Page 10 of One More Made Up Love Song (Midnight Rush #2)

“Maybe,” she says. “But it’s also nice to let your fans see the opening act. Maybe they aren’t just here to see you.”

I shoot her a cheeky grin, and she rolls her eyes.

“Fine. They’re mostly just here to see you, but on principle, it’s still the courteous thing to do.” We walk in silence for a beat before she adds, “You gave her good advice, by the way. The woman with all the tattoos.”

I look over to meet her eyes, serious this time. “Yeah?” Fame can be trippy in both good and bad ways. But to see someone so young put permanent ink on her body just to match me—it was pretty unnerving.

Ivy nods. “It has to feel weird to see that. Like a responsibility you didn’t ask for.” We reach my dressing room door, and she spins around to face me, leaning her back against it.

“Yeah,” I say, suddenly noticing how close we’re standing. “That’s a good way to say it. ”

Light catches in her brown eyes as she holds my gaze. There’s a dark ring outlining her irises that’s almost black, then the color lightens as it shifts toward a ring of warm honey gold around her pupils.

Ivy’s nose twitches, and she lifts a hand, brushing it across her face. “What? Do I have something on my face?”

I give my head a little shake. Was I staring? I must have been staring, or she wouldn’t be asking. “No, I was just looking at your eyes.”

I push past her into my dressing room, and she follows, heading straight for the mirror on the far wall. She leans close like she’s inspecting her face. “Is there something wrong with them?”

“Why is that the first thing you assume?”

She spins around. “So there isn’t?”

“Of course not.”

“Then why were you looking at them?”

I huff out an awkward laugh even as heat climbs my cheeks. I’ve looked at Ivy thousands of times and never been struck by her eyes, but for whatever reason, tonight, I saw them differently. I noticed them. And I’m not sure what that means.

Maybe nothing. But if it’s nothing, why does this conversation suddenly feel so significant?

“Because they’re on your face, and I was looking at you,” I answer.

“You were staring ,” she says. “I’ve always had this face. You’ve never stared like that before.” She spins back around and smiles into the mirror like she’s checking her teeth.

“Ivy,” I say through a chuckle. “Relax. There’s nothing in your teeth, and there’s nothing wrong with your face. ”

She turns back around and props her hands on her hips, giving me an expectant look.

I swallow and my heart rate spikes, a burst of nervous adrenaline flooding my system. I’m about to perform in front of a hundred thousand people, and I’m not nervous about that. But the thought of telling Ivy I think her eyes are pretty makes me want to crawl out of my own skin.

I can’t make it make sense.

“There’s a ring of gold around your pupils that I’ve never noticed before,” I finally say. Because with the way she’s looking at me, I have to say something. “It’s pretty.”

Ivy’s hands fall from her hips. “Oh,” she says simply. “Well, thanks, then.”

“You’re welcome.”

The air shifts between us, a new energy buzzing that I’ve never experienced before. Does she sense it too? Should I acknowledge it? Am I making it up?

I’m still debating when the dressing room door opens and Wren, my wardrobe manager, steps inside.

She freezes as soon as the door clicks shut behind her as her eyes move from me, to Ivy, then back to me again. “Am I interrupting something?” she asks.

“Nope,” Ivy says a little too quickly. “Nothing at all. We were just—” She pulls her phone out. “Oh, look. A text from Seth. I should…” Her words trail off as her thumbs start flying over the screen.

Wren gives me a questioning look, but I ignore it as I shrug out of my jacket and toss it onto the couch. There’s nothing to explain.

Ivy has pretty eyes, but lots of people have pretty eyes. This doesn’t have to be anything more than that. A casual observation. Like seeing that someone has blond hair or freckles.

I look at Wren, willing myself to notice something— anything— about her appearance.

She’s young-ish. Definitely in her twenties.

Her hair is short, shaved on one side, then it lifts over her crown like a wave.

I actually really like her style. She’s big into repurposing used clothes, and she’s made some really cool pieces in the couple of years we’ve been working together—both for herself and for me.

She also has a killer glasses collection.

The pair she’s wearing today are red with white stripes down the side.

