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That chord progression Kash was working on the other day has been on my mind. It hasn’t been as persistent an earworm as the new Hidden Acres Christmas Tree jingle was, but it’s still there. Waiting for me. There was nothing fancy about it, and I strum through the chords like Kash did to get a feel for them while I hum the melody he was singing over it. I pause, the gears in my mind turning as I adjust my fingers on the fretboard and start with the relative minor chord. It’s better, but there’s still something missing.

If I was writing the song for me, I’d slow it down and add arpeggios to give it more of a folksy feel, and I’d leave some space for fingerpicking. But for Kash…

I picture his dark eyes peering out from beneath his cowboy hat with confidence. I’ve never seen him onstage, but I bet he has presence. He’s definitely not scared of the spotlight like I am. Add his scuffed old work boots and his black leather jacket, his in-need-of-a-trim hair and the shadowy stubble along his jawline, and Kash embodies more of a country-rocker vibe than that of a classic country artist.

What Kash needs is a song with power chords.

I drop the third note and only play the root and fifth notes of the chords. Now we’re getting somewhere. I hum the melody again, and this time, it’s like magic. It just fits.

I can’t quite remember the lyrics, so I make some up as I go, just to give it a test run. “Something, something about taillights. And then there’s a parked car. I can’t remember the words to the song,” I sing, already hearing in my mind how the melody will sound with some folk-style harmonies layered in to really lean into the country side of things.

“Is that my song?”

I yelp like a cat whose tail just got stepped on and reflexively kick out my leg. I’ve never taken self-defense lessons before, and I’m most definitely not a ninja, so all I manage to do is pull a muscle as my notebook goes flying into the sleigh’s dash with a dull thud. “Ow.”

Kash climbs the rest of the way up the ladder and steps into the loft. “You okay?” There’s dust on his knees and a piece of straw on his shirtsleeve, but otherwise he’s the epitome of a hot, broody musician.

“I’m fine,” I reply automatically. “You just startled me.”

But, no, I’m not okay. What is he doing here? My already racing heart doesn’t slow, and the air up here feels a billion times warmer than it did a few minutes ago.

“Didn’t mean to scare you.” With apparent lack of awareness that he’s just intruded into my personal space and scared the living daylights out of me, Kash wanders around the loft, glancing between the heaps of decorations and the exposed rafters. When he reaches the sleigh, he sets his hand on the dash and studies me with dark, soulful eyes.

I can’t seem to look away, but I absolutely refuse to focus on his eyes. I look at his mouth instead. Big mistake. Why does he have to have such tempting lips?

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” I reply.

Track 12

I Ain’t Got the Time or the Talent

Kash

November 9

So, this is awkward.

Paisley sits up as straight as a board in a sleigh that’s been pushed up against the wall, under the barn’s eaves. She holds her acoustic guitar out in front of her like a shield. Unlike the open and earnest expression she had with the schoolkids the other day, her eyes are narrowed and her lips are pursed, as they’ve been the last few times I’ve interacted with her. She’s tense and defensive, and I feel about as welcome as a porcupine at a balloon factory.

What is it about me that pisses her off so damn much? From the minute she first saw me, she’s had a big ol’ chip on her shoulder. Like she despises me just for existing.

For being Kash Murray.

Yes, okay, maybe I could have done a better job introducing myself. She was busy and working, so I should have chosen a better time and place. But I was anxious to make it clear I wasn’t looking for a writing partner. I don’t know what all Barry might have told her, but I didn’t want her thinking we were going to meet up at the studio to work when I had absolutely no intention of being there.

But I was a little taken aback at how quickly she dismissed me. At how glad she seemed that we wouldn’t be working together.

“Thanks for the harmonica help,” I say.

“Don’t mention it,” she replies, but unlike some people who say it as a quick, rote response, I actually think Paisley means it by how razor sharp her tone is. It’s like she doesn’t want to be reminded of doing something nice for someone she despises.

Someone like me.

This is going downhill fast, and I’m no skier. Or snowboarder. Or much of an outdoorsman, really. Music’s always been my thing. And now I’m watching it slip away from me in real time.

Fifty-two days left.