by Lili Valente
Chip sighs, sending another rush of sound into my ear. “You’re going to make me break Kathy’s heart, aren’t you? She’s a powerful woman, Zack. Make her happy now, and she’ll scratch your back later. She’s not the kind who forgets a favor. Or a slight…”
“Tell her it’s your fault,” I say flatly. “That you got ahead of yourself and sent the songs out without asking me first. And tell her I’m open to writing something for her band this fall after my album is locked and loaded. If she can wait that long and wants to hop on a call in late September, feel free to set it up.”
“You’re killing me here, man,” Chip says, his tone tighter and more irritable than any he’s used with me before. “But fine. If you need to hold onto these to feel good about moving forward, you gotta do what you gotta do. But for the sake of your future as a performer, it’s time to shift gears. You feel me?”
“Understood.”
“Cool,” he says, though things clearly aren’t cool. “Oh, and when you get the chance, can you fill out that image release paperwork I sent over yesterday? It can’t be digitally signed; I need your real John Hancock on that one. You can just print it out, sign, and snap a pic with your phone and text it to me. Should take you five minutes. Tops. They’ve got a printer there, right?”
“They do, and I’ll get that sent over this morning. Talk to you later.” I end the call without waiting for him to say goodbye, my stomach in knots.
Fuck.
What a shitty start to the morning— back to square one with only nine days left out of the fourteen and no clue where to go from here.
“Shifting gears,” I mutter beneath my breath as I pad back down the carpeted hall to my bedroom.
I’m fully capable of taking music in another direction—I have range as an artist, and I’m not too precious to make rewrites—but I don’t want to.
I’ve always trusted my intuition when it comes to song writing, and this direction feels right. Beyond right. Turning my back on this new sound would be like meeting the perfect woman and dumping her because she didn’t have the hair color I prefer.
Hell, not even the hair color I prefer—the hair color my manager prefers.
It’s superficial shit, and it’s not even my superficial shit. The entire conversation has left me…deflated.
Frustrated. Barren.
I couldn’t write a song right now if I had a gun to my head, and I’m honestly not in the mood to do anything creative.
So when I step into the doorway to see Colette propped up against the pillows with the thermometer she uses to check her temperature each morning—a thing I had no clue helped predict fertility until this week—I cross my fingers that today isn’t the day.
I love being in bed with Colette, and I’m totally on board with baby-making, but for the first time since we kissed in her apartment, I’m not in the mood to jump her bones. I just want to lock myself in a closet and sit in the dark with my rotten mood for a while.
“Hey,” she says when she spots me, her lips turning down as she lifts the thermometer in the air. “No dice. I guess I’m running late this month.”
I try not to let my relief show on my face. “It’s okay. It’ll happen, and we’ll be ready when it does.”
She nods, her brows drawing together as she sets the thermometer back in its case. “Is something wrong?”
“Just a little fried.” I drag a hand through my hair, not wanting to share my failure with anyone just yet, not even Colette. “Kind of dreading heading into the studio today, honestly. Kind of feeling…blocked all of a sudden.”
“Can you take the morning off? Sometimes a couple of hours of playtime is the best thing for burnout. Gets the creative juices flowing way faster than forcing it, you know?” She crosses her legs, propping her hands on her knees as she sits up straighter. “So let’s brainstorm. What sounds like fun?”
“Spending the day with you,” I say, immediately feeling better after just two minutes in her company. “Exploring or hiking or whatever we decide feels good.”
She smiles, making my heart even lighter. “Then let’s get dressed and have an adventure, baby. I can’t wait to have you all to myself.”
“Same,” I agree, deciding Chip’s feedback can wait.
I’ll figure out what to do about the album later.
Right now, all I want to do is get lost with Colette. Or found with Colette.
I don’t ever feel lost when I’m with her. I feel good.
Solid.
Home…
Chapter Sixteen
Colette
We crest the third hill behind the house and, just as Nancy predicted, stumble into paradise.
The ancient orchard is full of gnarled trees already loaded with dusty rose apples. Harvest time is still a few weeks away, but the branches are so heavy with fruit they would sag to the ground without support, and the grass is dotted with apples that couldn’t wait to be picked.
Beyond the orchard, the mountains stretch to the horizon, going hazy like a dream, and the sky is so blue it seems to shout that all will be well.
Under a sky like this, how could it be otherwise?
Pressing a hand to my chest, I suck in a deep breath, shocked to find myself fighting tears.
“This was definitely worth the hike.” Zack turns my way, his smile falling from his lips. “Hey, what’s wrong? Are you okay?”
I shake my head, smiling through the tears blurring my vision. “I’m fine. It’s nothing. It’s just… so beautiful.” I swipe at my eyes with my knuckles, laughing as Zack’s hand comes to rest at the small of my back. “I know it’s silly, but nature gets to me sometimes. The kids at camp used to make fun of me for it. Gentle fun, mostly, considering none of the other fourteen-year-olds got weepy over a pretty sunset.”
Zack’s gaze softens. “Maybe they should. Maybe we all should.”
I laugh-sniff. “Sweet of you to say, but I know I’m weird.”
