“Can I get you something to eat, honey?”
Nash looked up. The waitress had returned, and despite the fact that she’d called him by a pet name, she still didn’t seem pleased. He might as well eat before she threw him out for looking at her wrong. “Yes.” He glanced down at the menu. “I’ll take the three eggs scrambled with bacon. Does that come with toast and hash browns?”
The woman, whose name tag said RUTH, knit her eyebrows together in confusion. “No, it comes with biscuits and grits.” She said it as though he’d asked the most ridiculous question ever.
Biscuits were fine, he supposed. “What are grits?”
Ruth’s eyes widened, and then narrowed at him with suspicion. “You’re kidding, right?”
Another man settled at the counter a few seats away from him. He was young with thick dark hair, wearing a Rosewood Fire Department T-shirt that looked like it might split in half, it was so tight on him. “Just eat them, you’ll like it,” he said.
“Okay.” Nash wouldn’t argue. He’d just have to look up grits on his phone while he waited.
Nash thought the younger guy might be a good person to talk to. He was around Ivy’s age, so he might be a useful source of information. Nash waited until the man finished ordering before he made eye contact and smiled at him. “Thanks for the help. I need a southern primer. Are you originally from here?” he asked.
The fireman nodded and took a sip of his coffee. “Born and raised. My whole family comes from this area. I’m probably kin with half the town. I know you’re not from around here. I’ve never seen you before. What brings you to Rosewood?”
Nash shrugged dismissively. “I’ve come to town to cover the tornado fund-raiser,” he said, not mentioning Ivy at all. “I thought it would be a nice public interest piece with everyone coming together to rebuild.”
“So you’re a reporter,” Grant said loud enough for his voice to carry through damn near the whole diner. A few eyes flickered over to him, then back to their meals. Damn. He’d been outed to every prospect in the restaurant. There’d be no casual conversation with any of them now.
“Guilty,” Nash said with a smile. Time to change the subject. “I’m Nash,” he said, holding his hand out to shake.
“I’m Grant. Grant Chamberlain,” the man added as he gave Nash a firm shake.
“Chamberlain, huh? Any relation to the Auburn football player?” He tried not to sound too obvious, but it was hard.
“I sure am. I told you I’m related to everybody ’round here. He’s my older brother.”
His brother? Nash had wanted a good source, but this one was too good. Too close to the subject matter. He didn’t react to the revelation, but just nodded. “Shame about his knee. Are you helping out with some of the festivities?”
“The fire department is driving the fire truck in the parade and I’ll be on it. And we’ll be on standby during the concert in case someone gets hurt or the pyrotechnics malfunction.”
“The concert, right. You guys got Ivy Hudson to perform, didn’t you? That’s quite the coup. Isn’t she from Alabama somewhere?”
“She’s from Rosewood, actually.” Grant waited for Nash’s reaction. Nash wasn’t about to give one, though.
“That explains it, then.”
Just then, Ruth came out with his food. She gave Grant the stink-eye. Nash got the feeling it was due to her displeasure with Grant speaking to the interloper.
“Where you staying, Nash?” Grant asked.
“I got a room at the bed-and-breakfast behind the park.”
“Ah, you’re staying with Miss Twila, then.”
“Is there another option?” Frankly, he was desperate for another option. He didn’t care if it was a Motel 6. Bed-and-breakfasts were usually run by little old ladies who were nosier than he was. He wasn’t looking forward to being needled by the innkeeper.
“Not for about thirty miles. We don’t get a lot of out-of-town guests.”
Nash stuck a bite of the mysterious grits into his mouth. Creamy and slightly sweet, it had more texture than cream of wheat, but was not as thick as oatmeal. Bizarre. But it tasted good enough.
“My point here, Nash, is that we know an outsider when we see one. We don’t take too kindly to people poking around into our private affairs. You and I both know you’re here to dig up information on Ivy and my brother. Well, you can just forget it. No one in this town is going to talk to you. We protect our own, you got it?”
