Chapter One
Tyler’s phone vibrated early on Sunday morning but she was already awake, worrying about the bands she managed and, really, life in general. The music industry was more competitive than college basketball during the month of March. It was also never-ending and without a champion.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, as there was clearly a problem. Kim wouldn’t be calling at this hour to shoot the shit about the weather.
“Sorry, dude.” The tour manager called everyone “dude” as a matter of principle.
She groaned. “Let me guess . . .”
“Josh forgot his passport.” Kim’s voice showed no sign of surprise. It was commonplace for musicians—at least the ones they worked with—to forget something.
“Drummers.” Tyler rubbed her eyes, not ready to start her day and definitely not with this news. “They’re the worst.” She meant men in general, but she didn’t need to explain that to her best friend. They’d both been single for eons.
“Yeah. I know, right?” Kim slurped some sort of beverage. “But it’s my fault. It’s my responsibility to check.”
“He’s an adult, isn’t he? I mean, in theory.” She threw back the covers with purpose and kicked herself onto the hardwood floor. “Hold on, I’m putting you on speaker while I get dressed.”
“Josh doesn’t even have a driver’s license, or he could’ve used it to board the plane.”
“That’s probably a good thing.”
“At least you’re only handling their day-to-day . . .” Kim’s voice trailed off into the ether. “Shit. These earbud thingies keep slipping. Dude, I can’t believe Sebastien agreed to sign these fucking hellions.”
The sound of her boss’s name before coffee was almost too much to bear. She yanked the elastic band from her topknot and held a wreath full of hair. “Fucker pawned them off on me, didn’t he? I’m sure he didn’t tell the Westgrays they’d be dealing with me. I’d never willingly manage them.”
“What’s that stupid thing he’s always saying?”
“More pucks on the net.”
“Yeah. Sebastien’s a fucking idiot.” An airport announcement blared over the speakers. “So is Josh, for that matter. I’m looking right at him. Unbelievable. He’s sprawled across a whole row of seats while people are standing. I’d make him go home but our flight leaves in, like, two hours.”
“Where are his roommates?”
“He’s tried calling, texting, but they’re probably sleeping.” More like passed out. Josh’s roommates were party animals— not that she’d seen animals partying outside of a zoo or a dog park. “Fucking hell,” Tyler said after a beat.
“Sorry.” Kim had obviously screwed up so she didn’t need to rub it in. “I’ve been too easy on them. No more Mr. Nice Guy.”
“That’s a great song. I love Alice Cooper. Hey, who knew all that babysitting I did as a teenager was practice for coddling musicians? But seriously, don’t worry about it. I’m more annoyed than anything. Does he at least know where his passport is?”
“He thinks it’s in the kitchen. Oh, and the side door’s open— more like broken—but text if you can’t find it.”
“Will do. I’ll let you know when I’m five minutes out.”
Tyler twisted her hair back into a topknot and checked the time. She glanced at her Shih Tzu rescue as he slept at the foot of her bed. Sneaking out of her room wasn’t an option since Rory’s hearing was almost god-like. Plus he clung to her like plastic wrap because his previous family had surrendered him to a local shelter, simply because he didn’t bark. It hardly made him defective. She wanted a little buddy, not a guard dog to protect her.
“Hi Ror!” Did everyone give their dog a nickname? Rory Bear, Rorster, and Ror-Ror were her favorite things to call him. With a jerk the dog lifted his head, metal tags clinking from his collar. Rory looked at her as if to say, What the hell, Mommy? “Time to get up!”
With no time to spare, she buckled Rory into the passenger seat of her rusted-out SUV. The truck’s manufacturer had named it “Radiant Red,” but now “Lackluster Red” seemed more appropriate.
Droplets of water speckled the windshield so she turned on the wipers. People called it “Rain City” for a reason. It fucking poured here. But the worst was yet to come since it was only the end of September. Tyler had lived in Vancouver for over a decade but her home was still in Winnipeg.
