Smitten

“What would I do without you?” She flashes me a beaming smile that lights my soul. “Oh, Fish. Matthew. I’m counting down the days until I see you again.”

“Me, too, sweetheart. Honestly, I’m counting the minutes. The seconds.”

She flashes me a lovely smile. “Me, too. Good night now, my darling.”

“Good night, beautiful. Talk soon.”

Twenty

Alessandra

I rush into my small kitchen, throw my keys onto the counter, and immediately start making myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I’ve got just enough time to stuff some food down my throat and change into my work clothes before racing to the café for my shift. But midway through making my sandwich, my phone rings—and when I look at the screen, I drop the knife in my hand like a hot potato.

Reed.

The big boss hardly ever calls me personally. It’s always Owen, his right-hand man, or Zeke, the hotshot who produced my single. In the end, Zeke Emmanuel turned out to be every bit as talented and brilliant as his reputation suggested. After recording all the musicians for my song in LA, including Fish on bass, Zeke came to Boston to personally coach me through recording my vocals.

“Hello?” I say.

“Hello, Alessandra. It’s Reed. How are you?”

“Good. You?”

“Great. Listen, a bunch of my A-listers are playing at a charity concert in New York at the end of next week. Georgie and I will be there, and I’d like you to come, too.”

“I’m already coming to that show as Fish’s guest!”

“Perfect. I should have known. Now, listen. There’s going to be an army of prestigious music journalists there, backstage before the show, and I’ve arranged for a couple of them to briefly interview you.”

“Me?”

“Don’t freak out on me, kid. Georgie will be there, so she can be your emotional support animal, as needed. And the interviews will be extremely brief.”

“Okay,” I squeak out. “Sounds great.”

“Oh for the love of fuck, Ally. Aren’t we past this shit now?”

“What shit?”

“The shit where you clam up when you’re stressed out?”

“Uh, no. We’re not past that shit. I don’t think we’ll ever be past that shit. Sorry.”

Reed sighs. “There’s nothing to worry about. With all the big names performing that night, nobody’s going to give a rat’s ass about little Alessandra Tennison and her debut single, no matter how much I try to talk you up. The journalists who’ve agreed to interview you aren’t doing it because they give a shit about you. They’re doing it because they owe me a favor.”

“Does everyone in this industry owe you a favor?”

“Pretty much.” He begins speaking to someone offline. So, I wait patiently for him to return to me. Finally, he says, “Hey, kid. I need you to defend me. Georgina walked in while I was saying nobody gives a shit about you, and her Momma Bear got all riled up. Would you please tell my feisty woman I was actually being nice to you—cruel to be kind?”

“Put her on.”

“You’re gonna defend me, right?”

“I’m going to tell the truth.”

“Well, don’t do that. Defend me.”

I laugh. “Reed Rivers. You’re scared of Georgina Ricci, aren’t you?”

“No,” he says righteously. “I’m terrified of her.”

We laugh together.

“Put Miss Ricci on,” I say. “The truth shall set you free.”

“I’m trusting you, Ally.”

“Put her on.”

“I’m putting you on speaker. Okay, tell her what a great guy I am.”

“Hi, Georgie,” I say.

“Hi, love. Was Reed being mean to you?”

“No. He was helping me. It’s a relief to hear that nobody gives a shit about me. It takes the pressure off. And that’s exactly what I need.”

“See?” Reed says indignantly. “Ally might be your sister, but she’s my artist. And if there’s one thing I know how to do in life, it’s how to handle my artists. So tell your Momma Bear to calm the fuck down.”

“Fine.” Georgie laughs. “Alessandra, aren’t you so excited about everything Reed’s lined up for you?”

“So excited.”

“When he told me about your music video—”

“Georgie!” Reed chastises. “I haven’t mentioned that yet. I was just getting to that.”

“Whoops.”

“Video?” I eke out.

Reed exhales. “Here we go again. Yes, I’ve decided to shoot a music video for your single, while you’re in New York. We’ll shoot the day after the charity concert, so you’ll need to adjust whatever plans you’ve got with Fish. Now, calm down, if you’re freaking out. It’ll be a simple one-day shoot—a quaint little performance video. Nothing fancy. We’ve rented out a coffeehouse in Brooklyn for the shoot and I’ve already lined up Maddy Morgan to direct.”

“Oh my God! Maddy is amazing!”

“I’ve been meaning to give her a shot for years. Now, don’t worry. All you have to do is look into the camera while singing along to your track. Just pretend to be at your regular gig in Boston. You can do that, right?”

“I can do that.”

“Good girl.”

“Although I should warn you I’m not all that great on camera.”