After they ate, they would make sweet, beautiful music together.
He laughed. Okay, that was sappy, but he hadn’t been this excited since he arrived in Quinn Valley. His phone buzzed.
Momager: You okay? I didn’t get your daily text asking to be freed from solitary confinement.
Leave it to R.J. to worry about Nash not complaining. The guy was always on Nash about something. That was why he’d jokingly listed his manager as “momager” in his contacts. Then again, Travis had mentioned something similar. Was Nash that bad? He wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer. He typed a reply.
Nash: I’m good. Thought I’d give you a break today.
Momager: Therapy going well?
Nash: Travis hasn’t killed me yet.
Momager: Good, because I’d be unemployed.
Nash: I’d be dead so you can’t complain.
Momager: Come up with any new songs?
Nash: Working on a couple.
Momager: Anything you can send me? Label is getting antsy.
Nash: Soon.
Momager: Make it sooner. TTYL.
The label was always antsy. Sure, Nash’s last album hadn’t done as well as the prior one, but the singles had surpassed expectations with streaming. Postponing the second half of his sold-out tour, however, wasn’t earning him any points. He needed to get out on the road and finish that.
A knock sounded.
He peered through the peephole to see Bob before opening the door. The hotel owner held a pizza-box-shaped thermal pouch with a bag on top. “Your dinner.”
Nash took the items. “Thanks.”
“Housekeeping will pick up the thermal when they clean tomorrow.” Bob eyed the bag and box, more than one person could eat, but said nothing. “Have a nice evening.”
“You, too.”
Nash closed the door with his foot and then set the food on the table. Salad, breadsticks, and pizza weren’t fancy, but most people ate it. He thought this meal would make Ivy feel less uncomfortable than say a gourmet dinner with multiple courses from the hotel’s restaurant. He preferred comfort food himself. Nothing beat his foster mom’s chicken and dumplings. Whenever he visited, she made that for him each day, no matter how long he stayed.
Another knock sounded.
Excited, he didn’t bother checking to see who it was. As he opened the door, he wasn’t disappointed.
Ivy stood with her guitar case in hand and a large tote bag on her shoulder. She wore jean shorts, a polka-dotted T-shirt, and a hesitant expression. “Something smells good.”
“Pizza.”
“One of my favorites.”
Nash released the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “It’s one of mine, too.”
Even though most people loved pizza, knowing he and Ivy had something in common besides music pleased him.
Ivy entered the suite and went into the sitting area. She reached for the back of the couch before pulling back her hand. She pressed her arm against her side as if afraid to touch anything. “I toured the Presidential Suite years ago, but I forgot how elegant the décor is. My apartment would fit into the bathroom.”
The suite had two, one bigger than the other, and she was correct. “It’s fancy, but I’ve been comfortable here.”
“That’s because you’re a VIP and stay in places like this.” She placed her case on the floor near the door. “Me? I’m worried I’ll break something.”
“I felt the same way in the beginning,” he admitted. “You get used to it.”
She shrugged. “I suppose you would. I don’t travel much.”
He motioned to their dinner. “Where was the last place you went?”
“Seattle.” She headed to the table and sat. “Ten years ago.”
His mouth gaped.
“Don’t look so shocked.” She didn’t sound upset or resigned, more matter-of-fact. “I’m doing what I want to do.”
Still, he blamed himself. Being a homebody was one thing. But what good were those songs she wrote if no one heard them? She could easily hit the circuit of bars and small clubs. But as she said, this was her choice, not his. “As long as you’re happy.”
“Living my best life,” she joked. “I wouldn’t mind bigger tips, and I hope my grandmother doesn’t try to play matchmaker. But other than that, no complaints.”
Could life be that simple? Nash hoped so for Ivy’s sake.
He opened the pizza box and removed the lid on the salad. “Your last name and matchmaking grandma tells me you’re related to Travis?”
“Cousins.”
That meant… “You’re one of the twenty-five who are being married off by your grandmother?”
Ivy lifted her chin. “Yes, but I’m not about to be married off.”
“Good luck with that.” Nash grinned. “Based on what Travis has said, your grandmother sounds tenacious.”
“Gertrude Quinn is worse than a dog with a bone, but she loves us unconditionally and believes falling in love will make us happier.” The affection in Ivy’s voice told him how much she adored her grandma. “My cousins and siblings might need that, but not me. I’m remaining single.”
Ivy’s determination surprised him. Most people wanted to fall in love. He might if he was in a different place in life. Someday. “Not a fan of happily ever after?”
“I’d rather write music than go on a date. A boyfriend would only be in the way.”
He noticed she hadn’t answered his question. “R.J., my manager, would agree with you. He says I should avoid romantic entanglements so I can be one hundred percent focused on my career.”
“Not all romance is entangled, but I get his point.” She filled her plate. “A person can only focus on so many things or they become spread too thin.”
“That’s true. Life was so busy before I came to Quinn Valley. I hadn’t realized how tired I was until I injured my leg.” His gaze zeroed in on her taking a bite of pizza—the cheese stretching between her lips and the remaining piece. He forced himself to look away. “I told everyone I didn’t need the break, but I did.”
