by Hanna Hart
It also helped that he knew Miranda had no interest in country music, so there was no need to try to impress her with his skills.
He sat on a drumming stool with his Taylor in his hands, plucking through the chords C, Am, F, and C again in repetition.
Miranda was sitting cross-legged on the floor in a polka-dotted tunic with black tights.
“Do you have any nicknames?” she asked when his playing lulled.
He smirked and shook his head with amusement. “You don’t get any nicknames with a name like Phoenix.”
“Sure you do!” she insisted cheerfully. “People could call you Fi, or Nix.”
He drew his brows together in a playful frown. “Nobody would ever call me that,” he deadpanned.
“I would,” she teased.
“Don’t you dare.”
“Who is the most fascinating person you’ve ever met?” she asked. The girl was full of endless questions nearly every waking hour of the day.
Thankfully, he had an answer to this question right off the bat. “Ender Eugene.”
Miranda’s eyes went wide as she mused, “You knew someone who had the first name Ender? Seriously?”
“He was this brilliant jazz musician,” he said, setting his palm across the neck of his guitar to mute the string. “I met him in New York at this hole-in-the-wall club. He was one of the most talented people I have ever met. He had that classic, old-school voice. That truly talented, gravely, soulful jazz sound.”
“Was he signed?”
“That’s that thing,” he said excitedly. “He wasn’t. Everybody wants this guy. Labels have been after him since the sixties, but he won’t sign. He won’t budge.”
“Why not?”
Phoenix shrugged. “He’s a carpenter. That’s what he likes to do. Music is a hobby to him.”
“Couldn’t he make a record and just not tour?” she asked.
“He could, but he refuses to. He told me he was afraid that if he got signed to a record label that he wouldn’t love it anymore. He said he was afraid he wouldn’t be heard and would start to resent his talent.”
Miranda twirled her fingers in the air and asked, “Wouldn’t be heard as in, no one would buy his albums?”
Phoenix shook his head. “As in, the message of his songs wouldn’t be felt as deeply on someone’s cassette, CD player, iPod, as they would be in the basement of that sweaty, cramped, drafty jazz bar.”
“And what about that fascinated you?” she asked.
A smile swept across Miranda’s lips, and he suddenly became very aware that he had kissed those lips—many times. And out of nowhere, he wondered what it would be like if he took their sweet, simple, safe kisses and slipped his tongue gently into her mouth.
His back straightened at the thought.
Save for the first time she’d kissed him, Phoenix had never given much thought to these small, public, intimate moments with Miranda because they didn’t feel intimate at all. They felt more like a job than anything else, but throughout the last couple of days of having her in his home-studio, he was beginning to see her in a new light.
“Phoenix?” she asked, noting his distraction.
He felt his face go hot, and he looked back down at his guitar. “I would have given up anything for my music,” he said. “I guess, depending on how you look at it, I did give up everything for my music. And here Ender was, the most talented musician I’ve ever met, and the last thing he wanted was fame.”
Miranda looked up at him, reflecting on what he had just said, and Phoenix asked, “What about you? Who’s the most fascinating person you’ve ever met?”
“My fourth foster mom, for sure,” she said emphatically.
“And why’s that?”
“She had nine dogs.” She paused. “Nine!”
Phoenix couldn’t help but laugh. “That’s seriously your answer?”
And that was the thing about Miranda—just when he thought she was going to give a deep and philosophical answer to something, she would respond with something completely unexpected.
“Who in their right mind wants to take care of nine dogs? They were all Dobermans. So sleek, so cool, so great with us kids. But I mean...nine? Nine dogs!” she insisted.
“Did she live on a farm? Big property?”
“Nope,” she said, letting her ‘P’ pop against her lips. “She lived in an apartment.”
His brows shot up. “That is a lot of dogs.”
Miranda nodded, then leaned backward until she was stretching against the floor. “I think I’m going to head to bed. It’s getting pretty late.”
Phoenix’s eyes darted up toward the clock. It was nearly midnight. “I’ll be up for a bit longer,” he said.
“I take it you’re a night person?” she asked.
“I write better at night.”
She smiled. “Ah. That’s why you’ve been burning the midnight oil.”
“I’m just trying to finish up a couple more songs before we start recording.”
Miranda sat up and looked at the scatterings of leather-bound notebooks and ripped up pages on the ground before her. They were all songs or failed attempts at poetry.
“May I?” she asked, gesturing toward them, and for the first time since he met her, Phoenix felt nervous.
He watched her pick up the song he was currently working on, her eyes skimming the lyrics.
Keep her heart into the night, she keeps you on the phone
But no matter how hard you try, you know you’re waking up alone
“These are beautiful,” she said, then held another page up to him and said, “This one.”
“I saw the red of your heart, the soul of you,” Miranda read. “A red-eye flight and I was there too. We lived like we were made of glass, shattered everything. I thought I knew what love was until I heard your heartbeat. You took it all away, now I won’t ever sleep.”
