Page 50 of Beneath a Tennessee Sky

“I’ll be there.”

I go back downstairs to my writing room. I know I’m not going to get anything done. I collect my things and head out, feeling about fifty pounds lighter. I can’t wait to see her.

The following morning, I’m at the private airport pacing back and forth. I see the plane land and step outside to meet her. She walks down the stairs and directly into my arms.

“A private jet,” she says with a laugh.

“Yep.”

“You don’t think that’s a little over the top?”

I wave a hand. “It’s the music business; the top exec suggested it. I told him I couldn’t write without you.”

“You must be pretty special to warrant this kind of pampering,” she says.

I take her bag and we head back inside. “I’m special now, but if I don’t get this album written, I won’t be.”

The driver takes her bag as we get into the waiting car. I kiss her, holding her hand and pulling her close to me. I feel like I can finally breathe again.

“We’re going to eat breakfast and then we’re headed to my place to work on this album,” I tell her. “Liz wants me in a writing room, but I can’t write in there. I need windows. I need you.”

I’m hyperaware of Jinnie beside me, her hand still in mine. The driver takes us to some upscale brunch spot Liz recommended—apparently, it’s where all the “important people” go. I don’t care about that. I just need to feed Jinnie before we dive into the chaos of the album.

A valet opens the door for us and I step out, offering my hand to Jinnie. She takes it, her expression a mix of curiosity and amusement as she looks around.

“This is fancy,” she says, her voice tinged with a hint of skepticism.

“It’s just breakfast,” I say, though even I can hear how ridiculous that sounds. “Liz said it’s good.”

Jinnie raises an eyebrow but doesn’t argue. The hostess recognizes me immediately—another thing I’m still getting used to—and leads us to a corner table by the window. The view overlooks the river.

Jinnie slides into the booth, her eyes scanning the menu. “Jack,” she says after a moment, “this place is ridiculously expensive.”

“It’s on the label,” I tell her. “Anything you want.”

“Can we just get some pancakes?”

I signal the waiter. “Two stacks of pancakes, please. Extra syrup.”

“Now that’s romantic.” She giggles softly.

The pancakes arrive, golden and fluffy, drowning in syrup just the way we like them. Jinnie digs in immediately. She’s everything I need. I can already feel that familiar tickle of a melody trying to bubble up.

“So,” she says between bites, “tell me about the album.”

I swirl a piece of pancake in syrup. “It’s stuck. Everything I write feels forced. Like I’m trying to be someone else.”

She nods, thoughtful. “Because you are.”

Her words hit me square in the chest.

“You’re trying to be what they want,” she continues, tapping her fork against her plate. “But that’s not why people fell in love with your music in the first place.”

“What if I don’t know how to get back to that?”

Jinnie reaches across the table, her fingers brushing mine. “Then we figure it out together.”

When we finish eating, I flag down the waiter for the check—only to be told it’s already been taken care of. Of course it has. Outside, the same black car waits for us.