“You’re not serious,” he says, shifting position so he can look at her. “You don’t use a fountain pen? There’s nothing better.”
“Yeah, there is. A fine-tip Pilot V5.”
He laughs. “What, do you have a sponsorship deal or something?”
“No, but I should really tell Howie to—”
Before she can finish, he kisses her, and when he pulls back again, his face is lit with such simple happiness that Greta’s heart does a little judder.
“Can I take you out tonight?” he asks.
“We’re on a boat.”
“It’s a ship,” he says. “And I realize that. I just meant on a date.”
“A date?” she asks skeptically.
“What?” he says. “Too formal? Too nerdy?”
She smiles. “No. A date would be nice.”
When she gets back to her room to shower and change, Greta glances through the pileup of messages on her phone. Pretty much anyone who’s ever been on the payroll has been trying to reach her. She calls Howie, and he picks up right away.
“Jesus,” he says. “Where have you been?”
“On a boat,” she reminds him.
“I know that. I meant— Never mind.” He sighs, and she can picture him pinching the bridge of his nose as he does when he’s stressed. Which is often. Howie manages only a small number of musicians, but most of them are significantly more famous than Greta, and he always seems to be on call. “Just tell me this. Did you do it?”
“Do what?” she asks coolly. “Get engaged to Luke?”
“No, did you—”
“Plant it? God, Howie. Of course not. What would be the point?”
“To get some publicity ahead of this weekend,” he says flatly. That’s the thing about Howie. He’s not like some agents and managers. He isn’t slick, and he doesn’t try to charm you. He’s a straight shooter all the way. Which is why she likes him. Usually.
“This is not the kind of publicity I want,” she says. “And for the record, we’re not even together anymore. I haven’t seen him in months. And I’d never leak something like this. Even if it were true.”
“Fair enough. Had to ask,” Howie says matter-of-factly. “Next question: Now that it’s out there, do you want me to kill it or wait till after this weekend?”
A knot forms in Greta’s chest, because she knows exactly what he’s saying.
That it could be helpful.
That maybe she even needs it.
It hasn’t even been an hour, but already the joy of playing again—the feel of the strings beneath her fingers and the reassuring weight of the guitar around her neck—is starting to fade.
She’s silent for a long time. On the other end of the line, Howie clears his throat. “Okay,” he says. “Roger that.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You don’t have to.”
Greta sighs. “Let me think about it a little more. I’ll call you later.”
“Right-o,” he says, and then he hangs up the phone.
There’s a dress code in the dining room tonight, so Greta pulls out the nicest thing she brought, a short black dress and a pair of heels. On her way down, she spots Davis and Mary sitting on a small sofa near a panel of windows, faces pressed together as they beam into a phone. As she gets closer, Greta hears the sound of Jason’s voice. She’s about to make a U-turn when Davis looks up.
“Greta,” he says so loudly that she jumps. “We’re talking to Jase. Come say hi!”
For a second, she considers saying no. But there’s no graceful way to escape this situation, and so—grimly, awkwardly—she walks around the back of the couch and stoops to see Jason’s face on the screen.
“Well, don’t you look nice,” he says with that dazzling smile of his, his eyes dancing with amusement. “How’s life at sea?”
Davis hands Greta the phone, then hauls himself off the couch. Mary stands too. “You two catch up,” she says. “We’ve got to get ready for dinner.”
“What about your phone?” Greta says, holding it out to him, but Davis waves this off.
“We’ll get it later,” he says, and then—almost as an afterthought—he adds, “See you, son,” before walking off down the hall.
When they’re gone, Greta lifts the screen again, and suddenly it’s just her and Jason, who is laughing. “Typical,” he says. “Always trying to pawn me off.”