First, I hope you and yours are safe and well. With fires raging in California and winter weather on the way for many of us, I’d love to hear from you, so please check in and let me know that you’re okay . I’ll be heading out shortly to get a few supplies before the storm hit tomorrow.
Tomorrow is release day for More Than Friends! So I’ll be holed up here with my fireplace raging, burrowed beneath a pile of blankets, hoping we maintain power. But I’ll also be doing some fun posts and giveaways in the Coffee, Cupcakes, and Contemporaries group here. So feel free to join us on Friday.
In the meantime, keep reading for a sneak peek of Chapter One. Chapter Two is coming tomorrow.
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Best friends. Only one bed. What’s the worst that could happen?
Leilani
Toby and I dated in high school. The romance didn’t last, but I got a friend for life. I’m a session singer, he’s an A&R rep, and we live on opposite coasts. Still, we’ve been best friends since high school. Okay, yes there’s occasionally some innocent flirting, but nothing serious. Neither of us would risk our friendship by getting involved again. But one long overdue wedding, a couple bottles of champagne, a few too many shots, and a little flirting turns into one incredible night. It was a mistake. And it definitely…probably…won’t happen again.
Toby
For a long time, I accepted that Leilani and I were better as friends than lovers. But lately, our “innocent” flirtations incite the filthiest thoughts, and I can’t stop wanting her. When playful teasing turns to a heated kiss, it ends in a night neither of us will ever forget. Leilani declares it a mistake, but I propose friendship with benefits, and she agrees. But the truth is I can’t ignore my growing feelings for her anymore. I’m determined to prove that we could be so much more than friends and that taking a chance on finding forever is worth the risk.
Leilani
“Leilani, dear, we can hear you.” My mother lightly taps her diamond-studded ear. Her voice is low and syrupy sweet. Her big, round eyes—which mirror my own—dart around Toast on Lennox in Midtown Atlanta, where we’re eating brunch. “No need to broadcast your business to the entire restaurant.”
“Yes, ma’am.” My face and neck burn as hot as the surface of the sidewalk on this Sunday afternoon on Labor Day weekend.
All my life, I’ve been told that I’m too much. Too loud. Too bold. Too high strung. Yet somehow I’m all of that while also managing to never be quite enough. Just ask anyone.
The teachers who told me how smart I was and how far I could go if only I’d apply myself a little more. The jobs I got but could never stick with because I found them overwhelming, I was bored out of my skull, or I tried to whoop the manager’s ass for being shitty to me or a co-worker one too many times. The vocal teachers who swore I could be the next big thing if only I was a little more disciplined. Or my parents: Dr. James Stephens and Barbara Stephens, Esquire.
He’s a podiatrist to the stars—athletes, mostly. She’s a lawyer for an elite investment firm. Neither of them would’ve chosen session singer as the career they imagined for their only child. In fact, they spent my entire childhood debating whether I should become a doctor or a lawyer. College dropout definitely wasn’t on the menu. But what can I say? I’m an off-the-menu kind of girl.
I’m the polar opposite of my high-achieving, stop-making-excuses-and-just-get-it-done parents. I’m also the complete opposite of my best friend, Tobias Hanlon. We were Peachtree School of the Arts’ very own Odd Couple. He’s neat, organized, and fastidious, as my mother loves to say, while I’m “chaos personified.” Also, a direct quote from my mom.
Toby, whom I dragged to this brunch with my parents, is seated beside me in a matching green velvet chair. He squeezes my thigh beneath the table, and it shakes me from my daze to find everyone looking at me expectantly.
“Uh… yes?” I say, since the three of them are obviously waiting for me to say something.
Maybe my mother asked me for the hundredth time when I’m going to get serious about my life, settle down, and give them grandchildren.
“Aren’t you going to finish your story, baby girl?” My father forks a generous piece of his jumbo lump crab cake and dips it into the garlic aioli sauce before lifting it to his mouth.
I watch with envy as he takes a bite. His entire face lights up as he savors the morsel.
“Story?” I look down at my own plate. As much as I adore the Strawberry Shortcake French Toast here, suddenly I’m in the mood for something more savory than sweet.
“Yes, darling,” my mother says. To her credit, I can tell she’s doing her best not to lose her patience. “You were telling us a story about when you were in the studio the other day…”
“Studio?” My mind is on Jumbo Lump Crab Cake and garlic aioli sauce. Or maybe Fried Catfish and Grits. Also, I’m not one hundred percent sure I turned off my garment steamer after I steamed this linen sundress which looks more wrinkled now, after an hour of wear, than it did before I steamed it.