“It’s good to take time off and relax, but you must find this town boring compared to Nashville.”
“At times it has been.” Ivy was making his days less boring. “But I’ll be home soon enough.”
“What’s the first thing you’ll do when you get home?”
“Sleep in my own bed.” The answer came automatically. “Nothing like waking up at home. I also can’t wait to eat at my favorite BBQ place. They have the best brisket and cornbread you’ve ever tasted. And then I’ll rehearse, so I can finish up my tour.”
“You have it all planned.”
“I have lots of time on my hands here.” Nash would like to figure out more, but planning beyond the tour’s end was impossible without knowing if the label would re-sign him. “Do you have any plans?”
“Not really.” She wiped her mouth with a napkin. “I might take a course or two at the community college in the fall. If only to get my family off my back.”
“Have they been on you?”
“They’re worried I’ll end up being a server at the pub forever. It’s not like it’s a bad job. I can support myself. Visit with family and friends. Meet new people. And I don’t have to think about work when I leave. I have plenty of time to do what I want.”
“Like music?”
She shrugged. “I enjoy performing, but there’s limited opportunity around here. But someday, I want to find a music publisher for my songs…”
Her words sounded well-practiced. Almost rehearsed. But underneath them was a quiet longing coupled with an edge of fear.
“I can get your music in front of the right people.”
She inhaled sharply. “Thanks.”
“I’d like to tape us singing ‘Broken Dreams’ if you don’t mind so I can send it to my manager and a few contacts.”
Hope filled her gaze, but once again, a hint of fear was present, too. “That’s fine.”
&n
bsp; “We’ll do that after we eat, and then I want your input on a new song.”
Ivy brightened, transforming her pretty face to a beautiful one. “I’d like that.”
Nash liked her. NDA or not, he rarely opened up with people he just met, but he wanted to let down his guard around her. “I’ve been looking forward to you being here all day.”
She picked up her half-eaten slice of pizza. “It’s great to meet someone who feels the same about music.”
“It is.” But Nash’s feelings went beyond music. Ivy was a singer-songwriter, but he saw beyond that to the person—the woman—she was. She lived simply, making the most of what she had in this small town, yet wrote lyrics with a much larger worldview, full of contradictions and complications, emotional words with hidden meanings that stirred his soul.
Bottom line, Ivy Quinn captivated him.
He didn’t know what that meant because he’d never felt so drawn to anyone before, but he couldn’t wait to find out.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Working on Nash’s song thrilled Ivy. At first she was uncomfortable in his hotel room, but during dinner, she relaxed. And once they were playing…
She loved the back and forth between them. The way they finished each other’s lines and riffed off one another. She’d written music with a classmate in high school. He’d been her first kiss and inspired several songs, but they’d never shared the same…connection as she felt tonight.
Nash stopped playing. “I have an idea.”
The way ideas popped into his head and made him want to explore them was adorable. But the rabbit trails had led to good stuff for the song. “What?”
“A chord progression.” He set his guitar on the table, stood behind her, and placed his left arm next to hers. “Try this.”
As his fingers moved on the guitar’s neck, his fresh soap scent tickled her nose. She breathed in, wanting more.
Uh-oh.
His other arm reached around her and his right hand strummed, as he played the chord progression again. His position was awkward, trapping her against him. She kind of liked it.
Talk about Nash being trouble with a capital T.
“What do you think?” he asked.
Oh, right. She was supposed to be paying attention to his playing—not him. “Could you do it again?”
He did.
This time she watched his fingers, mimicking the actions with her own. “That adds another layer. I like it.”
“Me, too.”
With each breath, she waited for him to move away from her.
Nash didn’t.
She turned to look at him.
As his gaze met hers, Ivy’s heart skipped a beat. Maybe three. That had never happened when she co-wrote in high school, either. Not even after they’d kissed.
She swallowed.
A grin spread across Nash’s handsome face, making him look younger and more carefree, rather than carrying around the weight of his career and choices. “The song is almost there.”
Ivy stood transfixed on this man, who had more layers to him than his song would. The temperature rose ten degrees. “Only a matter of fine-tuning now.”
“I agree.”
Only two words, but his voice resonated with her as if the sound waves penetrated her skin.
His gaze lowered to her lips.
Ivy focused on his.
Soft, full, waiting for…her.
Each nerve ending went on high alert. Worse? Ivy wanted to kiss him.
If she tilted her head up and moved—
Wait. What was she doing?
This was Nash Bennett—the last person she should kiss. Even if she wanted to press her lips against his, that wouldn’t be smart. It would be downright stupid.
She couldn’t give in to her feelings. Not only for him. He was making her think about music as a full-time profession. That dream had almost destroyed her once.
Ivy stepped to the side, ignoring how much she missed his warmth against her. Disaster averted.
For now.
A glance out the window showed darkness. Sometime between arriving and now, the sun had set. She glanced at her phone and then did a double take. Where had the time gone? “It’s nearly midnight.”
