Page 35

“So…um.” I rub my hand over the back of my neck, trying to release some of the tightness before it builds into a tension headache. “I wasn’t tryin’ to intrude, I swear,” I say. “I just heard you singing my song…”

If I thought she was tense before, I was wrong. She flinches and every muscle in her body goes taut like she’s bracing for impact.

Her eyes get flinty. “So?”

I’m over here, cool as can be, considering, and she’s giving me attitude? What right does she have to be upset, as if she’s the one who’s been wronged here? She took my song…just took it and…

Well, made it better. But I told her I didn’t need her help.

I don’t want her help.

And what’s with everyone wanting to completely change what I write? First Justin. Now Paisley.

Except…it’s better.

It’s a heck of a lot better. For the first time since I started strumming the chords, I don’t hate it. In fact, I could see myself performing it onstage.

And unlike Justin’s revamp, which was clearly rewritten to suit his style, Paisley’s managed to make this song sound more like me.

“So…it sounds good,” I admit.

The critical voice in the back of my head taunts me. It’s better than anything you could come up with on your own.

“Oh,” she says, tucking a strand of her dark auburn hair behind her ear. She relaxes into the sleigh’s worn-velvet back cushion in apparent relief. “I was just”—Paisley focuses her attention on the tuning pegs of her guitar—“messing around.”

I brace my forearms on top of the curved dash with its chipped black paint and lean forward so I don’t bang my head on the rafters. “Must have been at it for a while.”

Paisley peers up at me from beneath dark eyelashes, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. I try not to stare.

She lifts her shoulder in a slight shrug. “Not really.”

“C’mon. It must have taken you a few hours, at least.”

Her cheeks grow rosy, almost like she’s embarrassed, and she looks away. “I’ve only been up here for an hour or so.”

“And you weren’t working on it at all before?” I give an incredulous laugh. My knee knocks into the metal crossbar that connects the runners and I wince.

Paisley shakes her head.

There is no way Paisley took my basic bull crap and turned it into that in less than an hour.

“I don’t believe it. Not possible,” I say, my tone filled with honest-to-goodness disbelief.

“You can believe whatever you want,” she says dismissively. She leans down to pick up a cloth-covered notebook from the floor of the sleigh, then flips it closed and sets it on the seat beside her.

“Look,” I say, holding up my hands, palms out and fingers pointing to the sky. “I appreciate the effort, but—”

She glances up and fixes me with a steely gaze. “I didn’t do it for you,” she says. The way her nose scrunches in irritation is incredibly cute. “You made it perfectly clear you don’t need my help.”

“I did,” I say.

Except that was before…and now?

Now I’m not so sure.

Paisley’s done more for my music in less than an hour than I’ve managed to accomplish in over three months. I can’t help wondering how much she could do for my demo in the time that I have left.

I wanted to do it on my own to show the guys that they made a huge mistake. That I could survive and thrive without Six String Justice. But what’ll happen to my career if I completely punt it because I’m too stubborn to see straight?