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Paisley rolls her eyes but rests her head on my shoulder. “One song. And then you have to help me clean up.”

My heart soars. Because here I am, singing carols with a beautiful girl in my arms, on the verge of a major career breakthrough. I’m the luckiest guy in the world.

December 14

We’re back in the studio Monday morning trying to find a way into an upbeat country dance song. It’s not going well, and again, there’s this ticking time bomb in the back of my mind, reminding me that if I don’t meet yet another deadline, this opportunity goes poof.

We’ve tried playing different chords. Drumming different tempos on the body of our guitars with our knuckles. Speeding up “She’s a Real Country Girl” and “Lonesome Hearts” but nothing is right. Nothing is good enough.

I groan and massage the back of my neck. There’s a tangled thread of worry wrapped around my chest that seems to grow tighter by the minute. How am I supposed to deliver a country dance song catchy enough to get me the headliner spot when I’ve never written one, let alone played one, before?

“This is impossible.”

Paisley sighs and sets her acoustic guitar in a stand. “It’s not impossible. It’s just challenging. We’ll figure it out.”

I could use a bit of her optimism right now.

She stands and stretches her arms over her head. When she brings them down, she gives a little shimmy-shake. “What we need is a little perspiration.”

“Don’t you mean inspiration?”

“That too.” Paisley claps her hands together. “Okay, I’ve got an idea.”

She goes over to the studio computer, opens a screen, and then types something in. A second later, “Boot Scootin’ Boogie” by Brooks & Dunn starts playing on the speakers.

“Get your butt up,” she says, holding out a hand. “It’s time to dance.”

This seems like a waste of time, dancing to other people’s songs. But she does that shimmy thing again and grabs my hand, tugging me up and out of my seat.

“I guess we’re doing this,” I say.

“Oh, we’re doing this.” She knocks her hip into mine as I come to stand beside her. I dig deep for some of that extrovert energy I was drawing on during Carols by Candlelight the other night. I’m pretty outgoing, but there are times when my well dries up, especially after a performance. My tank’s pretty empty right now.

Still, Paisley’s not asking for a lot here. I asked her to sing with me and she stepped up, pushing past her fear to do that for me. The least I can do is scoot my boots with her.

“I don’t know how to line dance.”

“So? It’s just the two of us here, and we’re trying to shake some ideas loose,” she says with an exaggerated wiggle. “Come on, Kash, you gotta loosen up.” Paisley bobs her head to the beat and then starts dancing. “Right foot, left foot. Right foot, left foot.” She moves to the left and then does a kick, kick, kick.

“That seems complicated.”

“More complicated than writing a song?” she asks.

Maybe.

The song ends and she sighs. “Let’s try a different song.”

By the time she plays Beyoncé’s “Texas Hold ’Em,” I’ve loosened up enough to be silly. Paisley giggles as I pull her into a do-si-do, and my heart thuds to the beat. I’ll never get used to the way my insides go all gooey when she laughs or how good it feels to be near her.

We twist and twirl and do some heel digs, and I even manage a few dramatic dips with a quick kiss or two.

After a few more songs, I’ve worked up a sweat and Paisley’s winded. She stops the music and sets her hands on her hips while she catches her breath. “Well, that was invigorating,” she says. “But was it inspiring?” Her eyebrows lift as she looks at me.

“Well…”

Unfortunately, I don’t have any great ideas for another song, but I am feeling better. Something about moving around and getting the blood pumping helps me ignore the doom-and-gloom voice in the back of my mind. Might be the exercise endorphins. Might be having Paisley in my arms. I’m thinking it’s a bit of both.

“Okay,” Paisley says, shaking her arms by her sides to loosen up like she’s preparing for a shadowboxing match and she’s about to beat the song from the ether. “Let’s try something else.” She sits in the chair in front of the laptop and pulls up the recording software. “There are some pre-recorded drum beats that came with the mixing program,” she explains, selecting a MIDI file. “Does this rhythm seem dancy enough to you?”