While most men his age would have wrinkles piling up across that vast brow, the cold demeanor of Tristan Harty kept his face nearly as preserved as if he were a botoxed socialite. Somehow, his record company had convinced an entire generation of fifteen-year-olds that he was the deepest, most soulful man in existence. Beth wanted to laugh at the thought when the man in question focused away from his photographer to where she stood dripping at the front door.

Eyes bluer than a sapphire burned into her soul. She tried to swallow, but her throat constricted. Even turning her head was proving impossible as ten thousand watts bore down upon her.

“You!” a voice shouted, evaporating the confounding spell. Beth blinked, glancing back at the once bewitching man. With the glare broken, he transformed back into a snooty aristocrat hoisting up a guitar.

From the mess of photography equipment that claimed the cabin’s entire living room bustled a wide man. He wasn’t fat, at least not in that lovable oaf way, but his rectangular build easily fit into a doorway. He was the comedic opposite of the thin man pretending to play a song for the camera.

“Who are you?” he shouted at Beth.

She flexed her lips in a not smile. “The interviewer.”

What had to be the manager scoffed. “You’re late. What took you so damn long?”

“I’m afraid transporters haven’t been invented yet, so I had to rely upon the old-fashioned horseless carriage,” Beth snapped, in no mood to be shouted down by the reason she was in this mess. There were a dozen more interesting concerts and art house movies she could be reviewing at home instead of wasting an entire weekend in Vermont.

The manager pinged his beady eyes skyward. “What? You never heard of airplanes?”

She chewed on her tongue, keeping the caustic comment at bay. There was no chance of her company splurging on an airline ticket, seeing as how they couldn’t ship their reporters as freight.

“Barry…?” A voice of reason stepped into the fray as the very subject of the interview spoke up. “Let it be,” Tristan whispered. His speaking voice was soft and drifted in the tenor range, a surprise for anyone who knew his songs.

Barry the manager was in no mood to do such a thing. He was clearly incensed there was no underpaid intern to boss around and had to take all that anger out on someone. “Listen here…” Whatever derogatory term floated in his brain remained there, though he stared twice as hard at her eyes. “We ain’t got time to waste here. So get this little Q&A session done fast. Got it?”