There. See? Noticing Ivy’s eyes isn’t any different than noticing Wren’s glasses.

Wren holds out a white button-down with an oversized collar and some sort of shimmery sparkle woven into the fabric. “See what you think of this,” she says. “The fabric is a lighter blend, so it should be more breathable for you.”

I pull my t-shirt over my head, leaving it with my discarded jacket, and reach for the shirt. The fabric is soft and stretchy, definitely an improvement from what I wore last show.

“Yeah, it feels great,” I say as I stick one arm through the sleeve, pausing when a button lands on the floor at my feet with a tiny plink.

Ivy ducks down to pick it up. “Here. I’ve got it,” she says, handing the button over to Wren.

“For real?” Wren asks. “I just checked them all.” She motions for me to hand the shirt back, so I dutifully strip down again, then she moves over to the vanity and pulls a sewing kit out of her bag.

“It’ll only take me a second,” she says. “How are we on time? ”

“We’re running out of it,” Ivy says at the same time I say, “We’re fine.”

Ivy meets my eye, and I grin. “We are fine,” I repeat, and she shrugs, her expression playful.

“Tell that to Seth.”

“The fans won’t mind waiting,” I say.

She folds her arms across her chest. “So cocky.”

I push my hands into my back pockets, suddenly very aware that I’m shirtless. Which is ridiculous. Ivy has been in the room when I’ve stripped down to my boxer briefs for wardrobe changes more times than I can count. This shouldn’t matter at all.

“Confident,” I say. “Not cocky.”

My skin prickles with awareness as Ivy’s eyes move over my torso. Then she bites her lip, eyebrows furrowing before she asks, “Is it true what you said about your tattoos? They all mean something?”

I nod, my eyes drawn to that same gold circle at the center of her irises. It’ll be the first thing I see every time I look at her now. I swallow. “Have I never explained them to you?”

“I mean, I know some of them,” she says. She points at the flower on my left pectoral muscle. “This one is for your grandmother, right? A Lily—like her name.”

I nod. “Right.”

She steps closer. “And then your grandfather’s initials are here.” Her fingers skim over to my bicep, to the small CR inked into my skin, and I draw in a breath at the contact. “And your parents and your brother’s initials are here, here, and here,” she says as she moves toward my wrist.

Her touch feels good, sending a skitter of goosebumps up my arm and across my shoulders.

The same energy that hummed between us before Wren interrupted sparks again now, and my mind drifts back to the conversation we had in her bunk, to the tug I felt to be close to her.

Then I think of the hug I gave her in the middle of CVS, how good it felt to hold her in my arms. As good as it feels right now to stand here and stare at those eyes while she skates her fingers over my skin.

For a split second, I stop fighting and let myself consider what it would mean if I let this stirring turn into an actual feeling.

Could I have feelings for Ivy?

As quickly as the thought takes root, fear—or maybe just logic—wells up and yanks it back out again.

Ivy is my assistant.

Just my assistant.

A woman I hired partly because she promised she would never be in danger of falling for me.

As far as my work life goes—and let’s face it, my work life is basically my only life—Ivy is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.

I can’t lose her, so I have to think about this rationally.

Noticing Ivy’s eyes, enjoying her touch—those are complications neither of us needs.

I remind myself for a second time that one of her reasons for wanting to move out is to date more.

That’s the most important thing to remember. There’s no reason to want something Ivy clearly doesn’t want herself.

Then again, she’s the one touching me right now, standing close enough that if I wanted to lean down and kiss her, I could.

“This one, I don’t know.” Ivy brushes her pointer finger over the tiny pawprints moving up the inside of my arm. “ But based on the theme, I’m guessing they reference a childhood pet?”

“Her name was Panda,” I say. “A border collie.”

“And the leaves here,” Ivy says, jumping her fingers over to my ribs. “An apple tree?”

I wince the slightest bit—she’s close to the only spot I’m ticklish—and I grin. “For Washington state.”

“Right. And your guitar—that one is obvious.”

“My grandfather’s guitar,” I correct. “The one he gave me.”