Nash turned to look at the young man seated beside him. The bright blue eyes that were focused on him were icy cold. All pretense of friendliness was gone. Grant was young, but he was strong. He could probably kick Nash’s ass in an instant.
“I’m just doing my job. I’m not looking for any trouble,” he said. “With you or anyone else.”
Grant eased back a touch and picked up his coffee again. “See to it that you don’t find any. Or me and my three brothers will come looking for you.”
Ruth came out with a to-go box and handed it to Grant. “Here you go, darlin’. That’ll be five-fifty.”
The fireman paid for his breakfast. “I’ll see you around, Ruth.” As he brushed past Nash’s stool, he leaned in. “I’ll be seeing you around, too, Nash.”
“Looking forward to it,” Nash replied with a bright smile. “Punk,” he muttered under his breath after the door closed behind him.
Looking down at his plate, Nash realized he’d only made it through about half, but he was more than done. Those grits had quite literally stuck to his ribs. With a groan, he pushed back from the bar and stepped down onto the tile floor. He put some money down on the counter and took his last sip of coffee.
Every eye in the restaurant was on Nash as he walked out the front door and onto the street. He’d parked right out front of Ellen’s, but the bank caught his eye. He probably needed to get some more cash. If he was going to be leaving a lot of places in a hurry, he didn’t need to wait around while they ran his credit card.
Nash jogged across the street and passed the post office on his way to the bank. He paused in the alleyway between the two buildings when he heard voices arguing. Looking down the alley, he saw two people, one looking remarkably like Ivy. But it couldn’t be, could it? Was Rosewood where his elusive rock star had disappeared to?
Nash eased back against the brick facade of the post office and turned on the video camera on his phone. He eased the lens around the corner to discreetly record the argument.
“Blake, you’re an ass-hat!” he heard the woman yell. He’d bet his life savings it was Ivy. The guy was hard to see in the lighting, but if it was Blake Chamberlain, he’d just struck celebrity gossip gold.
Chapter 9
“Blake, you’re an ass-hat! I do not want to kiss you ever again.” Ivy’s blood pressure had just skyrocketed at his suggestion. Kiss him? Kiss him! Really? She couldn’t believe how arrogant he could be.
“I understand your hesitation,” Blake said with a condescending tone and a concerned knit to his brow. “If you kissed me, you might eventually have to face the sight of my not at all small penis and feel bad for making me the laughingstock of the entire country.”
Ivy sighed, the anger leeching out of her. “That song was about the size of your heart. You never really opened up to me fully. Not in all the years we were together. No matter how much I gave to you, you held back. The thing with the cheerleader was just proof to me that we had deeper issues. That is what the song was about.”
“Well, I can assure you no one listens that closely to the lyrics.”
“I’m sorry. Your penis is not small. I know that.”
“Say it again. Say it louder.”
Ivy clenched her fists in aggravation. He always had to push it. “Sorry” was never enough. Hell, what did it matter? If it soothed his pride and got her through the next couple of weeks in Rosewood, fine. “Blake Chamberlain has an excellent penis!” she said louder than she intended to, but she hoped the sound of cars on the street would keep
it from traveling far. “It is quite large and he is very skilled in using it. Happy?”
Blake shrugged. “It was a good effort, thanks. A pity I can’t get you to announce it at one of your concerts.”
At that, Ivy rolled her eyes. “You’ll have to settle for this. I’m sorry my song turned into such a nightmare for you. Despite what you think, it was an emotional breakthrough for me to write it. You cheated on me. The man I’d loved since I was fifteen years old betrayed me. All my dreams of our future together just went out the window when I saw you with that girl. I was angry, I was hurt, and I put it to paper the way I always did. That was just one of several songs I wrote in the weeks following our breakup. Do you really think I ever thought that song would hit the airwaves? I mean, I was just a pathetic coffeehouse singer, as you so eloquently put it.”
Blake winced. “I’m sorry I said that at the bar. You were and are talented.”