He fists his hand in the fabric of my gauzy dress, sending a warm hum across my skin. “You’re not weird. You’re perfect.”
I search his gaze, but there isn’t a hint of irony in his expression. Arching a brow as I bring my fingers to the front of his sunflower-print shirt, I pluck at the button at the top. “Again. Sweet. But I’m not perfect, and I know it. And you should, too. No one’s perfect.”
“Maybe just perfect for me, then,” he whispers so softly I can’t be sure that’s what he said.
But I’m not about to ask him to repeat himself.
This is already dangerous.
Too dangerous.
I should have taken Theo up on her offer to launch a rescue mission. Zack and I need to be saved from ourselves before we break each other’s hearts into a million bruised and bloody pieces.
But he’s like champagne. I can’t quit him, though I know a third mimosa is never a good idea.
No, he’s not like champagne. He’s like…air. When I’m with him, it would be easier to stop breathing than to stop leaning into him, kissing him, making it clear with everything except words that I’m falling madly, deeply, stupidly in love with him.
He’s just so beautiful. So kind and funny. So interested and curious and always paying attention.
I’ve never met a man who pays attention the way I pay attention—the way most of my female friends do, too. I’d always assumed that deep, fixed concentration on the object of one’s affection, that awareness that borders on a sixth sense, was a uniquely feminine trait.
There’s a reason women are always the ones asking, “What are you thinking?”
Because we know when our partner is holding back.
We can sense it.
We’re paying attention.
But so is Zack.
“Tired?” he murmurs, proving my point.
I am tired—exhausted. I can’t remember the last time I stayed up most of the night making love, let alone done it for nearly a week. But I’m not about to complain.
“I wouldn’t
have it any other way.” Kissing his freshly shaved cheek, I smile against his skin as he laughs and hugs me closer. He smells like soap and sunshine and Zack. I let my nose linger near the curve of his neck, inhaling the best smell on earth.
I never want to forget his forest and seashore scent, or anything else about him. When he’s gone, I want to have a treasure trove of memories to choose from, to hold close whenever I wish we hadn’t had to say goodbye.
I smile, pushing the thought away before it can make me misty-eyed again.
There will be time for tears later. Today is for beauty and fun and more good memories.
“Let's find the best picnic spot ever,” I say, twining my fingers through his.
“And eat all the food.” He nods toward the backpack he wears, which Nancy stuffed with enough provisions to feed an entire band for several days. She insisted on making us huge slabs of french toast for breakfast, and while we were out picking cherries, she whipped up a gourmet picnic to sustain us through the rest of our day of adventure.
I’ve never felt so spoiled, but Nancy truly seems to love cooking and feeding people as much as Zack and I love eating. I’m going to miss her, too, and Jed and this beautiful home that isn’t nearly as spooky as I thought when we first arrived. I’m starting to look forward to the footsteps I hear pitter-pattering in the night.
Sleeping with Zack helps everything seem less spooky, of course. The only thing I feel when I’m wrapped up in his arms is safe. And happy. And eager to go to sleep so I can wake up and spend more time with him.
“Yes, all the food,” I agree, holding tight to his hand as he leads the way deeper into the orchard. “And then we can take a big hairy nap.”
“The biggest and the hairiest.” He glances over his shoulder, his grin making my heart zing again. He turns my body into a musical instrument, this man, and plays me like he’s been loving on my strings for years.
“I want to draw you,” I say, admiring the way the sun brings out the copper highlights in his hair as we pass from sun to shade and back to sun again. “I’m going to bring my pastels next time.”
He laughs.
“I’m serious.” I squeeze his fingers. “I don’t draw people very often, but I can. I just usually enjoy buildings and furniture more. Mostly because they’re better at holding still.”
“I’m sure you’re amazing at drawing people. I was just laughing because I was thinking the same thing about you the other day. That I wanted to paint you.” He bobs a shoulder. “But I can’t draw a decent stick figure, so you’re stuck with a song.”
My cheeks tingle, but I can’t fight the smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. “You wrote me a song?”
“One or two,” he murmurs, his gaze fixed on the grass.
I grin wider. “Really?”
“Really,” he says, still studying the ground.
I dip my chin, trying to catch his eye. “Are you embarrassed? If so, don’t be. I think it’s wonderful. I would write you a song if I could.”
“I’m not embarrassed.” His smiling eyes wink up at mine before returning to the path. “I’m looking for snakes.”
I freeze, my jaw locking tight and my blood running cold as I dig my toes into the leather of my sandals, suddenly unable to take another step. “Snakes?” I snatch my hand from Zack’s and press both fists to my chest.
He turns back to me with an amused look. “Yeah, but don’t worry. If we don’t bother them, they won’t bother us. I just always seem to run into snakes when I’m in orchards, so I’ve learned to keep an eye out.”
“Always?” I echo, fear digging claws into my throat. “Like…every single time?”
“Pretty much,” he confirms, “but I’ve never been bitten. I did have one slither right over the top of my bare foot once, though. Made sure I wore shoes the next time.”
My toes curl tighter, but there’s nowhere for them to hide in my strappy brown sandals. “Why didn’t you tell me that before I came out here nearly barefoot?” I squeak, feeling more trapped with every passing second.
