“Right, but—”
“No, Chip.” My hand balls into a fist at my side. “I’m not selling. I’ll take your feedback and do what I can with it, but I’m not letting that music go. It’s mine, and it’s going to stay mine. And next time, ask before you send my work out for a potential licensing deal. I’m not opposed to writing for other artists, but some songs are too personal.”
Chip sighs, sending another rush of sound into my ear. “You’re going to make me break Kathy’s heart, aren’t you? She’s a powerful woman, Zack. Make her happy now, and she’ll scratch your back later. She’s not the kind who forgets a favor. Or a slight…”
“Tell her it’s your fault,” I say flatly. “That you got ahead of yourself and sent the songs out without asking me first. And tell her I’m open to writing something for her band this fall after my album is locked and loaded. If she can wait that long and wants to hop on a call in late September, feel free to set it up.”
“You’re killing me here, man,” Chip says, his tone tighter and more irritable than any he’s used with me before. “But fine. If you need to hold onto these to feel good about moving forward, you gotta do what you gotta do. But for the sake of your future as a performer, it’s time to shift gears. You feel me?”
“Understood.”
“Cool,” he says, though things clearly aren’t cool. “Oh, and when you get the chance, can you fill out that image release paperwork I sent over yesterday? It can’t be digitally signed; I need your real John Hancock on that one. You can just print it out, sign, and snap a pic with your phone and text it to me. Should take you five minutes. Tops. They’ve got a printer there, right?”
“They do, and I’ll get that sent over this morning. Talk to you later.” I end the call without waiting for him to say goodbye, my stomach in knots.
Fuck.
What a shitty start to the morning— back to square one with only nine days left out of the fourteen and no clue where to go from here.
“Shifting gears,” I mutter beneath my breath as I pad back down the carpeted hall to my bedroom.
I’m fully capable of taking music in another direction—I have range as an artist, and I’m not too precious to make rewrites—but I don’t want to.
I’ve always trusted my intuition when it comes to song writing, and this direction feels right. Beyond right. Turning my back on this new sound would be like meeting the perfect woman and dumping her because she didn’t have the hair color I prefer.
Hell, not even the hair color I prefer—the hair color my manager prefers.
It’s superficial shit, and it’s not even my superficial shit. The entire conversation has left me…deflated.
Frustrated. Barren.
I couldn’t write a song right now if I had a gun to my head, and I’m honestly not in the mood to do anything creative.
So when I step into the doorway to see Colette propped up against the pillows with the thermometer she uses to check her temperature each morning—a thing I had no clue helped predict fertility until this week—I cross my fingers that today isn’t the day.
I love being in bed with Colette, and I’m totally on board with baby-making, but for the first time since we kissed in her apartment, I’m not in the mood to jump her bones. I just want to lock myself in a closet and sit in the dark with my rotten mood for a while.
“Hey,” she says when she spots me, her lips turning down as she lifts the thermometer in the air. “No dice. I guess I’m running late this month.”
I try not to let my relief show on my face. “It’s okay. It’ll happen, and we’ll be ready when it does.”
She nods, her brows drawing together as she sets the thermometer back in its case. “Is something wrong?”
“Just a little fried.” I drag a hand through my hair, not wanting to share my failure with anyone just yet, not even Colette. “Kind of dreading heading into the studio today, honestly. Kind of feeling…blocked all of a sudden.”
“Can you take the morning off? Sometimes a couple of hours of playtime is the best thing for burnout. Gets the creative juices flowing way faster than forcing it, you know?” She crosses her legs, propping her hands on her knees as she sits up straighter. “So let’s brainstorm. What sounds like fun?”
“Spending the day with you,” I say, immediately feeling better after just two minutes in her company. “Exploring or hiking or whatever we decide feels good.”
She smiles, making my heart even lighter. “Then let’s get dressed and have an adventure, baby. I can’t wait to have you all to myself.”
“Same,” I agree, deciding Chip’s feedback can wait.
I’ll figure out what to do about the album later.
Right now, all I want to do is get lost with Colette. Or found with Colette.
I don’t ever feel lost when I’m with her. I feel good.
Solid.
Home…
Chapter Sixteen
Colette
We crest the third hill behind the house and, just as Nancy predicted, stumble into paradise.
The ancient orchard is full of gnarled trees already loaded with dusty rose apples. Harvest time is still a few weeks away, but the branches are so heavy with fruit they would sag to the ground without support, and the grass is dotted with apples that couldn’t wait to be picked.
Beyond the orchard, the mountains stretch to the horizon, going hazy like a dream, and the sky is so blue it seems to shout that all will be well.
Under a sky like this, how could it be otherwise?
Pressing a hand to my chest, I suck in a deep breath, shocked to find myself fighting tears.
“This was definitely worth the hike.” Zack turns my way, his smile falling from his lips. “Hey, what’s wrong? Are you okay?”
I shake my head, smiling through the tears blurring my vision. “I’m fine. It’s nothing. It’s just… so beautiful.” I swipe at my eyes with my knuckles, laughing as Zack’s hand comes to rest at the small of my back. “I know it’s silly, but nature gets to me sometimes. The kids at camp used to make fun of me for it. Gentle fun, mostly, considering none of the other fourteen-year-olds got weepy over a pretty sunset.”
Zack’s gaze softens. “Maybe they should. Maybe we all should.”
I laugh-sniff. “Sweet of you to say, but I know I’m weird.”
He fists his hand in the fabric of my gauzy dress, sending a warm hum across my skin. “You’re not weird. You’re perfect.”
I search his gaze, but there isn’t a hint of irony in his expression. Arching a brow as I bring my fingers to the front of his sunflower-print shirt, I pluck at the button at the top. “Again. Sweet. But I’m not perfect, and I know it. And you should, too. No one’s perfect.”
“Maybe just perfect for me, then,” he whispers so softly I can’t be sure that’s what he said.
But I’m not about to ask him to repeat himself.
This is already dangerous.
Too dangerous.
I should have taken Theo up on her offer to launch a rescue mission. Zack and I need to be saved from ourselves before we break each other’s hearts into a million bruised and bloody pieces.