“Are you going to turn into a pumpkin?” he teased.
“No, but it’s late.” And she was feeling a little like Cinderella. “You’re supposed to rest while you’re here.”
“I’m relaxed.” He rolled his shoulders. “The tension’s gone. Thanks to…”
You.
Heaven help her, but Ivy wanted to hear him say that.
“…playing,” he said. “Losing myself in music always helps.”
Her breath hitched. Ivy had nothing to do with it. A good thing except she couldn’t ignore the twinge of disappointment. She forced her lips to curve. “Same.”
“Sorry for keeping you here so long.” He didn’t sound contrite. If anything, he appeared pleased they’d spent so much time together.
“No problem. I enjoyed myself, but I should get home. Pearl will wonder where I am.”
Great, now he would think she was a crazy cat lady. Of course she was, but it wasn’t something she broadcasted to hot singers who had the power to make her dreams come true.
Or destroy them. Again.
“I’ll drive you,” he offered.
“I have my car.”
“It’s late.”
Ivy didn’t know if his chivalry was because of his upbringing, manners, or if he had a sense of obligation, but it was unnecessary. She squared her shoulders. “This is Quinn Valley, a small town with a low crime rate and nosey neighbors. As soon as I park, people will peek out between their blinds or curtains to see who is there.”
“But—”
“I’ll be fine.” She’d been taking care of herself for years. Tonight would be no different. “Promise.”
Nash rubbed his hands against his shorts. “Please text me when you’re inside your apartment.”
“I can do that.” She put her guitar in the case and placed the strap of her tote bag over her shoulder. “Thanks for dinner and a fun night.”
“We should do this again.”
A thrill shot through her. “I’d like that.”
“Me, too.” He moved closer.
Ivy stood there unsure what to do next. Hugging him appealed to her, but that seemed too close given they hadn’t known each other long. A handshake was too formal because of the music they’d worked on.
Nash rubbed the back of his neck. “Drive safe.”
“Goodnight.” That parting sentiment would have to do. Unfortunately.
As Ivy drove home, memories of the evening streamed through her mind, but she kept coming back to one. When she’d wanted to kiss him.
Did Nash kiss as well as he played the guitar and sang?
She would never know the answer to that.
When she arrived home, Pearl announced her displeasure at being alone with a series of meows. A treat, however, settled the cat.
Ivy texted Nash.
Ivy: Home! Sleep well.
NB: Thanks. Sweet dreams.
She had a feeling her dreams would be the sweetest, especially if Nash played a starring role. Whatever happened in her subconscious was safe. As for real life—not so much. Which was why she needed to be careful around him and not mistake gratitude for…something else.
* * *
On Wednesday, Nash texted, asking if they could work on more songs before his appointment with Travis. Ivy said yes because she wanted to see him more than self-preservation wanted her to say no. This time there were no almost-kisses. No touching, either, making her realize she had imagined a connection between them last night. That should make her happy. Instead, her heart appeared to shrink at the realization.
Thursday brought an excited call from him. He’d written something new and wanted her to hear it. So Ivy ended up at his hotel where they’d spent hours on that song and others before she had to go to work. On
ce again, the connection she’d felt the other night didn’t appear. She chalked it up to an overactive imagination, and perhaps a hidden longing she hadn’t acknowledged.
On Friday morning, sitting at the laundromat while her clothes dried, her cell phone beeped. The text was from Nash.
Her heart leapt.
A stupid reaction, but one she couldn’t help.
She missed him. Strike that, she missed working on music with him.
Pathetic.
They weren’t even friends. Co-writers, yes, she could call them that, and Nash’s attorney was drafting a contract to protect both their interests. But she shouldn’t miss him.
NB: Any free time today?
Ivy: No, I have things that must get done. Sorry.
NB: No worries. Do you know if you’re singing this weekend?
Ivy: Tonight for sure.
NB: I’ll be there. Sing one of your songs, please. Just not Broken Dreams.
Ivy: Why not that one?
NB: It’s mine. I don’t want anyone to hear it yet. If you were with a music publisher, I would have put a hold on it.
Ivy: I’m not sure how the licensing all works.
NB: You will soon. You’ll need your lawyer to review contracts before you sign.
Ivy: I don’t have one.
NB: I can recommend a person. Not mine so there’s no conflict of interest. But R.J. will know others who are good.
Ivy: Thanks.
NB: See you tonight.
Ivy got the chills. She rubbed her arms even though the feeling had nothing to do with the cold and everything to do with Nash.
Ivy: Looking forward to it.
* * *
At the pub on Friday night, Ivy kept trying not to glance at Nash who sat at the bar. He had his hipster clothes on again. The beanie and beard were growing on her, but the sunglasses gave off a trying-too-hard-to-be-cool vibe. They also blocked her from seeing if he was watching her.
Ivy approached the table where two cousins sat. Someone had brought them drinks or they’d picked up their own waiting for a table.
“Having a girls’ night out?” she asked Alyssa and Jessie.
Summer Serenade Page 7
