Page 40 of Hideaway Heart

He turned the laptop to face him. “Sorry.”

“I’m teasing you. I’m sorry that you’re being photographed like this.”

“My fault. I thought we might be safe there, since it’s so out of the way.” He shook his head. “How do you ever get used to that, cameras in your face all the time? Not that this jerk was in our faces—he was obviously hiding across the parking lot.”

“He might not be a jerk,” I pointed out. “A lot of those paparazzi aren’t bad. They’re just doing their jobs. Trying to make a living like the rest of us.”

“It’s so invasive.”

I shrugged. “Sometimes. But a lot of times, they treat you with respect. And some of them won’t sell a bad photo. It’s in their interest to play nice, you know? I’m more likely to give them a good shot if I like them.”

“You know them personally?”

“Some of the Nashville guys, I do. In fact, it was one of the Nashville photographers that pointed the finger at the security team when it was obvious someone was leaking details about my schedule and locations to media. That was helpful. But...” I took another sip from my cup. “There are definitely bad apples who will do anything for a buck.”

“Those guys are in every business.”

I glanced over and noticed he was frowning at his screen. “Everything okay?”

“Just dealing with some issues at the bar.”

“What issues?”

“You name it.” He rubbed his temples with his thumb and forefinger. “I’ve got supply chain issues with the barstools, Wi-Fi problems that no one can figure out, and my electrician bailed.”

“Where is the bar?”

“It’s in Cherry Tree Harbor, just outside town.”

“Can I see it?”

He leaned back in his chair and closed his computer. “I suppose I could take you to see it. But is that really what you want to be doing on your vacation?”

“Obviously, the kind of vacation I planned is not panning out.”

“And what was it you’d planned, exactly?”

I twirled my hand gracefully through the air. “A sort of creative retreat where I’d get in touch with my inner child, which would inspire me to write soulful, introspective songs that would be lauded for their emotional weight and poetic lyricism.”

He smiled, lifting his mug to his lips. “Instead, you wrote a song about me.”

“That’s right,” I said with a laugh.

“So let me hear it.”

“Now?”

“Yeah. Go get your guitar. Sing for me.”

“I haven’t even finished one cup of coffee yet,” I protested. “And I donotsound good first thing in the morning.”

“Excuses, excuses,” he scolded. “You think Dolly Parton worries about how she sounds first thing in the morning or how many cups of coffee she’s had? I bet she wakes up and gets right to work lifting those emotional weights.”

“Fine,” I said, setting my cup on the ground and getting to my feet. “I’ll sing you a song, but only if you promise to take me somewhere fun today.”

“I might have an idea,” he said, stroking his beard. “Depends on how much I like the song.”

Laughing, I went into the house to retrieve my guitar from the bedroom. But first I ducked into the bathroom and peeked at myself in the mirror, pinching a little color into my cheeks. My hair was still in the braids I’d put in yesterday, but they were sort of ragged and frizzy from being slept on. For a moment, I debated taking them out but decided against it. I didn’t want him to think I was trying to tempt him.