As the saying went, you could take the girl out of Manitoba . . . But no one had ever said that.
Tyler zipped along Commercial Drive, pretending that she was a Formula 1 driver. She’d binged Drive to Survive on Netflix last summer, and now she was obsessed with all the teams, but she only cheered for Mercedes. Lewis Hamilton was her number one, and whenever he had pole position she thought of something sexual.
She parked in the driveway of Josh’s house and left the engine running. Having a shoddy alternator, she couldn’t run the risk of her truck not starting.
The Stranger Things music played in her head as she inched the door open and stepped into the kitchen. Gross.
The stench of wet cigarettes permeated the air and beer splatter covered the walls. Pinching her nose, she searched for the drummer’s passport. How do people live like this? She stepped over a graveyard of empty beer cans. Ah-ha! The evidence of beer pong was left on display. They’d lined up red Solo cups like bowling pins on both ends of the kitchen table.
She spied a dark blue booklet with a gold emblem under the mess, and with a tug, she unstuck Josh’s passport from the table and held it like Rory’s poop bag.
★ ★ ★
Twenty minutes later Tyler drove up the ramp to the airport’s Departures. Thank god. Kim was already at the drop-off marker, her bright pink hair standing out like a flamingo.
Tyler lowered the passenger-side window as she approached the curb.
“Dude, their flight just got delayed an hour.” Kim reached for Josh’s passport and smiled at Rory, asleep in the shape of a neck pillow. He looked like a miniature panda with his black and white markings.
“Of course it did.” It was a running joke around the office that Air Canada wasn’t happy unless you were unhappy. “Rory, wake up. It’s Kim!”
“Hey, buddy,” Kim whispered, and the dog thumped his tail against the seat. Rory liked everyone but he played favorites with his mom’s bestie. “Any plans for today?”
Tyler checked her watch. “Just working from home.” Kim rolled back the rim of her coffee cup. “You’re supposed to be working for the weekend, not on it.”
“Says the person going on tour.”
“Slim pickings out there.” Kim made a pouty face and chucked her cup into the recycling can. “Believe me, the Westgrays aren’t on my top-ten list.”
“I miss Letterman.” She picked at the worn vinyl on her steering wheel. “The Westgrays are super high maintenance. You’re going to have to burp and feed them.”
“I draw the line at bathing them.” Kim’s dark brown eyes seemed to lighten when she laughed. “Anyway, enough about them. Dude, if you ever want to meet someone you’ll have to put yourself back out there.”
Online dating was simply out of the question. Last year, while she was standing in line at a coffee shop, she’d watched in amazement as a guy who was barely a five swiped left on girls who were tens. What hope did any woman have if anything less than perfection was the standard?
Tyler grinned. “I know for a fact you haven’t had a date this year.”
Kim covered a yawn with the back of her hand. “True, but I don’t want a baby—or a husband.”
“You’re twenty-seven. There’s lots of time.”
“Try telling that to my mother.” Mrs. Tanaka didn’t approve of her daughter’s line of work or her pink hair. Kim had often complained about being a child of hardworking immigrants. Her parents had expected her to be married with children by now, not telling bands what time they had to meet in the hotel lobby.
Tyler tapped her lips. “You know, I’m thinking about having a kid on my own.”
“Like, with a sperm donor or sex with a stranger?”
“Shh!” She held her index finger to her mouth and whispered, “I’m thinking about freezing my eggs, but it’s ten grand.”
“Fuck it.” Kim shrugged one shoulder. “Just go to the Roxy.”
“Hard pass.” She gave Rory a boop on his nose. “Even the bartenders are musicians there. No fucking thanks.” The Roxy Cabaret was famous for last-call hookups and morning regrets. It was no secret that hockey teams and touring artists always made a stop there. “Shit! I forgot to tell you . . . my indie band got that opening slot.”
“I heard! Those guys are all over Insta. I love that name— Yestown.” Kim tapped Josh’s passport against the truck’s windowsill. “Any last words of wisdom for these knuckleheads?”
