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Authors: Laura Spinella
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Her feet stopped moving, impeding the sensation, like a music box winding down. Aidan jerked her closer and everything wound tighter.
“Isabel, what are you doing?”
She willed her feet to move. As she did, déjà vu derailed. Breathing Aidan in, Isabel closed her eyes, her feet finding their footing while trying not to step on his. He smelled like Southern summer air, warm wrapping around her like the sun on her face. They’d been this close before, years of homework, playing tag Frisbee, sharing a bowl of mac-’n’-cheese. This was different, the simple solidness of his arms shifting boundaries. Anxiousness faded, Isabel feeling so very . . .
safe
. Her head drifted onto his shoulder, déjà vu marrying with current events. Like a roller shade, her eyes snapped open as her head jerked back.
I know this place! I know it from my dreams.
“What?” he demanded, a huge bob swimming through his throat. He didn’t look angry anymore, just in pain.
“Nothing.” Her head drifted back onto his shoulder knowing quietly, softly, that she loved this dream.
“Isabel, I . . .” She felt his mouth press to her head, but it was hard to be sure between the bobby pins and hairspray. A voice interrupted. It put a fuzzy edge on a moment that was beginning to feel like reality. It was a man’s voice, one she didn’t know.
“Aidan. Aidan Roycroft.” This time Aidan pulled away, blinking as if somebody flipped on a thousand-watt bulb. “Fitz Landrey,” he said, shoving a fat hand in between them. Isabel thought if she had a knife—not even a terribly sharp knife—she’d chop it off. “How you doin’, son?” The man was aggressively shaking Aidan’s hand, the one that was wrapped around her seconds ago. He led them to the edge of the dance floor. “My brother-in-law is Tim O’Rourke, Shanna’s dad.”
Super.
He was there to call Aidan out for humiliating his niece, the one who showed up to Catswallow’s grand gala with her cousin. But her uncle didn’t seem angry, shoving a business card in Aidan’s face.
“I’m here from L.A. My niece . . . Well, to tell you the truth, my niece couldn’t hate you any more than a rabid hornet. But a few weeks back she insisted I come see you perform. Then she told me not to bother.” He shrugged. “But I was passing through and I don’t make business decisions based on pissed-off girls and something tells me that happens a lot. Right, cookie?” He gave her chin a squeeze, Isabel yanking her head back. “Besides, I’m stuck in this hole for the next three hours.” Running a finger around the collar of his dress shirt, it was as if the confines of the Catswallow VFW were choking him. He was definitely a city dweller. He even smelled like something you’d never come in contact with in Catswallow. “My job is to find the next big thing. I’m always on a hunt for talent, looks, a singular presence. But mostly, I’m looking for an it factor.” Aidan and Isabel exchanged a glance. “I can’t tell you how many artists I’ve passed on, surely thousands. New faces with incredible talent, but nominal it
factor. It’s not something that comes with practice or a record label can manufacture. You either have it, or you don’t. And, kid, I’ve got to tell you—your it factor is unlike anybody I’ve ever signed. I haven’t seen this much natural talent since I signed Weak Need.” Their mouths gaped as Fitz tossed out the name of a mega-hot band. “And, frankly, it takes five of them to produce as much raw charisma as you’ve got going.”
The rest of the conversation was a blur, Isabel swearing that Aidan’s eyes spun like a cartoon character’s. Fitz Landrey explained that he was the head of C-Note Music: L.A., London, New York, and Tokyo. Doing most of the talking, he asked if Aidan had a demo. He obediently produced the CD he’d made in a second-rate Birmingham recording studio. It cost every penny he had. There were words about record deals, touring,
“Isabel, what are you doing?”
She willed her feet to move. As she did, déjà vu derailed. Breathing Aidan in, Isabel closed her eyes, her feet finding their footing while trying not to step on his. He smelled like Southern summer air, warm wrapping around her like the sun on her face. They’d been this close before, years of homework, playing tag Frisbee, sharing a bowl of mac-’n’-cheese. This was different, the simple solidness of his arms shifting boundaries. Anxiousness faded, Isabel feeling so very . . .
safe
. Her head drifted onto his shoulder, déjà vu marrying with current events. Like a roller shade, her eyes snapped open as her head jerked back.
I know this place! I know it from my dreams.
“What?” he demanded, a huge bob swimming through his throat. He didn’t look angry anymore, just in pain.
“Nothing.” Her head drifted back onto his shoulder knowing quietly, softly, that she loved this dream.
“Isabel, I . . .” She felt his mouth press to her head, but it was hard to be sure between the bobby pins and hairspray. A voice interrupted. It put a fuzzy edge on a moment that was beginning to feel like reality. It was a man’s voice, one she didn’t know.
“Aidan. Aidan Roycroft.” This time Aidan pulled away, blinking as if somebody flipped on a thousand-watt bulb. “Fitz Landrey,” he said, shoving a fat hand in between them. Isabel thought if she had a knife—not even a terribly sharp knife—she’d chop it off. “How you doin’, son?” The man was aggressively shaking Aidan’s hand, the one that was wrapped around her seconds ago. He led them to the edge of the dance floor. “My brother-in-law is Tim O’Rourke, Shanna’s dad.”
Super.
He was there to call Aidan out for humiliating his niece, the one who showed up to Catswallow’s grand gala with her cousin. But her uncle didn’t seem angry, shoving a business card in Aidan’s face.
“I’m here from L.A. My niece . . . Well, to tell you the truth, my niece couldn’t hate you any more than a rabid hornet. But a few weeks back she insisted I come see you perform. Then she told me not to bother.” He shrugged. “But I was passing through and I don’t make business decisions based on pissed-off girls and something tells me that happens a lot. Right, cookie?” He gave her chin a squeeze, Isabel yanking her head back. “Besides, I’m stuck in this hole for the next three hours.” Running a finger around the collar of his dress shirt, it was as if the confines of the Catswallow VFW were choking him. He was definitely a city dweller. He even smelled like something you’d never come in contact with in Catswallow. “My job is to find the next big thing. I’m always on a hunt for talent, looks, a singular presence. But mostly, I’m looking for an it factor.” Aidan and Isabel exchanged a glance. “I can’t tell you how many artists I’ve passed on, surely thousands. New faces with incredible talent, but nominal it
factor. It’s not something that comes with practice or a record label can manufacture. You either have it, or you don’t. And, kid, I’ve got to tell you—your it factor is unlike anybody I’ve ever signed. I haven’t seen this much natural talent since I signed Weak Need.” Their mouths gaped as Fitz tossed out the name of a mega-hot band. “And, frankly, it takes five of them to produce as much raw charisma as you’ve got going.”
The rest of the conversation was a blur, Isabel swearing that Aidan’s eyes spun like a cartoon character’s. Fitz Landrey explained that he was the head of C-Note Music: L.A., London, New York, and Tokyo. Doing most of the talking, he asked if Aidan had a demo. He obediently produced the CD he’d made in a second-rate Birmingham recording studio. It cost every penny he had. There were words about record deals, touring,
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