Ivy shrugged off his apology. She didn’t want him to think his opinion mattered to her, even if it did. “Well, the truth is, our breakup helped me find my sound. That sound was my breakthrough. I didn’t intend for it to be. And I certainly didn’t intend for your name to get dragged into the news.”
That was the unfortunate sleuthing of Hollywood News reporter Nash Russell. He was always the first to break a story about her. He reported that “Size Matters” was about Auburn football star Blake Chamberlain. He was the one who connected the dots between her latest song and Sterling Marshall. Frankly, he’d caused her nothing but headaches.
She tolerated him and those like him because Kevin insisted that kind of news kept her interesting and relevant. Ivy disagreed. She wasn’t one of those singers who felt the need for a scandalous twerking incident to get headlines. Her dating habits got her plenty of press, but that was never what she intended. She just wanted inspiration for her songs.
“There was nothing you could have done about it,” Blake admitted. “Once it was out there, denying it would only look like too much of a protest. Confirming it would make you look vindictive.”
Ivy flopped back against the brick wall of the post office. “I’ve built a career on vindictiveness without uttering a single name. But you want to know the worst part of it? I can’t forget about all the losers I had to date to write those songs. Present company excluded, of course.”
“Of course.”
“I mean”—she shook her head—“every time I get onstage to sing a song, I think about them. Every time I sing ‘The Sweetest High,’ I’ll think about the lead singer of Perfect Harmony! That scrawny little twerp of a boy could hardly even be called a man.”
“That really was a new low for you,” Blake said with a chuckle.
Ivy had to laugh about it, too. The whole thing was ridiculous. “I’ve sworn off boy bands.”
She looked up at Blake as he laughed, and for the first time, she saw the face of the man she’d once loved. His blue eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled at her. He wasn’t about to explode from holding in his anger. He wasn’t mocking her or saying nasty things about her or her music. It was a real conversation. The first they’d had in six years.
Ivy wasn’t entirely sure what made her say it, but the words just fell from her lips in the moment. “Every time I sing ‘Size Matters,’ I think about you, too. The good times and the bad times. It’s good to see you smile again, Blake. Despite everything that happened, I have missed you.”
His eyes found hers, his expression serious. “I’ve missed you too, Ivy. And I’m sorry about that night at Auburn. I never wanted to be like my dad, you know? Always running around on my mom. I thought I was better than he was, but I guess not. I know you didn’t want to hear it back then, but I hope you’ll listen and know I mean it.”
He was right. At the time, nothing he could have said would change what happened. But time and distance had made her more receptive. It was time they both stopped carrying this grudge. “Thank you.”
Ivy took a step toward Blake and wrapped her arms around his waist. She turned her face and pressed her cheek into his chest, feeling relief wash over her when his arms wrapped around her and hugged her back.
When he’d grabbed her arm earlier, she’d felt this rush through her whole body. It had been six years, but she remembered Blake’s touch like it was yesterday. This hug was no exception. There was no heat in their embrace, but the warmth and comfort of the familiar touch was nearly overwhelming. She closed her eyes, fighting the urge to snuggle contentedly against him and sigh.
“What are you doing?” A sharp voice caught their attention.
Ivy and Blake leaped apart and turned to look at the far end of the alley, where they found Mr. Osbourne, the bank manager, standing. He was shouting at someone crouched down at the edge of the alley.
“Are you filming them?” he said, his voice elevating.
They dashed toward Mr. Osbourne and their Peeping Tom, but they were too late. All they could see was the back of a man with blond hair as he ran across the street and disappeared into the used car lot. But that was enough. She didn’t need a good look to know it was her best buddy, Nash.
“He was filming us?” Blake asked. His dark brow was drawn in confusion.
“Probably,” Ivy said. She was less upset about being filmed than she was about having her tranquil sanctuary destroyed. No more trips to the grocery store without makeup. From now on, she would have to be the Ivy Hudson again.
“One of my customers came in and told security that a man was huddling by the alley with a phone. I came out to investigate.” Mr. Osbourne seemed very agitated. The people of Rosewood were not used to the invasive lifestyle Ivy had become accustomed to.