Tyler shook her head once. “I don’t have that kind of time.” She sat upright and gripped the steering wheel like she was driving through a whiteout. “Tell Josh not to ask for any favors. He’s on my shit list.”
Kim nodded, stepping back from the curb. “I’ll tell him to send you flowers.”
“He shouldn’t waste his money. I saw his house.” She honked twice and Rory shook his head, ears flapping. “Have a safe trip. And text when you land.”
Her babysitting job was a permanent position . . . but without benefits.
★ ★ ★
Driving home from the airport Tyler sucked in a breath of air. Shit, the invoices! The office had been busier than usual during the week and it had fallen off her list of priorities. With it being month-end, she needed to check it off her to-do list before the morning.
“A quick detour then home,” she told Rory, scratching him behind the ears. “Who wants to go to the office?” Rory wagged his tail.
The Sebastien Dumas Management office was in the sketchiest part of town. Last month several random stabbings had taken place in the Downtown Eastside, putting everyone’s safety in jeopardy.
Tyler parked in the office’s secured garage and climbed two flights of stairs. She unclenched the keys from her knuckles and unlocked the door, punching in the alarm code: 2-1-1-2. Once inside, Rory sniffed around in search of his colleagues but the office was as empty as Rogers Arena during the playoffs.
Tyler needed a coffee fix so she dropped off her shit in her office. It would take a cup the size of her head to get her brain working properly.
She headed toward the kitchen, Rory’s collar jangling as he trotted along beside her.
“Come on, buddy.” She ran ahead of him but he blasted off in a full sprint.
Fast fucker.
Rory waited in the kitchen—the “cookie room.” He demanded one for finishing first in the race to the kitchen.
Once cookie time was over she scooped five tablespoons of generic coffee into a paper filter and poured tap water into the dispenser. Sebastien cheaped-out on everything and proudly called himself a miser. The letterhead read “SDM,” because it used less ink than “Sebastien Dumas Management.”
She poured a cup of coffee while singing Dolly Parton’s “9 to 5” poorly, opened the fridge, and searched for a container of soy milk with her name on it. She’d bought it herself since SDM didn’t provide employees with “extras.”
But there it sat in the blue bin: empty, crumpled, and disregarded.
Fucking interns. At least they’d recycled it.
Back at her desk with a cup of bitter black coffee, Tyler powered on her computer with confidence. As a rule she returned her messages within the hour, but any longer posed a problem. There were only two reasons for her being unresponsive: the location didn’t have Wi-Fi or she was dead in a ditch.
You shouldn’t be texting while driving.
“Where to start?” She smiled at Rory but he couldn’t help even if he’d wanted to. She could barely help herself since math wasn’t her strong suit.
Last year, when their receptionist quit without notice, the administrative duties fell into Tyler’s portfolio. Sebastien had told her that she’d learn from the experience, but it was just a lame excuse for more free labor. She’d already been there for fourteen years and was ready to move on, but her boss had threatened to ruin her career, and he kept promises if it meant hurting people.
Of course, her dad had warned her about Sebastien’s antics before she’d started her internship at SDM. Tyler’s dad, Paul “Bert” Robertson, had known Sebastien since the early Winnipeg club years. Back in the day they were competitors of sorts, although the best bands hired her dad to play lead guitar while her boss took rhythm guitar gigs with the duds. And now that Sebastien had the upper hand by employing his former rival’s daughter, he was loving every minute of it. Plus it put Bert in his debt for hiring her after the internship was over, and favors were his currency. Sebastien wasn’t “good prairie folk” like the Robertsons. He was a Francophone from Quebec City, and problems came with the territory.
★ ★ ★
An hour later Rory perked up from his dog bed, alerting Tyler that he’d heard something. A burglar would have been preferable to Sebastien since the thief was sure to be quiet, unlike her boss, her nemesis.
A groan rumbled from the back of her throat as she rolled her chair out of the way and followed her furry friend down the hallway. She laughed at how Rory’s bum wiggled when his little legs hit the carpet.
