“You’re serious right now?” Anika, my manager, paces the studio in four-inch stilettos while gnawing on the back of a pen. “You want to cancel studio time to go to…to camp?”

She’s kinda cute when she’s all riled up like this, her pale cheeks flaming red and daggers shooting from her amber eyes. I sink down further into the plush couch, crossing my arms on my chest. “It’ll be fun. I’m in need of some fun. You said so yourself. A few days on the coast with other single, college-aged adults. Real people, Anika. A break from Hollywood.”

“I said after we finish the album. Not right in the middle of recording it.” Her heels clack on the wood floors as she moves to crouch before me, resting her manicured nails on the arms of my chair. Her frustration is evident in the heaviness of her breaths. She shakes her head, tossing her long chestnut braid over her left shoulder. “It’s her, isn’t it? She’s going to be there?”

“Yes,” I answer, trying to cover a smirk. “Yeah…So, there’s no way I can put this off.” I realize the timing isn’t ideal, but it’s the perfect chance to work my magic on this girl, whom I can’t seem to get out of my head.

Pushing up from my knees, she’s again wearing a hole into the floor. “She hates you, Rhett. This is a terrible idea. Not only for your career, but because you’re going to end up disappointed.”

What she means is depressed. My first Hollywood girlfriend did a number on me, but that was before I knew how industry relationships worked. I keep my heart guarded now—locked up tight in a suit of armor. I just want the chance to play with my sword.

“I’m curious about her,” I say with a shrug, my mind wandering to my drummer Nick’s birthday party, about three weeks ago. To his cousin, Korie Potter. Her long, wavy blonde ponytail, faded jeans, and Rolling Stones tee. She stood out among the sequins and glitz. Her attempt to fade into the background had the complete opposite effect. Only adding to her appeal was the easy manner with which she carried herself. She had a confidence—an honesty—about her that I don’t see much in the circles I run. I can’t help but smile, remembering how unimpressed she was with everything Rhett Taylor. What did she call me again? Oh, yeah. The bad boy of country music. Someone’s been paying a little too much attention to TMZ.