“You were telling your parents about your conversation with Ced and Ward about working with more of their artists at Peachtree Records,” Toby offers with an encouraging smile. The kind that hits you down deep and you can’t help smiling, too.
I’m reminded of all the reasons I love this man… as my best friend, not as more than friends. We’ve been there and done that. The love connection didn’t work out. At sixteen, they rarely do. Instead, we became besties for life. And I couldn’t ask for a better best friend.
Toby Hanlon is my ride or die, and I don’t play about him. As more than one of his two-timing exes discovered the hard way.
“Right.” I broaden my smile, though I can’t help stealing glances of my father throwing down on that crab cake. “What Toby said.”
“That’s it? That’s the entire story?” My mother puts down her fork and delicately dabs the corners of her mouth with a napkin. “I thought you were going to say they offered you a deal like Karris and Nikki.”
My eyes drift closed momentarily. I take a deep breath and count to five in my head. Then I cock my head and force a smile.
“I’m a session singer, Mom. That means I provide background vocals and harmonies and occasionally features on other artists’ projects. Tour with them sometimes. But always on a contract basis.” I speak slowly, carefully enunciating each word as I try to strain the annoyance and resentment from my voice.
Despite being labeled a rebel, I’m a Southern girl who was raised to respect my elders. And I live with the very real fear that my late maternal grandmother Fannie Alexander would rise out of her final resting place back in Panama and whoop my ass for being disrespectful to my mama.
“I’m aware of what a session vocalist does, darling. My point is that you’ve been doing it for quite some time. Don’t you want more than that at this point in your life, sweetheart?” There’s a hint of desperation in my mother’s voice.
“Not that there’s anything wrong with being a session singer,” my father quickly jumps in, waving the piece of crab cake on his fork as he speaks, sending the savory scent in my direction. “After all, Luther Vandross, Mariah Carey, Mary J. Blige, John Legend, Whitney Houston… they all started off as background singers, too.”
“They also actually wanted to be lead singers. I don’t.” I stare at my father’s plate. I tear my gaze away to meet my mother’s again. “I love singing background vocals and harmonies, and sometimes writing a few lyrics,” I add.
“But you have such a beautiful voice, Leilani,” my mother objects.
“Voice like an angel.” My father beams, taking another bite of his crab cake.
“She does.” Toby’s deep, sexy voice and broad smile calm my rising irritation and the panicky feeling of a cat being backed into a corner. “Lei’s vocals and input add texture and layers to a song. She’s helped turn several good songs into chart-topping, award-winning songs. What she does is mostly behind the scenes, but it makes a huge impact. That’s why she’s so in-demand right now. But if she accepts Peachtree’s offer to work with more of their artists, that means she’ll be spending a lot more time back here in Atlanta.”
“You mean we’d get to see a whole lot more of our baby girl?” my dad asks excitedly. “Well, we certainly can’t be mad about that, now can we, Barbie?”
We all turn to look at my mother. Because the only thing she bugs me about more than getting serious about my life and giving her grandbabies is the fact that she wishes I’d come home to visit more often.
“Well, I mean… of course, having you home more often would be nice.”
My mother, who is a shark at the negotiation table is now stumbling and stuttering. I can’t lie, I’m kind of enjoying it.
“Does that mean you’ll be ditching your overpriced apartment in New York and moving back home?” My mother picks up her fork and spears a few roasted potatoes and pops them into her mouth.
Just like that, the goodwill and happy feelings have evaporated like morning fog.
“The industry is growing here in Atlanta,” Toby interjects as he takes my hand, balled into a fist beneath the table. “But New York is still the center of the industry with LA being a close second.”
“It’s too bad you didn’t choose LA, baby girl. Then at least I’d know Toby was there to look out for you,” Dad grumbles.
“Then she’d be twice as far away,” Mom complains.
“But at least she’d have someone we trust looking after her.” Dad’s voice is tight and his nostrils flare.
“First of all, I’m thirty-five. I can take care of myself.” Barely, but I don’t add that part. “Second, Toby does look out for me. All the time. Even though we live on opposite coasts. Just like you and your sorors look out for each other even though you’re scattered all over the country.”
My mother sucks her teeth and gives me a side-eye, her mouth twisted. A concession that I’ve won this round, but we’ll be coming back to it soon.
Toby squeezes the hand that’s no longer balled into a fist and I squeeze his back, grateful he agreed to come to brunch with me.
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