CHAPTER FIVE
As Nash returned to the hotel, his leg throbbed. Not the same jagged pain from right after the injury, but an ache telling him to get off his feet because he was pushing himself too hard. Travis had taught him how to read his body, but Nash hadn’t tonight.
His fault.
He’d taken the long way from the pub without thinking. Even though he had an empty suite waiting for him, he’d hoped to clear his head by getting his blood pumping and fresh air into his lungs. All his walk had done, however, was make him hurt and sweat more. He needed water to refresh him and wash away the sour taste in his mouth.
Friday night at the pub had been bad enough, but tonight…
Because, Mr. Bennett, you gave me advice years ago. As much as you could in two minutes. What you said was the opposite of flattering. I’m not up for another round of devastation. Or you. So please, leave me alone.
He hadn’t a clue what Ivy had meant. She didn’t like him. That much was clear. But could she also be crazy? Making up something that hadn’t happened?
That seemed a distinct possibility given what she’d said. He’d met all types of musicians and fans. Some more sane than others. A few had been downright delusional. One had introduced herself as his wife, and she hadn’t been joking.
Pretending tonight hadn’t happened was the smart thing to do. Except the visible pain on Ivy’s face and in her voice wasn’t going to be easy to forget. Whatever she believed had happened hurt her.
Badly.
But he needed to forget about her.
Maybe if he spoke to R.J., Nash would be able to hide out in another Podunk town. Though how many of those had a physical therapist as good as Travis Quinn? Nash was likely stuck here for the duration.
Just put Ivy Quinn out of your mind.
As he approached the hotel’s entrance, his feet, weighed down by the heaviness in his legs, shuffled against the asphalt. Add in his slight limp and that was a recipe for another spill like the one he’d taken off the stage during a show. He couldn’t afford to stumble or aggravate his healing muscle, so ignoring the pain, he forced himself to walk normally.
Inside the lobby, Nash kept his gaze lowered. If he didn’t make eye contact with anyone, no one would speak to him. Eager to get to his room, he headed toward the elevator.
“Rough night, Ben?” a male voice asked.
Nash had registered at the hotel as Benjamin Ashe. Not the most creative fake name when he stayed at places, but only one other man in Quinn Valley knew the alias.
Nash stared at Bob Quinn, who stood behind the check-in counter. He was old enough to be Nash’s father, but the two men had nothing in common. Bob didn’t seem like the type to abandon his kids. “You could say that.”
Bob’s gaze narrowed. He’d been standoffish and wary when Nash arrived, but the hotel owner had become more talkative as the weeks passed. Bob set his jaw. “You were at the pub tonight.”
It wasn’t a question. Not that Nash had anything to hide. Besides, whatever he told Bob couldn’t be repeated. “Travis mentioned the live music. I was there last night, too.”
Bob’s lips narrowed. “Did you hear Ivy sing?”
Nash’s mouth gaped. Closing it, he took a step toward the front desk. “You know her?”
So much for letting it go, but he wanted answers. For himself. Nothing else. She’d told him to leave her alone—included a please—and he would.
Getting drunk, stealing the security’s golf cart, and doing donuts at an amphitheater after a show to blow off steam was the definition of stupid. So was fighting with paparazzi at a club two weeks later. That led people to assume he had a drinking problem which wasn’t the case. Passing out during a charity event only added to the gossip even though that had been the result of jet lag and exhaustion. He’d only drunk water that night. He could live with the rumors. That was one of the prices of fame. But being accused of harassment or stalking wasn’t happening.
Nash had done enough damage to his career. Injuring himself after falling off the stage in Seattle had only hurt his reputation more. He didn’t want to mess up again.
Two women exited the elevator. As they headed toward the front door, one waved at him. Nash acknowledged her with a nod. They left the hotel.
“Ivy is my niece,” Bob explained in a tight tone. “She called me tonight after speaking with you.”
Nash rushed to the front desk. The hard edge pressed into him. His palms pressed down on the countertop.
“Is she okay?” The question shot out. He took a breath to calm himself. “I upset her.”
“She’s upset and frustrated.” Bob sounded like he wasn’t happy, either. He glanced around as if to see if anyone else had entered the lobby. “Do you blame her after what happened?”
