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CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Jade

After dinner, we settle back in the living room and pick up where we left off with “Midnight Snow.” Despite having a nice breakfast together, I’m not sure what’s going on with him because he’s spent the day running hot and cold. One minute he’s opening up about Colt and his found family. The next, he’s surlier than ever, hunched over in the chair as I play the new chord progression.

“No?” I ask when he doesn’t respond.

“It’s fine,” he says, in a weird tone of voice that tells me everything is anything but fine.

“I can tell when you don’t like something,” I say quietly. “Just say what it is. We’re supposed to be a team here.”

“It’s not that I don’t like it…I just feel like something is off.”

“Like?”

“If I could show you, it would be easier, but I can’t. So let me think, okay?” He snaps a little and I bite back an equally snippy response.

If he could show me on the guitar , it would be easier.

But he can’t.

And my heart hurts for him all over again.

I lightly strum the chords leading into the chorus.

“That,” he says, his face a little tight. “It’s that progression right there. There’s too much… twang .”

Twang?

“Excuse me?” I frown. “What does that mean?”

“It’s too country,” he says, waving a hand. “It needs a little more rock and roll to it.”

“Why?” I ask quietly. “What does that add to the song?”

“Everything.”

I arch a brow. “You do know that we’re writing this song for me, right?”

“I’m well aware.” There’s a note of annoyance in his voice that bugs me.

“If we were writing this for you, we’d need to make it more rock and roll. But we’re not. In case you’ve forgotten, I’m a country-western singer. I don’t play rock, so why would we write a rock song?”

“Because the songs I write sell,” he says sharply. “And I have a few years of success under my belt. You know, like the song I wrote that won Song of the Year for you, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“How could I forget? You bring it up as often as possible!” I glare at him.

“If you don’t trust me to help your career then why the fuck are we here?” he demands.

I put down the guitar and slowly get to my feet. “Because you got your boxers in a bunch over what I said in that interview and somehow, convinced me this was a good idea. But I appear to have made a grave error.”

“There’s a reason your record company wants you to buy songs instead of using the ones you write yourself.”

I open my mouth but can’t think of a response.

And honestly, that hurts my feelings.

“What a rude thing to say,” I respond quietly, trying to keep my feelings in check. “I think maybe I should go.”

“Maybe you should.” His blue eyes are as dark as…midnight.

As if he’s truly angry.

And I’m not sure what I’ve done to evoke such a reaction.

I glance out at the four feet of snow we’ve gotten and realize I’m not going anywhere, except maybe to my room. “Mother Nature seems to have her own ideas about my leaving. But don’t worry—I won’t bother you with my silly little country songs anymore.” I turn on my heel and stomp into my room, slamming the door behind me.

That was childish.

But I don’t care.

He’s such a jerk.

I can’t believe I keep falling for his act the moment he says or does something sweet. I have to remember that the only person Royal Ewing cares about is himself.

Now I’m stuck in this damn cabin with him until the weather lets up, and even after it stops snowing, it could be a couple of days before we’re shoveled out.

It’s going to be a long few days.

I sink onto the bed, staring out at the bleak white landscape that’s illuminated by the exterior lights. Earlier, it was so pretty and inspiring. Right now it’s just a big blob of nothingness. Much like my heart.

I’m so empty inside, and I can’t describe it.

Well, I can but I don’t want to.

Because it’s embarrassing to realize…I’m lonely.

I have fame, more money than I ever dreamed of, and am at the pinnacle of my success. And yet, I’ve never been more alone. I don’t even have girlfriends. Not really. There are a couple of other country singers I’m friendly with. Lily Maxwell and Sandy Marin are great, and we hang out when we’re in Nashville at the same time, but that’s almost never.

They’re both on tour, and Sandy just got married, so we don’t see much of each other.

Aside from that, I’ve lost touch with everyone from high school, and though I have a couple of cousins, we don’t know each other very well since we didn’t grow up together.

So it’s just me.

Puttering around a big, beautiful house in Tennessee with no one to share it with.

Living out of suitcases and hotel rooms on the road.

Spending time in a remote cabin with the world’s biggest pain in my butt.

I don’t even have anyone I can call to complain about him to.