“He was filming us, Mr. Osbourne, but don’t worry about it. Once word gets out that I’m here, there will be more and more of those types in town. I’m surprised he ran, frankly. They usually get right in my face snapping pictures and asking prying questions.”
She turned back to the nervous bank manager. “Thank you for intervening. We might never have noticed him there.”
“The nerve,” Mr. Osbourne muttered, more to himself than anyone. “Good to see you both,” he said, turning and heading back into the bank.
“You live with that all the time?” Blake asked.
Ivy just nodded. Every time she stepped out of her home, it seemed like there was at least one camera on her. “Certainly you remember what it was like during your football glory days.”
Blake shook his head. “It wasn’t like this. They kept their cameras to the locker rooms and the field. They left me alone on campus while I went to classes and lived my life outside the stadium. I never felt like I’d been invaded.”
“Not even when my song came out?”
Blake winced. “That was bad, but only for a few days. A couple of reporters came to Auburn asking me what I thought about it and trying to piece together a story, but my coach and my teammates protected me pretty well. I certainly haven’t had to deal with it every day for the last five years.”
When he put it that way, it felt like a lifetime. There was a reason celebrities liked to go on exotic vacations to Thailand. The press tended not to follow them that far. And when they hadn’t known she was in Rosewood, it had been almost as nice. “I was really enjoying the peace here at home. No one knew I was back yet, and it was so freeing. It was good while it lasted, I suppose.”
Blake turned back toward the used car lot, his eyes searching out the man they’d run off. “Do you want me to have my brother arrest him? I’m sure Simon would be happy to.”
Ivy shook her head. “As much as I would enjoy that, you can’t. They’ll cry freedom of the press and all that. As far as they’re concerned, public personalities have waived their rights to privacy.”
Blake’s jaw was tight, his hands curled into angry fists at his sides. He looked like he wanted to chase Nash down and pound his face into the pavement. “So what can we do?”
“We call my manager and my publicist and wait for t
he fallout.”
“They’ve descended.”
Blake looked up from the gas pump to where the owner of the station, Arthur Jackson, was standing. Art was Blake’s father’s age, and had spent a good part of the past thirty years behind the counter of the gas station. No one else was there, so he’d stepped outside to visit with Blake while he filled up his truck.
He followed Art’s line of sight and spied another rental car with Birmingham plates rolling by. “More reporters,” he replied with distaste.
Blake had seen at least four other unfamiliar cars around town today. It was like a gang of midsize sedans had taken over Rosewood. The video hit the Internet the night before and everyone must have immediately booked their tickets and hightailed it to Alabama. It seemed that they all thought there was a story brewing here. He had no idea why. There wasn’t much going on. He and Ivy had made up. There shouldn’t be any more fighting.
If the hug they’d shared in the alley yesterday was any indication, they’d set all that aside. She’d surprised him at first, but it felt so good to have her pressed against him that he couldn’t help wrapping his arms around her. It had felt . . . right in a way that holding other women over the past few years had not. She fit perfectly, like she was meant to be there. His chest tightened at the mere thought.
But a hug was just a hug. It didn’t mean that in lieu of clashing they’d start kissing. No doubt, he was still attracted to Ivy. Now that he was no longer required to despise her, the idea didn’t bother him so much.
Grant seemed to think that was exactly what the reporters were after. That made him laugh out loud. They’d wasted their money if they thought anything illicit was going to happen on the street in Rosewood. The town had voted down the long-standing blue laws only last year, and that had been a scandalous headline. Buying beer on a Sunday! Did the paparazzi really think he and Ivy were going to make out on the street where they could photograph it?
He might have been considered naïve when it came to all this, but he wasn’t stupid. Blake had learned his lesson quickly. From now on, he had to act as though someone was always watching, whether it was Vera Reynolds, ready to spread the news to every old busybody in town, or a reporter set on blasting it into cyberspace.
Facing the Music: A Rosewood Novel Page 11
