What had finally convinced her to accept Mark as a client was the networking potential. She’d been trying to build a relationship with the band’s manager for years. If she could make Mark look good, there’d be other opportunities in the future.
If she couldn’t—well, there was no point in thinking about that. She hadn’t gotten this far by doubting herself.
“Lunch is on me,” she said mildly. It was like working with puppies. If you were calm and firm, and they didn’t sense your agitation, you’d be fine.
The waiter who approached their table managed not to react to her client’s garb. “Can I start you with a drink?”
“Do you have a beer list?”
The waiter rattled off the beers and Mark chose one. She ordered a glass of sparkling water with lemon.
“Do you need a few more minutes?”
“Yes—” she began, because Mark hadn’t even picked up his menu, but he interrupted her.
“Any kind of steak will be fine.”
“We have a very nice beef tender—”
“That’s fine.”
She ordered seafood pasta.
Mark’s posture was as angry as the rest of him, head down, shoulders hunched, protecting himself from the world. They could start there—but not today. Today she’d just talk to him. Loosen him up a little, if that was even possible. “So, the tour’s this fall?” It was March now—not a lot of time, but enough. She’d changed Amanda Gile’s life in six months.
“Yeah.” It was barely a word, just a notch above a grunt.
“Will there be an album?”
“We’ll release cuts from the tour itself as singles for download. If there’s enough good material, we’ll make an album.” He rolled his eyes to indicate what he thought the likelihood of that was.
“And everyone’s on board?”
He averted his gaze. “Not Pete.”
Pete Sovereign was the other guitar player. The one Mark had punched in the face ten years ago, leading to the band’s breakup. There’d been something about a woman, a groupie, they’d both slept with. The groupie had had unkind things to say about Mark afterward to the press. Haven couldn’t help being reminded of her own romantic past, even though the situations were different and hers hadn’t been public. Maybe that was where the unexpected twinges of empathy for Mark had come from. She probably needed to shut that down. A few similarities didn’t make them bosom buddies.
The two men hadn’t spoken since the incident—or so Google had informed her.
She doubted she’d pry any more info about that out of him today. And it probably didn’t matter much. She had her marching orders. Take one hostile, scruffy, washed-up musician and produce a creditable version of the pretty, dimple-faced boy he’d been.
At least Amanda Gile had cut and styled her hair regularly and worn fashionable clothes.
A thought occurred to her. “Who’s getting Pete on board?”
For the first time, she saw an emotion cross his face that might not have been pure anger, though she wasn’t sure what it was.