I miss you, Grandma.

Thinking about her makes me even sadder.

I sink onto the bed and close my eyes, pulling the fleece throw over my lower half. I’m so mentally exhausted. And lonely. And sad. I have the elements of a great life, and when I’m making music, I don’t care about anything else.

It’s just the rest of the time that I get these waves of melancholy, but it’s happening more often lately.

This new level of success I’ve suddenly attained has changed something. I can't quite put my finger on it but I’m less confident and much less content with the status quo, most of it to do with my personal life.

How is it that I don't have a single girlfriend I can call? I guess I could reach out to Sandy but she’s on tour in Australia, and I don’t even know what time it is over there.

I hate feeling sorry for myself, and I know this will pass once I get out on tour, but it’s hard not to feel a little out of sorts with so many changes happening so quickly. With no one I can truly rely on to have my back.

It’s frustrating and…

I must drift off because when I next open my eyes it’s completely dark outside.

Crud.

How long did I sleep?

I reach for my phone and it’s almost ten.

Great. I’ll never get to sleep tonight.

A rumbling in my stomach lets me know that I’m hungry, which means it’s time to face the music.

If nothing else, my bad mood is gone and I’m feeling a bit more philosophical. Being here with Royal has just been a stark reminder of how little else I have in my life besides music, and it’s not his responsibility to pick up the slack for me.

We’re stuck here for at least a few more days, so I need to go out there and apologize for storming off. I’m an adult and shouldn’t have had a meltdown just because he hurt my feelings. I’ve been through a lot worse in this industry. He’s just another difficult musician in a long line of them. He’s not the first, and if he can write me another hit song or two, I won’t need him or anyone else. I’ll be able to write my own damn ticket.

I take a breath to steel my resolve, and my hand freezes on the doorknob.

There’s music coming from the living room and I cock my head, listening.

Is someone playing guitar?

It can’t be.

I quietly open the door and tiptoe down the hall.

Holy guacamole.

Royal is sitting on the chair by the fireplace, head bent over my acoustic guitar. The fingers of his left hand seem to be working the frets expertly but I can’t see his right hand since he’s turned away from me.

But God, what a sight.

Royal freakin’ Ewing.

Basically in my living room, playing guitar .

It’s soft, and there’s no doubt he’s not doing much with his right hand.

But he’s doing it.

And my steely resolve goes right out the darn window.

His head is down, hair falling forward, so his face is shrouded, but I see the concentration. The struggle. The frustration .

And there’s nothing I want more than to make that go away. To do something—anything really—to make it better.

I pad quietly into the room and before I realize what I’m doing, I’m standing behind him. His right hand is curved, pressed against the strings, and he’s using his arm more than the hand to strum as best he can.

“Motherfu—” He starts to mutter more curses under his breath, and I bend over him.

“I’ve got you,” I whisper, covering his right hand with mine and lightly squeezing.

I feel him stiffen but refuse to let him pull away.

“Just play. I can follow your lead.” I drop my chin to his shoulder and move our hands in tandem. It’s a simple motion, my hand guiding his on the strings.

But it works.

As if by magic, I feel the tension drain from his body. Feel him relax back against me. Feel him letting me in.

Letting me do this for him.

Neither of us say a word.

His eyes are closed now, and he’s swaying slightly, practically becoming one with the guitar.

It’s unlike anything I’ve ever experienced.

“Let’s play it from the beginning,” he says in a raspy voice. “Midnight Snow.”

I already know the changes he’s made are perfect.

“Yes.” I stay right where I am, letting him guide the music while I move his hand.

And it’s like we’ve done it a million times.

It’s so easy to play together, sing together…do almost everything together.

Which is why it hurt my feelings so much when he made me feel like my contributions weren’t valid.

Yet now we’re playing it almost like we did before…and it’s?—

“Fucking perfect,” he says, his voice thick with emotion.

“I know.” I don’t move, my hand still covering his, my front pressed close to his back.

“Thank you,” he says softly.

“You’re welcome.”

He turns his head enough to look at me and the sizzle between us practically burns a hole into my soul.

“I really want to kiss you,” he admits after a long moment.

“Then why don’t you?”