It’s the duet of a lifetime when a rock star and his backup singer find a new kind of harmony off stage in this sensational contemporary romance. Clementine Clark isn’t looking for love. Growing up with a single mom who weeps over a new guy each week tends to have that effect on a girl. But Clementine doesn’t mind being the rational one--she’s even buried her musical dreams so deeply within herself that she hardly notices the hole it’s left in her life. That is until her best friend calls her with a life-changing opportunity: to join Irish megastar Halloran on his first US tour as a backing vocalist. Clementine wants to reject the offer, but the pay is enough to change her and her mom’s life. Overnight, Clementine goes from serving enchiladas at the Happy Tortilla to belting high notes before a cheering crowd. But the whiplash of trading small-town Texas for sold-out stadiums< <is nothing compared to the rush of performing with the enigmatic Thomas Patrick Halloran. Poet, introvert, and lyrical genius, Halloran quickly gets under Clementine’s skin. The two couldn’t see the world more differently. And yet, over the course of the next eight weeks on tour, the romantic rockstar might just strike an unforgettable chord in Clementine. But will it be enough for an encore?

Autorentext

Kate Golden

Leseprobe
One

Devoting your entire life to the pursuit of another person, when human beings are all so inherently flawed, and expecting said flawed human to fix all the broken parts of you just so you can convince yourself that you're whole is a recipe for disappointment." I reach for another chip and dunk it halfway into the salsa. "In fairness, it used to make a lot more sense. Once upon a time a woman needed a romantic partner to guarantee a roof over her head, or to put food on the table. And men needed a wife to produce an heir for their cobbling business or kingdom or whatever. Things are different now, you know? It's kind of antiquated."

I pop the chip into my mouth. Only then do I notice the wide-eyed disbelief splattered all over the face of the man sitting in the booth across from me. His perfectly gelled hair doesn't move as he takes a slow sip of water through his straw. Mariachi music plays too loudly throughout the restaurant and embarrassment begins to creep up my neck.

"You think love is . . . antiquated?"

I finish chewing, trying to find the right words. "I think striving for a relationship above all else is antiquated. It seems pretty hard to find one worth keeping. And even if you're lucky enough to do so, you're still going to suffer one way or another. There are just less painful pursuits in life, don't you think?"

"Yeah . . ." He leans back in an attempt to subtly check the time via the phone in his pocket. "I see what you're saying."

I sigh. Hair Gel and I are not going to be a match. "It's okay, Hank-"

"Henry."

"Henry!" I cringe. "I knew that. Look, Henry-I can tell you aren't feeling this and that's completely fine. I'm happy to just call it now."

Henry-not-Hank narrows his well-manicured eyebrows at me. "Call it?"

"Yeah, you know, like a doctor calling time of death." I mime feeling my own pulse and make a yikes face.

Henry nods like he understands but I can tell that he does not. In fact- Yeah. He thinks I'm the worst.

"Seriously, I'd love to finish these enchiladas in peace before I have to go back to my shift. No hard feelings at all if you want to skedaddle."

Nonplussed, Henry slides his phone and keys back into his pockets and begins to scoot ungracefully out of the booth. In his defense, there may not be a graceful way to do that. Then he halts mid-scoot. "You told me . . . You said you were a waitress. You scheduled our first date at the restaurant where you work . . . in the middle of your shift?"

"I-" I falter for words, mouth half-filled with enchilada.

Henry bumps his knee a little too hard on the underside of the table as he stands. He winces and I wince, too, out of secondhand phantom pain. "Here," he says, tossing two twenties onto the table.

"No, no." I push the money back toward him, swallowing my bite. "It's practically free with my employee discount."

Henry doesn't find that as altruistic as I mean it to be. He leaves the forty bucks where it lays and walks off in a huff, nearly slamming into two young boys barreling toward the bathroom from the birthday party table.

Excellent. Another successful date for Clementine Clark.

A voice calls out to the young, exuberant boys. "Hey, no running!"

I peer behind me and spot Mike. His dusty blond hair is sticking out at odd angles and there are purplish bags under his eyes. For someone who wanted this promotion, he's been totally overwhelmed. I don't know what he expected-the Happy Tortilla is the best fast-casual Tex-Mex spot in Cherry Grove. It's literally only empty when we're closed.

"All right, fun police." I dig back into my dinner. I probably have these chicken enchiladas twice a week and never tire of the comfort food. Normally, I'd need them extra badly after a failed date, but tonight is a magnificent Ladybird Playhouse night, so I'm not taking the rejection too hard.

"If they get hurt," Mike says, sliding into the red vinyl booth across from me with a grunt, "we could be held liable."

"Ooh, liable. Such manager-speak."

"Hey." He laughs. "I'm your boss now."

"You have rice in your hair, boss."

Mike swats at his head. "Date didn't go so well?"

"I'm not talking about it with you."

"Me?" Mike steals a chip from the plastic bowl between us. "I knew you when you thought barbecue meant there would be Barbies involved."

"We were four!"

"That's my point. What was wrong with Mr. Apple Watch?"

But Mike knows I'm not going to tell him anything about my date. It's one of our few no-go topics. And not just because he's my ex-even though we were in high school-or because we still sleep together on occasion.

It's because I know Mike is no better than my mom: they both hope one day I'll shed my cynic-cocoon and reveal myself as a lovestruck little butterfly, fluttering into the arms of some upper-middle-class suitor. Maybe I should have told Henry that: Hey, I'm really just here to assure my mom that I won't suffer her same miserable fate. Spring wedding?

"Come on, Clementine. Spill."

"He wasn't a dog person."

"Ah." Mike nods, satisfied. "The kiss of death."

The sound of high-pitched squealing rolls through the restaurant and I glance up just in time to see the two little boys take a nasty tumble onto the carpeted floor. Instant crying.

Mike sighs. His eyes hold very little will to live.

"I got it." I laugh. "Finish my enchiladas?"

"Gladly," he says with a look of profound appreciation.

I throw on my red apron, drop Henry's anger-twenties in the tip jar, and get back to work.

The pharmacy is nearly closed by the time I’m off shift. A killer eighties track is playing inside and I bop my head to the majestically synthy beat until I find Lou behind the counter. I have to bribe him with free dog walks for his Siberian husky to let me pick up my mom’s cyclobenzaprine, but I secure the goods and a new carton of ice cream to boot. By the time I’m home I can hear Scully and Mulder blaring before I even close the front door.

"Marathon's still going?" I call out. I drop my keys in our cow-shaped tray and toe off my boots by the hand-painted, garden-themed shoe rack. A smile pulls at my cheeks at the familiar peeling paint and tiny capped mushrooms.

My mom and I never had a specific vision for our home-we just know when something is Dianentine-a mash-up of our names we invented to describe anything we both loved. A bright yellow, banana-shaped ceramic vase that holds flowers in both ends? Diane…