I glance over my shoulder, but it’s at least two hundred feet back to the main path, and who knows what lies on the other side of the orchard or how long it would take me to find my way back to the house if I run screaming in that direction.
“It’s okay,” Zack says in a soothing voice, realizing he’s set something borderline psychotic in motion.
“I just really hate snakes.” I fight to swallow past the terror ball lodged under my tongue, but it isn’t easy. At all. “Once, when I was five, I saw a boa constrictor eat a baby bunny at the zoo. I’ve never been quite the same since.”
Zack takes a careful step closer. “Well, there aren’t any boa constrictors around here. Just harmless garter snakes and rat snakes and maybe a copperhead or two, but they all just want to be left alone. As long as we don’t step on them, we’ll be okay. And I’ll make sure we don’t. I’ll keep one eye on the ground at all times.”
I shake my head, but I can feel myself relaxing as his fingers skim down my neck to squeeze my bare shoulder. “But they’re experts at camouflage. You might miss one.”
“I won’t miss one,” he promises.
“But you might, and if you get bitten by a venomous snake, I’m not strong enough to carry you back to the house.”
“Then you can leave me here and run for help,” Zack says, pushing on before I can ask what we’re going to do if we’re both bitten at the same time. Possibly by a two-headed mutant snake or a nest of vipers all coiled together and waiting for some yummy human flesh to chomp. “But I’m not going to get bitten, and neither are you. Today is going to be a good day, no matter what the music industry has to say about it.”
I cock my head, snake fears fading to a background drone. Is this what’s been bothering him since we woke up this morning? “What do you mean ‘what the music industry has to say about it?’ I thought you said Chip was just checking in about some paperwork.”
Zack’s jaw muscle tightens into a ball beneath his skin. “That was…partly true.”
Propping a fist on my hip, I arch a brow. “Partly true? That’s not the kind of true I like. You can tell me if things aren’t going well, you know.” My mind coughs out a possible explanation for a cranky music industry professional, and I add, “And if I’m slowing down your progress, I can leave. Seriously. My feelings won’t be hurt. Theo already offered to come pick me up, so I can—”
“No.” Zack pulls me against him with a sudden flex of his arm, making my breath rush out as my breasts flatten against his chest. “Don’t leave.”
“I don’t want to leave,” I whisper, my hormones starting the “We Heart Zack” party, the way they do every time he’s close to me, even with two layers of clothes between us and the threat of snakes lurking in the grass. “But if I’m interrupting your flow, then I should go, Zack. You’re here to make beautiful music, not beautiful love.” My lips quirk up. “No matter how much we both enjoy the second one.”
“We do enjoy the second one.” He threads his fingers into my hair as he cups my cheek with his other hand. “Productivity isn’t the problem. I’ve written more songs in the past week than in the past year.”
I blink. “Well, that’s good, right? So what is Chip upset about?”
“Chip and his ‘team’ don’t think they’re on point for a strong solo career launch. They’re too emotional. Too soft or…feminine or something like that.”
“Too feminine?” I huff. “That’s ridiculous. Who says only girls get to have feelings? Or only girls can be gentle? I love that you’re gentle and have feelings, and believe me, there is never any doubt in my mind that you’re also one hundred percent man.”
His eyes darken as his fingers thread deeper into my hair. “Yeah? No doubt?”
My tongue slips out to wet my lips. “Well, maybe a tiny, itsy-bitsy shred, but that’s only because I have a terrible memory. But I’m sure if you get me naked again, I’ll be back to one hundred percent ag
ain before you know it.”
“Then I guess there’s only one thing left to do…” He slants his head, but I pull back, resting my hands against his chest.
“Seriously, though, that’s crazy. You should be able to be authentic with your music, to explore all the things you think and feel,” I say. The more I mull this over, the more riled up I’m getting. “This is a part of the problem with sexism, you know. It’s not just that women are sexually harassed or not paid fairly. It’s that men aren’t allowed to be vulnerable without getting pushback for not being manly all the time. I mean, there’s a time for manly, but there’s a time for gentle, too.”
“I know, and I agree with you,” he says with a sigh. “But I’m also running a business and selling a product that I need to market. And, like Chip said, it’s easier to market an edgy rock star than an emotionally nuanced one.”
“But so many songs are about feelings other than anger or manliness or whatever,” I counter, hating that he’s under pressure to move away from something that feels authentic for him. “Men are singing about their emotions every time I turn on the radio.”
Zack shrugs. “I guess not as openly as I am. Apparently, my heart is on my sleeve in an uncool way.”
My own heart skips a beat, but I don’t know what to say.
I want to tell him that I love men who wear their hearts on their sleeve and that I don’t give a shit about being “cool,” but he might take that the wrong way. I do love men like that, but I also love decent, average guys. Men who would be content to live out the rest of their lives in the same small town and come home to their wife and children every night.
I’m already so into Zack that being apart from him for a few hours leaves me anxious to be back in his arms. If he were gone on tour, away on the road for a month or more between visits, I would be miserable.
And if I’m miserable, I won’t be capable of being the kind of mother I want to be.
