CHAPTER THREE
Nash couldn’t stop thinking about Ivy. Her soulful voice, the memorable lyrics, and her pretty face were branded on his brain. Something about her seemed familiar, but he had no idea what given she was a stranger.
He went to sleep with her on his mind and woke up that way, too. The big question—why couldn’t he shake her from his thoughts? The last thing he needed was a woman in his life, and she hadn’t been the slightest bit interested in him.
No, thanks. I can’t. I’m busy.
He sucked in a breath. Her rejection had hit hard and fast. So much so he’d left without a glance back. Even though he’d wanted a last look at her for some weird reason.
Maybe because Ivy was the first woman to turn him down in… Nash couldn’t remember the last time. Sure, she’d been polite, but being rejected sucked. Best to forget about her and that pub. He would ask Bob and Travis for other places to go in town.
Nash’s cell phone buzzed. A glance at the screen showed it was a text from his former foster mom.
Mama Aimee:You’d better be dead or your sorry butt is grounded for not checking in.
Nash laughed. Even though he was thirty-three, she still threatened to ground him. He loved that woman.
Nash:Not dead.
Mama Aimee:I’ll tell the funeral home never mind.
Nash:I hope you picked out a nice casket.
Mama Aimee:Only the finest since you’d be paying, sugar. Call me tomorrow.
Nash:Will do.
A long soak in the hot springs relaxed him and cleared his head. He returned to his hotel room, muscles loose and ready for a nap. He showered and dressed.
A glance out the window showed a clear blue sky. A gorgeous summer day. An image of Ivy strumming her guitar and singing into the microphone appeared.
Nash groaned. Not again.
He hadn’t thought about her since he went down to the hot springs.
This had to stop. He wanted to forget about her.
But how?
He surveyed the Presidential Suite. The king-sized bed beckoned, but not with Ivy on his mind, or he would toss and turn as he had last night. He could finish reading the thriller novel Shea had given him. Or work on the jigsaw puzzle she’d packed in his suitcase.
His gaze zeroed in on his guitar case.
Playing music might help him. He removed the instrument, not the custom guitar branded with his name that sold for way too much money, but his favorite—the one he’d bought when he was on the cusp of getting his first record contract. He sat on the couch.
Strumming his guitar, he played a few chords. The sound caught his attention. He messed around with the notes until a melody developed. Interesting. Liking what he heard, he kept going. The music resonated with him on a deep level.
Once he had more parts, he hit the recording app on his phone. After listening to it, he picked up his composition book—as worn and stained as a dive bar coaster—and a pen. As he wrote notes, words came to mind.
A slow dance with a beautiful woman. Hot kisses under a full moon. The smoky scent of a bonfire in the air.
Longing and love.
Different from his last hit song which was more an ode to a bottle of whiskey, but the lyrics kept coming so he kept writing, scribbling lines as fast as he could.
Nash reread the words.
Froze.
