Love Song(125)

“Huh?”

“I saw you come into the building,” I explain. “Drowning in a gray hoodie.”

“Oh, that wasn’t me.” Mollie May waves a hand, laughing. “It’s my decoy. Antonio and I came in through the back, like, thirty minutes before that. Tony is my bodyguard.” She nods toward the booth, where an enormous hawk-eyed man stands guard.

I lift a brow. “He’s not worried I’ll try anything with us alone in here?”

“Nah, anyone who sings that pretty isn’t gonna hurt me.” Her magnetic eyes sweep over me. Up and down. “Why don’t I know you? I should know you.”

“I mean… I’m nobody.” I shrug.

“Highly doubt that.” Despite the flirtatious note in her voice, her gaze is shrewd, gleaming with intelligence.

I’m caught off guard by her entire demeanor. Onstage, at her sold-out stadium shows, she comes off as, well, flighty. Dumb even. Might be a shitty judgment to make, but that’s the vibe I got. And she’s always hyper to the max, with the fringe and the bright eyeshadow, the high-heeled boots and wild dance moves.

But right now, her energy is mellow. Low-key.

“I’m Wyatt,” I say. “Wyatt Graham.”

She brightens. “Graham? Related to Hannah?”

“She’s my mom.”

“Holy shit. You realize your mom is iconic, right?”

Coming from another icon, that makes me smile. “Yeah, she’s pretty great.”

“She wrote a duet for me and Stylo. One of my favorite tracks to sing live. When he comes in, the crowd goes nuts.” Mollie May gestures toward the piano. “Did she write that? The song you were just playing?”

“Nope. That was a Wyatt Graham original.”

She looks impressed. “Do you write all your own shit?”

“Yeah. I’m not a great collaborator.” I sigh ruefully. “But I’m trying to be.”

That makes her grin. “I used to be the same way. Insisted on writing everything on my own. My first album was all me. Every track. And then the second one, I literally cried because I had to give a credit to this producer who made a change to one line, and apparently that earns them credit. Third album, I gave credit to fuckin’ everyone—because you know what I realized?”

“What?” I’m genuinely fascinated by this conversation.

“That it’s arrogant to think other people don’t have anything to offer me.”

“I’m sort of reaching that conclusion myself,” I confess. “I just spent a month in Boston letting my mother point out all the things that were wrong with my song.”

“But it made it better, though, didn’t it?” She tilts her head knowingly.

“Yes,” I grumble. “But don’t tell her I said that.”

That gets me another delighted laugh. “So. Who is she?”

“Who’s who?”

“The girl whose smile stops the world. Who’s the song about?”

Pain clenches around my heart. “Oh, just someone I…”

I can’t finish. I don’t know how to.

Someone I used to love? Well, no, because I still love her with every fiber of my being.

Someone who used to love me?

Someone I created a life with?

Someone who doesn’t see a future with me?

“Someone I used to know,” I finally say.

“Past tense. I like the past tense.” She leans forward and touches my arm. Her nails are painted a glossy black. “How long are you in town for?”

“A few days. I’m meeting with my new producer.”

“Who?” she demands.

I shrug sheepishly. “Tobey Dodson.”

“Well, fuck me. Tobey took you on? You cutting an album?” When I nod, intrigue dances in her eyes. “When’s it going to be ready?”

“I don’t know.”

“How many tracks?”

“I don’t know.”

She grins again, then startles me by saying, “Let’s grab dinner while I’m in town.” She nods decisively, as if it’s a done deal.

“Oh.” I blink. “Okay. Sure.”

“My agent will get your number.”

“Mollie May,” someone interrupts. Her bodyguard is at the talkback mic. “We gotta go, girl. Sanchez is ready for you.”

“No, I’m ready for Sanchez,” she calls toward the booth. She turns to wink at me. “Don’t ever let people think they control your time. They’re always waiting for you.”

“Noted.”

As she flounces toward the control room door, I check out her ass in that tiny denim skirt. Damn, she’s cute. And not at all what I expected.

After Mollie May and her bodyguard disappear, I suddenly notice my mother is up there too. I walk into the booth, wondering how much of that she heard.

“You realize the biggest pop star in the world asked you to dinner?” Mom says.

Guess she heard everything.

I shrug. “I think she just wants to talk about my album.”

“Oh, honey, she doesn’t want to talk about the album. That was flirting.”

I give another shrug.