What the…?
Forever together, him and Ivy, when two become one.
His blood ran cold.
What was he doing writing about her? And like this?
He hadn’t realized he’d written her name.
The temptation to rip the page out of the journal was strong, but the artist in him wouldn’t let that happen. The song was good. Maybe great. Only time would tell, but he couldn’t destroy it. Not yet.
Maybe she was a muse.
Given how easily the music and lyrics poured out, he could accept that.
Nash reread the words. He liked the way “Ivy” sounded, but he didn’t want to leave it in the song. He rationalized scratching out the name and replacing it with “her” because the song needed to be generic to appeal to the masses. This would also avoid questions about who “Ivy” might be if he ever recorded the song.
He threw his pen on the carpet.
Obsessing much?
Nash didn’t want to know the answer.
Instead, he played the song through before fiddling with the notes and lyrics. He lost track of the number of times he did that, but soon he was happy with it.
Not bad for—he glanced at his phone—three hours. Man, time had flown. He’d enjoyed himself in a way he hadn’t since being banished to Quinn Valley. His female fans should love it. But he was surprised since this was the first he’d written in weeks. The first time he’d wanted to write. And this wasn’t just any song. The gushy love song was what R.J. and the record company had been pushing him to release.
He owed it to Ivy.
Not that she had anything to do with the unexpected burst of creativity.
Not really.
He had barely spoken to her—didn’t know her.
But she’d had him thinking about things he’d pushed off for a long time—romance, relationships, love. Silly and stupid, but add in cabin fever and the result might be a hit record.
As for Ivy…
Solitude led to him building her up in his mind. She was the first woman he’d spoken to other than saying “excuse me” or “thank you” to those in the hotel, the hot springs, or the physical therapist’s office. She’d also rejected him, and he didn’t like that. He never chased a woman, but he enjoyed challenges, which meant he needed to ask her out again.
Not for a drink—which was kind of cheesy in hindsight—but for dinner.
A date.
He would crank up the charm and woo her. Hear her say yes instead of no. Except for one problem—how could he take her out without revealing his true identity?
Pretending to be someone else would be the definition of creepy. He was under strict orders not to declare his identity in public—or to date, but it would just be one time. If he removed his sunglasses, she might recognize him. Then he wouldn’t have to say anything.
But could he trust her to keep his identity a secret?
He had extra copies of the NDA in case he came into contact with others, but asking her to sign a nondisclosure agreement would take the romance right out of a date.
Not that he was looking for romance.
This was a dinner.
Maybe if he offered to help her.
