CHAPTER SEVEN
Monday morning, Nash woke with a satisfied smile on his face and the best earworm ever—the duet he and Ivy had worked on yesterday. He stretched before getting out of bed. After a quick shower, he dressed, but he couldn’t stop thinking about Ivy.
Playing her songs had been the most fun he’d had in weeks. Maybe months. They’d lost themselves in the music, allowing the words and notes to take control, where nothing else had mattered.
That used to happen, but the PR nonsense and contract obligations got tiring. The public scrutiny could drive a person to become paranoid or act out. The gossip he tried to ignore sometimes hurt.
Not that he was ready to quit.
Music was his life—his everything—but yesterday he’d rediscovered the joy. Something missing for way too long. He had one person to thank—Ivy.
She may have given up her dreams of fame and fortune, but music was her passion, as necessary to her as oxygen. She wrote and played for herself.
And Pearl.
Nash laughed remembering how the gray cat moved her tail to the beat of whatever song they’d played. At least when Pearl was awake. She’d slept mostly.
For hours.
Until Ivy’s alarm rang, they hadn’t realized they’d skipped lunch. She’d mentioned setting the notification daily because she lost track of time while working on music and didn’t want to be late to work.
Nash knew then one jam session with her would never be enough. He wanted another. His visit yesterday had been to make amends, but she’d helped him more than he’d helped her. When he’d returned to his hotel room, he’d called Mama Aimee. After that, he’d picked up his guitar and wrote a portion of a song.
Wanting more inspiration, Nash left the hotel, drove a short distance, and parked in front of Ivy’s apartment building. The residential street was quieter and less crowded than Main Street, but he still wore the beanie and sunglasses. In his long shorts and retro T-shirt, he looked every inch a hipster tourist, especially with the beard.
Nash ran his fingers over the facial hair. He couldn’t wait to shave.
Standing on her welcome mat, he rapped his knuckles against the wood.
Ivy opened the door. Gasped. “Nash?”
“Hey.”
She looked at him expectantly. “Did you forget something yesterday?”
“No.” But he had a reason for the visit. Someone—he assumed Bob—had shoved her signed nondisclosure agreement under his door. “I wanted to thank you for signing the NDA.”
Man, that sounded better in his head on the way over than out loud. He shoved his hands into his pockets.
“You’re welcome.” She sounded hesitant. “You have to protect your privacy.”
“Yeah. I have a love-hate relationship with NDAs, but my manager, R.J., demands them now.”
“Did something happen?”
A woman Nash had dated two times had sold a story about their so-called relationship, complete with photos, to a tabloid. She hadn’t been the only one. “People want to make a fast buck or grab their fifteen minutes of fame. They’ll use knowing you to do that. It’s a price of fame.”
Another he could do without, but money motivated many people.
Which complicated dating.
Nash never knew if someone wanted to be with the real him or the country singer who was worth millions. That didn’t stop him from going out with women, but he hadn’t met anyone in a few years who made him want to get more serious. A decision R.J. supported since “bad boys” could also be heartthrobs.
Maybe that was why Nash enjoyed being with Ivy. Yes, she was attractive, and he’d caught her staring at him. But what brought them together was music. He didn’t have to worry about the other stuff.
“I would have called or texted, but I don’t have your number.” Talking to her was harder than it should be. Maybe he should have taken a nap before coming over.
A corner of her mouth lifted. “Is that your way of asking for my number?”
