scottie checks us into the Hotel Bel-Air. The place is gorgeous with its fragrant gardens, soaring stucco architecture, and swank black-and-white color scheme. It has to be expensive as hell, but Scottie made clear that he’s footing the bill until we sign a deal with a record company. And Scottie does not stay in dumps. Or so he tells me when we part ways to settle into our rooms.

My room has its own garden terrace with a Jacuzzi plunge pool, living room, and a fireplace. Instantly, I want to take a picture and show Killian. He’d love this place. It occurs to me that he’s probably stayed here many times.

But I don’t. I need to make a clean break with this. Go cold turkey. If I keep calling him, I’m going to want to be with him even more. I’m going to end up saying something stupid like, “please take me back!”

I put my phone away and take a long bath. I decide then and there that if I ever have the money to build a dream house, I’m designing it just like this place. I’m just not entirely sold on the location.

After room service of a spectacular lobster Cobb salad, I meet Scottie in the lobby.

The man looks right at home here in his cream-colored three-piece suit, gray silk tie, and sky blue shirt. He’s wearing loafers and sunglasses. All of this would look ridiculous on a mere mortal, but not Scottie.

“Are you sure you’ve never modeled for Dolce & Gabbana? Because you look exactly like that model—”

“Don’t say his name,” Scottie snaps, glaring at me over his shades. “Ever.”

“You’re just giving me ammunition,” I reply in a sing-song voice as he guides me out to a waiting Mercedes sedan.

“I’ve filled an entire cemetery with musicians who have tried to tease me, Ms. Bell.”

He doesn’t appear serious. Of course with the sunglasses on, it’s hard to tell.

Our destination is a recording studio, and I try not to gape as I spy not only a few famous movie stars walking by but two of my favorite singers chatting in a glass-and-steel break room inside.

“This way.” Scottie ushers me into a smaller, private booth where a man waits for us.

He looks to be in his mid-forties, balding (with gray frosting what hair is left) and icy blue eyes. Those eyes lock on me, and I can see their keen intelligence. He stands as we enter.

“Scottie. Good to see you.”

They exchange handshakes, and then the man turns his attention to me.

“This is Ms. Liberty Bell,” Scottie tells him.

“Love the name.” He shakes my hand. His grip is fast and brutal. His smile is genuine. “Did you two come up with it?”

“No, sir. My parents had that honor.”

“Honey-sweet voice as well. Excellent.”

I might be offended if it wasn’t clear he was figuring out how to market me.

Scottie gestures for me to take a seat, and the two men follow suit as soon as I do.

“This is Hardy,” Scottie says to me.

“As in ‘Hardy Jenns. With two Ns’?” God help me, I flipped him off. Wincing. I lower my finger. “I’m sorry—”

“Let me guess,” Hardy interrupts with a wry smile. “You hate when it does that.”

I smile too. “It’s bad form to mix movie quotes.”

Scottie looks at us with his usual put-out expression. “When you’re done with your ’80s movies fun, I’d like to get on with this.”

Both Hardy and I blink in shock.

“Hell, Scottie,” Hardy says with a laugh, “I had no idea you’d lower yourself to watching ’80s movies.”

“Mmm…” Scottie hums, deadpan. “And sometimes I listen to rock music. Fancy that.”

Hardy leans closer to me. “Warning: taunt the tiger too much and he’ll swipe.”

I like Hardy, with his easy humor and kind eyes. He’s nothing like what I’d heard from my parents about record producers being egotistical artists who liked to browbeat musicians.

The thought amuses me, and I actually turn my head, some deep-seated part of me expecting Killian to be at my side so I can share a look with him. But he isn’t here. His absence is a cold blast against my skin, and my smile dies.

Thankfully neither of the men who actually are in the room seems to notice.

“Hardy is an excellent producer, and we’ve been discussing your options.”

“I’ve seen clips of you with Kill John, Liberty—”

“Call me Libby. Please.”

“Well, Libby, you have a voice and natural sound that guys like me dream of developing.” His icy eyes light with excitement. “I’ve got a few ideas I’d like to run by you.”

“I’m game if you are.” That sounded all right, didn’t it? On the inside I’m shaking like a leaf in a storm. If I can get through this without giggling like a fool, I’ll be happy.

Scottie is texting, but he glances at the door when it opens, and three more men enter.

“Ah, yes.” Scottie puts away his phone. “Your backup band. Tom plays guitar, Murphy on bass, and Jefferson on the drums.”

The guys file in. They’re all older than me, clearly seasoned musicians. Guys like my dad, who worked the industry but never tried to make a bid for stardom. Instantly, I feel a measure of comfort. Glancing at Scottie, I’m guessing he knew exactly what he was doing when he hired them. And I have the urge to kiss his handsome cheek. If I didn’t know it would make him uncomfortable as hell, I would.

“You look like your mother,” Tom says as he sits down.

Surprise tingles over my skin. “You knew her?”

Of the three men, he’s the oldest, probably in his forties. “I knew both your mom and your dad. Marcy and George were true talents.” His brown eyes grow solemn. “I was sorry to hear of their passing.”

“Thank you.”

Murphy and Jefferson take a seat as well.