She doesn’t comment on the fact that I have three tattoos that are tributes to my grandparents while I only have tiny initials referencing my parents and brother. But I doubt she’s surprised.

Ivy’s met my family. She probably only needed one interaction to fully understand the dynamic of our relationship.

“And these stars here…” Ivy says. Her hand skims over to my other side. “These are for Midnight Rush, right?”

I nod. “And the letters here,” I say. I turn my arm to show her the back of my wrist.

Ivy touches each letter as she says, “J for Jace, L for Leo, D for Deke. I love that.” Her eyes move over my body one last time then finally lift to meet mine. “Okay. That’s all I got.”

I look down at my chest and tap right in the center, just over my sternum.

“This one is a symbol of mindfulness. It reminds me that whatever I do, I do it with intention. And this one,” I say, turning and pointing to the one that wraps over the top of my right shoulder, “is a longevity knot. I got it when I decided not to drink anymore. Sort of a live long and prosper kind of thing.”

“Right. I did know about that one,” she says. She taps on the treble clef on the right side of my heart. “And I guess this one is pretty obvious.”

“Look closer,” I say, and she leans in.

I catch the scent of her, and for the second time in less than twenty-four hours, I resist the urge to tug her against me, press her body flush against mine.

All my thoughts about her working for me, about why this isn’t a good idea, seem a lot less important when she’s close enough for me to breathe her in.

What is happening to me?

Better question. What am I supposed to do about it?

“Oh, there are hearts,” Ivy says. “All the swirly parts around the clef, they make hearts.”

“Because I don’t want to make music that doesn’t have heart.” Maybe I should have shown this tattoo to Sloane. It might have made her more forgiving about my lack of progress on the songs I can’t seem to write for the album I may never record.

Ivy presses her lips together, like she’s fighting a grin. “That one is kind of cheesy, Freddie.”

“You say to a man who started his career in a boyband. ”

Behind us, the dressing room door bursts open, and Seth strides in. I jump back from Ivy, though I don’t really have a reason to. We weren’t doing anything wrong, but somehow, it still feels like we were caught.

Seth’s eyes move around the room, finally settling on Wren, who is still sitting at the vanity, glasses perched on her nose as she sews on a button.

I forgot she was even in the room.

Because I forgot everything.

Everything but Ivy and the way she looked as she studied my body, used her fingertips to trace my skin .

“I lost a button,” I say to Seth, because that’s easier than admitting what’s really going through my mind right now.

“Should I go out there and tell that to your fans?” Seth asks dryly. “There won’t be a concert tonight because of a missing button?”

“There will definitely be a concert,” Wren says, holding up the shirt. “Button is fixed. He’ll be fully dressed in less than two minutes.” She motions Seth toward the door with a shooing motion. “Now go and let me work my magic.”

“Two minutes,” Seth repeats, then he disappears out the door, motioning for Ivy to follow him.

I make quick work of getting out of my street clothes and into the rest of my wardrobe. Pale blue suit pants with a high waist and a wide hem, boots, bracelets, necklace, and a matching suit jacket I will absolutely lose after two, possibly three songs.

“Good?” I ask Wren as she adjusts my jacket collar. She reaches up and unbuttons two more buttons so a little more of my chest tattoos are visible.

“Perfect,” she says.

“You’re the best, Wren,” I say, meaning every word. I generally keep my concert wardrobe pretty simple, but Wren is constantly working to improve and perfect what I wear, and I never want her efforts to be underappreciated.

Seth reappears in the dressing room doorway, and now Charlie, my stage manager, is with him, clipboard in hand and eyes glued to his watch.

Ivy appears on the other side of Seth and hands me a water bottle, but there’s something off about her body language, and she won’t make eye contact.

I hesitate, wanting to make sure she’s okay, but Charlie isn’t going to tolerate any delays .

“No, he’s coming now,” he says into his headset. “Bring the mic. We’ll put it on him while he walks.”

I glance at Ivy one more time, trying and failing to make eye contact.

It’s probably nothing. Or maybe she’s feeling the same weird vibe I am?

Whatever it is, I’ll have to sort it out later.

Because right now, it’s go time.