Page 3 of SnowBound

I nodded and sat on a white leather chair in the small waiting room, crossing my feet at the ankles.

To avoid freaking out, I grabbed a magazine and pretended to glance through it.

I had an interview with Curtis Burns, one of Nashville’s most famous country music stars turned record label owner slash manager.

If he was as good a manager as his son Riley, this was promising. Riley Burns had signed many upcoming country rock stars over the years. He was as famous as his dad, even though they chose different career paths. One day, I’d play in the big leagues. Just like him.

The receptionist called out my name, and I jumped to my feet, adjusting my top before following her to the conference room. My breath hitched when I took in the view. The room had a floor-to-ceiling glass wall, offering the best view of the Cumberland River and the football stadium on the opposite shore.

Curtis Burns and Gregory Jacobson rose to their feet to shake my hand as I entered and took the seat they pointed me to, a genuine smile plastered on my lips. I finally had my chance to shine.

Deep down, I urged my throbbing heart to take a rest.

Confidence spread through me. It spurred me to talk slowly and show them I was the real deal. That I was the perfect—no, the only—valuable choice for this position.

The interview passed by in a blur.

If someone had requested me to write down the questions they’d asked, I couldn’t have done it. The words had flown out of me with ease before I could think them through. Every time the men exchanged nods and took notes, I high-fived myself in my head. I could do this. Excel and take the first step toward making my dreams a reality.

“Before you go, Ms. Peña, I want you to meet the first artist we’ve signed under our label,” Mr. Jacobson said. “Being Mr. Burns’s assistant means you’ll work closely with our artists.” He pressed a button on the speaker kept in the middle of the table. “Laura, please send Mr. Ford in. We’re ready for him.” Laura said a few words and hung up as we waited.

Moments later, a discrete knock resonated through the room, and the door opened to let the man in. I moved to my feet, ready to greet him and introduce myself. Longish brown hair, dark enigmatic eyes, nonchalant gait.

Our eyes met, and air froze in my lungs.

“Ms. Peña, this is Anderson Ford,” said someone in the background.

I tried to speak, but words refused to make their way up, my feet glued to the floor and my arms hanging at my sides.

Then a rush of air along with a single word. “You?”

The man’s jaw fell open and he blinked, an expression I couldn’t decipher crossing his eyes.

Mr. Burns harrumphed. “You two know each other?”

I nodded, still unable to speak.

“Well, let’s all sit and discuss, shall we?”

Neither of us moved, unable to break eye contact as my insides burned and melted, hurting me until I couldn’t seem to breathe.

As I closed in on myself, I heard for the first time the faint strain of country Christmas music, playing on a speaker somewhere in the ceiling. Ironic, right?

Santa had mixed my wishes—or was late delivering them—because it had been two years since I last wished for this man, the one whose full name I hadn’t known until today, to walk back into my life.

Anderson.

Not Andrew.

And now that he was here, I had no clue what to do.