One he’d arranged for with Bob and hoped she enjoyed.
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.”