Phoenix was so used to having other people read and critique his songs that he was mostly numb to it, but his words coming off of Miranda’s lips made him feel a swell of discomfort.
“I can’t get that one to work,” he nearly cringed. “It’s...I’m not good enough to write it out the way I feel it inside.”
Miranda blinked. “That’s one of the most profound things I have ever heard. I wish I were a writer, like you. Maybe I could understand that feeling better.”
“It’s like, this weight inside my whole body. I know the song. I feel it. Its melody is endless. But I’m just not talented enough or not able to fully comprehend those feelings yet.”
“What’s it about?” she asked.
The song she was referring to was one he’d written just the other day called “I’ll Think of You in New York” that he had written about the miscarriage.
“Just something that happened in my life,” he simplified.
“Sing one for me,” she asked.
Phoenix ran his food through some of the pages until he found one of the songs he felt more confident about. He played the song without hesitation, and when he was finished, Miranda began clapping.
“That was amazing!” she cheered, then raised her arm to him and said, “I have goosebumps right now. Feel!”
Because it was Miranda, he knew that she wasn’t just making a flattering announcement. She actually wanted him to feel her arm, so he did. He leaned forward and ran two fingers over the raised bumps along her soft skin and felt his heart lilt with excitement.
“You’ve been so good with all of this,” he said to her. “The paparazzi, the questions, the secrecy. Living with me, of all things.”
“Hey, you’re not so bad to be around,” she said with a grin. “You’re kind of awesome to be around.”
Phoenix raised his brows in surprise, prompting Miranda to ask, “What?”
“No, nothing,” he smirked. “It’s been a while since I’ve heard anyone...” he trailed off.
“What? Say how awesome you are?” she scoffed. “You should work with Birdie. She says it just a
bout every day.”
“Birdie is a fan,” he corrected. “You are not.”
“Hey! I’m a fan of yours!”
He shook a finger at her. “You’re not a country music fan.”
“But your stuff is amazing.”
“It’s just surprising to hear it from someone who isn’t...on my team, shall we say.”
“I’m not a ‘yes-man,’” she said, and he nodded.
“Exactly.”
“Never will be,” Miranda announced proudly.
“So, look,” he began nervously, standing from his stool and walking across the studio to a cabinet drawer. “I heard what you said about wanting to work at the ranch, and I’ve been thinking, what about this?”
Phoenix walked back over to Miranda and handed her a file folder of ideas for the ranch.
“What is it?” she asked, shocked as she stared down at the file in her hands.
He laughed. “Open it.”
She did, and inside was a plan for a new program sponsored by, but not held at, the ranch. Brookside would sponsor a two-week summer camp for troubled youths where they could have some of the same experiences that people paid for at the ranch as well as take some time to relax. Not only would this ensure the underprivileged didn’t miss out on the same summer activities their friends had, but it would also keep them out of trouble. For two weeks, at least.
He’d been thinking about it ever since Miranda told him about her desire to do more for people.
Phoenix gave to charity, and he was proud of his ranch, but he wasn’t personally involved in either of those things. Miranda inspired him to give back in a way that was meaningful to the town of Willowdale.
“Phoenix, this is…” Miranda stammered, tears welling in her eyes as she read through the various activities and operations of the camp. “This is…I don’t even know what to say! This is wonderful.”
“I’m glad you think so because I want you to run it,” he said, then added, “If you want to.”
Her mouth gaped. “Are you serious?”
“Who better for the job than someone who has been where these kids have been? I want you to host this, be a guidance counselor, host a ranch experience. Whatever you want to do, the position is yours.”
Miranda pulled in a heap of breath and then seemed to cry it back out as she said, “Seriously?”
He smiled. “Yes. I want you to be a part of the ranch and my life, but I want something that’s a little more your style. You can even hire Birdie in some capacity if you want.”
“When would this happen?”
“I’m hoping we’ll have our first round of kids before the summer. Hopefully late spring?” he suggested.
Miranda didn’t wait for another second to thank him. She sprung up from the floor and threw her arms around Phoenix, pulling him into a warm hug.
The joy he felt was immeasurable. He hadn’t felt that good in a very long time, which only proved to him that Rachel might have been right about his behavior. Ever since getting signed, he had only focused on himself. He’d become addicted to the limelight and the recognition of his music to the point that he’d forgotten about Rachel and her dreams. He’d forgotten to be her partner.
He didn’t know why, but he didn’t want that with Miranda. He wanted to be giving, to show her he was listening, too, and to share something real with her—even if their relationship was only pretend.
Chapter Ten
Miranda
Phoenix pressed his lips against Miranda’s in a casual kiss as they walked downtown on the main street to a coffee bar. It was a simple, sweet kiss for a sweet couple, and Miranda couldn’t get enough.
She knew the kiss was not for her benefit, but for the public.
Various onlookers—paparazzi, fans, curious bystanders—snapped photos of the couple kissing, and Miranda knew the photo would end up in some trashy magazine. But then again, that was the point of their affectionate outings.
