“I used the doorbell. Twice. And I tried calling you.” My best friend Lorelai Jones grabs my discarded phone from the bench where I’d tossed it. She’s dressed up in dark-wash jeans, fashionably broken-in Western-style ankle boots, and a leather jacket. Her long brown waves are pulled back in a swinging pony, showing off high cheekbones and stunning dark eyes.

These same eyes are currently rolling at me in exasperation, because, shit, she’s my ride to the airport. I surreptitiously check my varnish-speckled wristwatch and give a yelp.

“I got sidetracked.” I wince and bend to hurriedly pick up my tools. “Sorry.”

“Rough day?”

All that comes out is a grunt. I place the tools in their rightful spots. It’s a good thing Lorelai convinced me to bring my luggage to the shop this morning. “What was that about Annie Mathers?”

Lorelai straightens my stool and swipes some sawdust to the floor, which is already carpeted in a thick layer. She makes a face that plainly tells me she wants to comment on the mess but knows I don’t care.

I love my mess. I could marry it, honestly.

“Nothing really. I just met her once is all. Way back when her momma was alive. We performed the same night at the Grand Ole Opry. Annie was just a peanut with gobs of star power back then.”

I move to the coat rack and drop off my Carhartt, exchanging it for my North Face. “Isn’t that what she is now?”

“Basically,” Lorelai agrees.

I study my best friend’s tone for bitterness, but there’s none to be found. Back when I was attempting to erase my deflated child-star rep by exchanging it for a sexier bubblegum-pop rep, Lorelai was the reigning princess of the country music world. She used to front an all-girl band of Southern belles but went rogue one night on tour, playing some politically charged protest rock, and woke to the news that everyone south of the Bible Belt had turned on her, including her longtime superstar first love and fiancé, Drake Colter.

Lorelai and I met outside our mutual therapist’s office in Grand Rapids. Neither of us kept the therapist, but we kept each other.

I’m fully done with Hollywood, but I’m not so sure Lorelai is. It’s been nearly three years since things went sideways for her and I have a feeling she’s fixing to make a comeback.

“Tide seems to be turning with some of these newer artists,” I comment idly, pocketing my phone and reaching for my overnight case resting in the corner by the door.

She nods thoughtfully. “It might be.”

“But I bet they could use someone with a little experience to show them how it’s really done.”

Lorelai’s lips twitch. “Thinking of getting back in the game?”

I snort. “As if. I’m perfectly happy with my shop.”