She pulled her lips in for a second, then cleared her throat. Her eyes were clear and bright. “What were you expecting?”
“That’s our biggest hit from last year.”
She looked confused. “Okay…”
“You don’t recognize it?”
“Should I?”
Was she kidding? Disbelief flashed through me. This must be revenge for when I told her I’d never heard of her writerly alter ego. “Well…yeah. I mean, it was everywhere.”
She shrugged. “Sorry if you’re disappointed, but I don’t listen to music.”
“You don’t…” What was this blasphemy? I’d never met somebody who didn’t listen to music. It was like, like…somebody claiming they hated cake. Only the devil’s spawn hated cake. “What do you listen to when you drive?”
“Audio books. Maybe a podcast. Or nothing, depending on my mood.”
“How about when you write?”
“Nothing.”
Wow. So devil’s spawn did exist in the world. “That’s sad. A life without music is like a body without a soul.”
“I have a soul,” she said, slightly put out. “I write romance, remember? I couldn’t have more soul if I tried.”
Maybe. But personally, I just couldn’t picture a life without music. Music was everywhere. It was one of those things that made life more pleasurable and exciting.
“Music is distracting,” Emily explained.
“No wonder you had no clue who I am.” And I had a lot of work to do if I wanted everyone in the world to hear my music, just like everyone knew about the Beatles. I was aiming high, but what was the point of aiming low?
“You didn’t exactly give me your stage name.”
“Everyone knows me as Killian from Axelrod.”
“Maybe you should make a T-shirt that says so and wear it everywhere,” she said.
“Do you have a T-shirt that says, I’m Emma Grant, and I write romance?”
“No. But that’s a great idea. I love what I’m writing, and I’m proud of my work.”
She wasn’t being sarcastic. And it pained me. Not because I expected everyone to love my work, but because she wasn’t even giving my music a chance. And it felt personal.
“So am I,” I said, keeping my voice even.
She sighed. “I didn’t mean you weren’t proud of your music. I don’t think that came out well. I’m just…not very eloquent at the moment.”
“What does that even mean?”
“I’ve been up since four, writing. I just poured out over five thousand words.”
I was impressed. “So you’re out of good words?”
She smiled. “That’s a good way to put it. I’ve used up all my good words for the moment on my story. They’re so good that I expect most will remain after revision. But right now I’m braindead, and all I have left is garbage. I need to nap and recharge.”
“Your creative process is very different from mine.” But then, our songs didn’t require hundreds of pages of words. It was about the melody, the mood, the feel—capturing the most emotionally intense moment in a specific yet universal experience with the right beat.
“Well, yeah. I’m not a musician.”
“Yeah, but you still do creative work.” I leaned a little closer. Maybe learning about her process would shed some light on how I could break through my current idealess drought. “Do you always get good words after you nap?”
“Not all the time,” she answered. “It depends.”
“I see.” So naps weren’t the cure-all I was hoping for. “What’s the difference between the time you get good words and the times you don’t?”
She pursed her mouth. “Probably just fatigue? Or maybe I need a change of scene or have something else on my mind…like some chore I should be doing but have been putting off for one reason or another. Like cleaning up my work area.”
My eyes slid over to the mess there. All the empty Hop Hop Hooray bottles. Candy wrappers. Empty cracker bags. Wadded-up sheets from notebooks. She should definitely clean it up. Or get a housekeeper.
Somehow, though, she was still getting the creative juices running, while I was drier than the Gobi Desert. But I did have something I needed to do, something I’d been procrastinating about for months and months. “Makes sense. Thanks, Emily.”
“Sure,” she said. But of course she had no clue what I was thanking her for.
Chapter Fifteen
Killian
Talking to Emily turned out to be useful, maybe even insightful, for figuring out why I’d been so blocked. I’d been putting a bunch of things off.
Like going through Grandma’s stuff in the house.
I let out a long breath, as though it could expel the months-old sadness and ease the hole in my heart.
Although I’d had “go through Grandma’s things” on my to-do list for almost half a year now, what with the tour and all, I hadn’t even started. Mir would’ve done it for me if I asked, but she had the beach cottage Grandma had left her to deal with. It wouldn’t have been fair.
But as I stopped in front of the basement with all the things Grandma had collected over the years, I couldn’t make myself go past the threshold. Everything in it held a memory, each one good and treasured. It felt like burying her all over again.
I didn’t know if I wanted to do that. If I could face it again.
Because Grandma Donna hadn’t been just any grandmother. She’d taken us in after our parents’ deaths almost twenty years ago. She’d raised me and Mir, guided us, encouraged us. She’d done everything in her power to ensure we wouldn’t continue to feel the lingering pain of losing our parents.
I resented the heart attack that had taken her, even though I understood she’d been old and none of us live forever.
After a few deep breaths, I turned back to the living room and picked up the next one of Emily’s books, then lay on the sofa. I didn’t have to go through Grandma’s things right now. I might rush, throw out things I shouldn’t. And then where would I be?
Besides, I wasn’t planning to rent or sell this place, unlike Mir, who’d rented the beach cottage. And I’d been performing and touring fine before, even with Grandma’s things still in the basement and attic and a few closets. Going through them wasn’t an urgent matter, and it wasn’t the problem.
What I should be focusing on was finishing Emily’s entire backlist and resting so my muse would return. Then my creativity would flow again. I was sure of it.
* * *
Emily
After Killian had left with the two tubs of Bouncy Bare Monkeys, I sat down to work. But I couldn’t seem to focus. My skin felt too…sensitive. And the flesh between my legs… It was tight and tingly. Probably from having my thigh muscles stretched, I told myself. I’d ended up straddling Killian, and he was a large guy. And I hadn’t even warmed up for the little stunt.
Because there was no way this was sexual attraction. The guy was… Okay, so he was hot, but I didn’t get all tingly and slick over somebody I didn’t know well. And who would likely be a disappointment in the end. I should know. I’d dated pretty guys before, albeit none of them as hot as Killian. They’d all ended badly. I needed to look at what was inside, not the packaging.