“Can I help you?” she asked, approaching the reception area.
“Hi,” a cute guy said with a smile. He came up to Tyler’s eye level and wore an oversized black beanie and dark-rimmed glasses. “It’s me. Cary.”
I’m an idiot.
She hadn’t recognized Cary Kingston, the most famous rock star on the planet. Of course, he wasn’t always famous; Sebastien had discovered him at a dive bar in Winnipeg more than twenty years earlier. Her boss had mortgaged his house, rolling the dice on the eighteen-year-old guitar virtuoso, beating the house with consecutive gold records.
“I’m sorry. The glasses threw me.” She hugged him and it kicked her olfactory memory into gear. While she was interning she’d met Cary, her high school crush, backstage at one of his concerts, and the lingering scent of Calvin Klein’s Obsession had stayed with her for days afterwards. The person who came up with the name of the fragrance: a genius.
“No worries,” he said, laughing it off like it wasn’t a big deal. His deep, raspy voice was one in a million, maybe a billion. “I wear them on purpose.”
“What are you doing here?” She twisted her mouth to the side. “Aren’t you supposed to be in Chicago or something?” He shrugged. “I had a day off, so I came here to sort out some business.”
Cary lived in Los Angeles—more specifically, Malibu—but he kept a place in Vancouver because he was Canadian by birth. His hometown, Brandon, Manitoba, was two-and-a-half hours west of Winnipeg. They call Brandon the “Wheat City,” and everyone eats gluten there.
A sneeze drew their attention to the floor, where Rory lay on his back like a sun-tanner in Ibiza.
“Rory!” Cary dropped to his knees and scratched the dog’s belly. “Who’s a good boy?”
“You’re embarrassing me, Rory.” Tyler rested her hands on her hips, aware that millions of women would have gladly traded places with her dog, including herself. “Don’t you have any shame?”
“No, Mom,” Cary answered for him. “Hold on.” He grabbed his phone. “I want to take his picture. He looks like a centerfold model.”
“My angel the centerfold.”
“I’m surprised you know that song.”
“I know a lot of old songs, including yours.”
“Funny.” He winked at her and she tried not to die. Was he still dating Emma what’s-her-name? It didn’t matter. It’s not like he was going to marry her. Cary had been on the Most Eligible Bachelors list for twenty years and counting.
“Is there any mail for me?” he joked.
It wasn’t a serious question. Obviously his fans loved sending him things. Some of the letters and gifts were weird, others obscene. After the unwanted items didn’t sell on eBay, Sebastien donated them to charity for the tax receipt.
“Knock yourself out.” She gestured to the Mount Everest of fan mail. “There’s coffee in the kitchen. Help yourself.”
“I’ve had the office coffee,” he complained. “How about going to Artigiano?”
“Excuse me? Our coffee isn’t good enough for you?”
“No.” He pulled down his beanie. “It’s fine.”
She laughed, tightening her topknot, looking for any reason to leave. “It tastes like shit. Let’s get out of here.”
After Tyler set the office alarm she locked the door, checking it behind them. If only she’d worn something other than her Skull Skates hoodie and black leggings, but who the fuck knew she’d be running into Cary Kingston?
The clouds were threatening, gray and low to the ground, as Tyler, Cary and Rory walked down the street toward the coffee shop. He pointed to the pastel-colored building on the northwest corner of Hastings and Cambie.
“I love the Dominion Building. Look at the ornamental detail and arched windows.” He raised his phone and snapped a picture. “Pretty impressive for the early nineteen-hundreds.”
“I suppose.” Her voice came out unsure. “I’ve never noticed it.” “How’s that possible?” His gaze bounced to the roof. “It used to be the tallest building in the British Empire.”
“I don’t know.” She shrugged, thinning her lips until they disappeared. “I guess I forget to look up.”