Miranda knew that there was nothing in Phoenix’s soul that drew his lips to hers, but the way they moved softly against her skin sent her heart racing.
She had been so entranced with her fake relationship with Phoenix, so interested in breaking his barrier and getting to know him, that she realized she hadn’t thought about William in days.
It used to be that everything reminded her of William—the snowy weather, morning oatmeal, the smell of coffee breath. It used to be that songs that used to make her happy, the ones that reminded her of William, made her cry.
William consumed her daily thoughts until now. Now all she could think of was Phoenix, their deal, the ranch, and the amazing future that was in store for her.
After grabbing the largest mocha from the coffee shop, Miranda walked back home with Phoenix, hand in hand and fully caffeinated.
“I think it’s important that we talk about the emotional illusion that we’re creating,” he said as they walked through the impressive front doors.
Miranda set her drink down on a hallway table and peeled her thick winter coat off of her body. It was freezing outside, but she had worked up a sweat during the walk that made it difficult to get the fabric off of her arms.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“When you connect with someone on a physical level—holding hands, kissing, embracing—your body releases a hormone called oxytocin,” he said, helping her coat off her and hanging it.
“Uh-huh,” she mumbled.
“This hormone is responsible for the promotion of emotional bonding. It makes you feel attached,” he explained, guiding her into the massive living room.
“Okay.”
He turned to her as he walked, giving her a pointed look as he said, “And I don’t want either of us getting attached.”
Apparently, Phoenix couldn’t just say, “Don’t catch feelings.” He had to phrase everything like he was writing poetry about it, talking about their “emotional illusion.”
Miranda could feel her cheeks pinken, but she knew it was important not to react to what he just said.
“Right, of course,” she said.
“I think it’s important that we don’t let the lines of the job we’re doing blur with our personal feelings. I know you’re still in pain about your ex and that whole situation, and I have a very complicated relationship with Rachel,” he said simply, taking a seat down on the plush couch and pulling his large latte into his lap.
It was then Miranda realized that as her feelings for William were fading away, Phoenix’s affection for Rachel was still as strong as ever. If anything, he said nicer things about his ex now than he did when they first made their agreement.
“Completely agreed,” she said casually. “I don’t think either of us is looking for, you know, that, right now.”
“You don’t think it’s going to be a problem? Pretending to be a couple all the time?”
“I mean,” she snorted, “you’re not that likable.”
Phoenix stared at her, perplexed, then burst into a laugh. “Trust me. I know.”
The two of them spent the afternoon watching a documentary, which to her great surprise, Phoenix watched with interest.
William used to talk through shows and movies, and it would drive Miranda crazy. She always felt on edge, like he was bored or that he was going to end up talking through an important scene.
Phoenix wasn’t like that. He listened to the media he consumed. He also turned his phone off when they had nights in.
The pair sat on opposite ends of the couch, but halfway through the documentary, Miranda got lonely. She stretched her legs out across the couch and began poking Phoenix with her toes, trying to get his attention.
Without looking over, Phoenix pulled her legs onto his lap and began rubbing her feet.
Her heart fluttered with excitement. She could already feel herself starting to like him.
Phoenix was so sweet, so quiet, and so troubled. She knew being troubled wasn’t a good reason to like someone. In fact, it was probab
ly a really good reason to go running in the opposite direction, but she was drawn to his chaos.
Even though her feelings for him grew day by day, she realized that it was likely a schoolgirl-crush and nothing more. It was nothing—just excitement. After all, he was helping her get out of debt. She felt free and excited to live this new, different, highly romanticized lifestyle—and the kissing didn’t hurt either.
Things were going great with his public image. The press was excited about their relationship and requesting interviews left and right, but Phoenix wouldn’t commit to anyone until his agent gave him the all-clear.
After weeks of being seen out in public, holding hands, tasteful Instagram posts, and releasing tidbits about Miranda to the media, they still hadn’t heard a thing from Phoenix’s team.
It wasn’t until they were out at a bar one night that everything changed.
The bar was a hole in the wall with a lot of character. There were old velvet booths in circular shapes and tin signs from car companies and garages pinned to the walls.
“I love this place. I’ve seen a lot of talent here,” Phoenix said, setting down a beer and a glass of rose for Miranda.
“You’ve been here a lot?” she asked, crossing her legs.
“Oh yeah. We used to come here all of the time,” he said.
Although he didn’t say her name, Miranda knew that he was talking about Rachel. He was always talking about Rachel.
This woman was such a big presence in his life from childhood until now, so it was no surprise that her spirit ghosted through every street corner, every bar, restaurant, and room at the Brooks ranch—but Miranda didn’t expect to feel so overwhelmed by this woman who left her partner for his brother.
The two of them watched as a young girl in her early twenties played on the bar stage, belting out an old country song and filling the dive with her beautiful voice.
“What’s the strangest food you’ve ever eaten?” Miranda asked, leaning toward Phoenix.
The two sat on opposite sides of a round high-top, and Phoenix reached his hand across the warped-wood table, looping his fingers through hers.
“Probably durian,” he said.
