I sit up, groggy, rubbing the heel of my hand across my eyes. Flannel pajama pants, worn-in soft T-shirt, hair sticking out all over the place from a deep sleep. None of it feels out of place. But that sound does.
Scenes from last night with Maisie rush to my mind. Sweet memories, like the best of dreams. I can't wait to see her again and desperately wish I could hug and kiss her right now. My desire momentarily distracts me the noise that woke me. Until I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand, stretching my back and glance toward the window. A sleek black rental car lurks like an unwelcome shadow in the gravel driveway just beyond the peaceful oasis of my porch and front yard.
The scent of fresh coffee curls through the air, pungent yet comforting, tugging me the rest of the way into consciousness. My coffee pot hisses faintly in thebackground, finishing up its daily timed morning ritual. I plod, sockless feet against the creaky floor, grab a mug from the rack, pour a cup, and step to the front door.
The door swings wide as I nudge it with my toes. The freshness of pine and morning mist in the air scatters, knifed through by a wall of perfume. The aroma slams into me, coating my tongue, stinging my eyes until tears bead and I’m forced to blink them back.
“Hello, Beau.”
It can’t be. Not her. Not now. And why?
“Sabrina?” I choke out with the husky scratchiness of early morning speech. Not the first word I wanted to come out of my mouth today.
But here she is on my porch. My ex. Sabi Vale.
Contemporary musical darling, an icon.
My past.
Except for being dressed very stylishly to match her fame, she looks exactly as I remember, and nothing like I want to see.
Lipstick bold as the reddest rose stains her lips. Gucci sunglasses. A trench coat belted tight, heels clicking on my porch like punctuation as she shifts her weight from foot to foot. The thought of a rose brings last night with Maisie roaring back again. The memory almost surpasses my surprise and distaste at the sight before me.
“What are you doing here?” I close the door behind me. No way I’m letting her into my home.
Her smile lifts, but there are shards of glass underneath. “Hello?! Hashtag Beyond The Chords.” Her voice lilts up in a sharp questioning statement as if I should have known. “It’s viral. Some kid posted a video of you playing my song. No name. No explanation. But I knew instantly. My lawyer is drafting a cease-and-desist letter as we speak.”
I take a sip of coffee to buy time. It doesn’t help.
“I was already in Portland for their morning show, so I thought a face-to-face chat would be appropriate.”
She steps closer to me without waiting for an invitation. “We need to talk.”
“Not sure what there is to say.”
“Oh, I think there’s plenty. Starting with copyright.”
I shrug.
“If you’re singing my song publicly, I have the right to protect my brand. My name.”
I arch a brow. “Your brand?”
She waves a manicured hand. “You know what I mean. You wrote that song for me. It’s tied to me. And I really don’t want to be forced to deal with this through a lengthy legal process.”
“You’re right. Iwrote it,” I nearly snarl. “I wrote every word. Every chord. But not for you. You stolemysong and conveniently forgot to credit me.”
“And I regret that now.” Her voice lowers, regret painted on like stage makeup over iron. The softness feels practiced, a performance more than sincerity.
Her tone shifts, softer. Calculated. “I’ve had so much time to think, Beau. Being on the road isn’t what I thought it would be. I’ve been...lonely.”
One boldly polished fingernail brushes my chest.
I jerk away, but she keeps going.
“You still write like that? That raw, aching honesty?”
“Why is that any of your business?”