When they arrived at the coffee shop only a sliver of light shone onto the patio, so no one was sitting outside. Vancouverites didn’t do well in cold weather, unless it was in Whistler.
“Let’s grab a table out here,” Tyler suggested. Being seen in public with Cary wasn’t her idea of a quiet Sunday morning. “I’ll go in,” he offered as his lenses darkened over his bright hazel eyes.
She only agreed to let him go inside because she couldn’t leave Rory on his own. He’d go anywhere with anyone at any time. “Thanks.” She handed him a ten-dollar bill. “I’ll have a latte, please, with soy milk.”
“I’ve got it.” He laughed, waving at her money like it was worthless. But she handed it to him again and he took it begrudgingly.
Tyler found a table against the building for a little more privacy. Rory plopped himself on his butt under it, facing the door as if waiting for Cary. While she and Rory waited for the man they were both a bit obsessed with, Tyler opened her phone to see if she had any messages.
Ten minutes later she glanced at her watch. Rory was now lying with his head propped between his paws, looking longingly at the door. Being the best coffee shop in Vancouver, Artigiano was always busy, but the wait seemed to be longer than usual so she peeked inside.
Cary was signing autographs. How could she have thought otherwise?
Busted.
He caught her staring at him and she smiled shyly. Nodding once, she flashed a thumbs-up.
A few moments later Cary appeared holding two large ceramic cups. Rory popped up on all fours, entire body wagging in excitement.
“Sorry about that.” He handed her the latte and bent to ruffle Rory’s fur in the process.
Lucky dog.
She tried not to be jealous as Cary showered him with affection. “Thanks.” She cradled the cup using lotus hands. “No worries.” She frowned at a gaggle of women who’d brazenly sat at the table next to them. “You’re good with your fans. The Kingers.”
He shrugged, ducking almost bashfully as he lowered into the chair. “It’s my job,” he said. “No fans, no career.”
“Doesn’t it bother you?” She scrunched her nose in revulsion. “Being famous, I mean.”
“Bother me?” He shook his head. “Absolutely not. Fame just means more people know me.”
“Being famous is my worst nightmare.” She paused and raised a finger, thinking of something worse. “Along with Burning Man. Too many hippies.”
“There’s a reason I’m on the road a hundred days a year.”
She nodded. “Sebastien’s always saying, ‘As long as Cary’s on tour we’re keeping the lights on around here.’”
His gaze steadied on her face. “I tour for my fans, not Sebastien.”
Yeah. Fuck Sebastien.
“Hi, Cary!” The gaggle shouted in unison. He twisted around and gave them a royal wave, and Tyler glared in their direction. “So, what’s going on at the office?” he asked, not letting on that people were taking his picture.
“Oh, the usual.” Like Sebastien yelling at the interns and anyone else within earshot on the regular. Everyone in the music industry called him “Sebastard,” but he couldn’t have cared less about his bad reputation. As an afterthought, she said, “Nothing much new around here.”
“Have you heard anything good lately?”
“The new Billie Eilish is pretty dope.”
Did I just say dope?
“I mean, any new bands?”
“Oh my god, there’s this band from Toronto I’m in love with!” She played one of their songs in her head. Tyler had inherited an incredible ear for music but not the talent to play it.
Cary smiled at the gaggle as they took selfies like Kardashians. “Are we signing them?”
She rolled her eyes. “It’s a girl band.”
“And?” He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes with his wrists.
“When was the last time Sebastien managed a female artist?” On top of everything her boss was a proper misogynist. “Like, never.”
Cary counted on his fingers. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.” He blew on his coffee before taking a sip. “Anything else you’re listening to?”
“There’s this indie band I’m managing myself, but Sebastien doesn’t think they’re any good.” At first she was pissed off that her boss didn’t believe in Yestown’s music, but after some thought she decided that she was better off without his interference. As the band’s manager of record she was going to break them—with or without him. “I’d take on that girl band too, but I haven’t seen them play yet.”
“What kind of music are you looking for?” he asked.
“Anything, as long as it’s good.”
“I listen to everything.” He adjusted his glasses. “Well, just about.”
“Polka?” She laughed.
“I wish my album covers looked that cool.”
She nearly spit out her coffee. Polka album covers were always cheesy, almost to the point of being good. “It’s all about the song, don’t you think?”
“Absolutely. What’s your favorite record?”
“I couldn’t pick just one. It’s like choosing your favorite kid. I mean, I’d imagine.” She leaned forward, drawing her eyebrow together. “Do you have a favorite?”
“Anything by the Humbler.”
As they continued chatting the coffee shop patrons closed in on them like zombies in Michael Jackson’s Thriller video. “It’s getting crowded,” she said, her annoyance with the noisy intrusions growing.
Cary turned his head to the fans and back again. “Want to get out of here?”
“Yes!” She jumped out of her seat. “We can head back to the office and load your mail into my truck, and I’ll drive you home.” Regret washed over Tyler as soon as the words left her mouth. He didn’t need a ride from her. He drove around in limos, not old jalopies. She’d let him off the hook from feeling obligated to ride in her truck once they got back to the office.
★ ★ ★
After Tyler grabbed the mail from the office they walked down the stairs to SDM’s parking garage. She pointed to the car parked beside hers. “My next one’s going to be electric.” Right now she couldn’t afford to buy anything newer. “Something quieter. Are you sure you don’t want to call for a car?” While they’d collected the mail she’d ruefully revealed that her truck was a little beat up and suggested maybe he’d want to call for a car to take him and his mail back to his house, but he’d firmly declined.
Cary heaved the mailbags into the trunk and climbed into the passenger seat. “Nope. This is great. Need a hand?” he asked, noticing her wrestling with the dog.
“I’m good.” But she wasn’t good at all. Rory was squirming around like a worm on a fishing hook, and she had nothing to bait him with. As she tried to buckle him into the back seat, his harness slipped through her fingers and he hurdled the console, jumping into Cary’s lap and licking his face. “Rory Robertson! Get down!”
“It’s fine.” Cary held the miniature panda on his lap.
Rory loved riding shotgun.
Thankfully her truck started after one turn of the key, so she headed south toward Yaletown on Richard’s Street, driving slower than the speed limit because her two-million-dollar insurance policy wasn’t enough coverage with Cary sitting next to her.
He pointed to the window. “I live just around the corner.” She tapped on the steering wheel. “Hey, have you heard the new Arkells song?”
Cary turned his head. “Who?”
“Arkells.” She annunciated clearly. “Their new song.” “Arkells?”
“Oh my god, Cary!” She took her eyes off the road for a split second. “They’re my favorite band. Banger after banger.”
“I’ll check it out. You can turn at the next left.”
“I know where you live. I have keys to your penthouse.”
“You do, do you?” He pushed back his beanie and smirked. She had to admit that it sounded a little creepy.
“I mean, the office—the office has keys to your penthouse. For emergencies.” She’d left his deliveries with the building’s concierge so there was no reason for her to be up there.
“Relax.” He squeezed her shoulder. “I was joking.” I’m never washing this hoodie.
When they arrived at their destination she hung her head and breathed audibly in relief. Sebastien would have murdered her in cold blood if anything had happened to him.
Cary stepped out of the truck and buckled Rory into the passenger seat. “There you go, little buddy.”
She gave her dog a cool stare before cranking her neck toward the rear. “Do you need any help back there?”
“I’ve got it, thanks.” He hoisted the bags out of the SUV with little effort. “I’m buried with paperwork today and I might do some writing later.” He walked around the vehicle to the driver’s side window and gave her a charming smile filled with a little heat. “How about meeting me for a drink later? Around ten? I have some checks for Sebastien.” He pointed. “There’s a place across the street we can meet at.”
“Sure.” She gulped down the air bubble lodged in her throat. “Sounds good.”
Cary flashed his famous smile. “Thanks for the ride. Looking forward to tonight.”
What did I get myself into?
