Page 16 of One More Made Up Love Song (Midnight Rush #2)

CHAPTER SEVEN

Ivy

The thing is, Freddie’s text really could have just been friendly. Spoken out of friendship. Something he would say to any assistant he cares about and admires.

Which, those things have never been in question. I know Freddie cares about me. I know he admires me. I’d even go so far as to say he legitimately thinks I’m amazing.

As his assistant.

But that text. There was a thread of…I don’t know. Something that felt like more.

I would be lucky to wind up with someone like you.

I don’t want to believe it means something. But I still haven’t been able to get it out of my head. For the past week, show after show, it’s been hovering around the edges of my brain, coloring every single interaction I have with Freddie.

It’s gotten so bad that I’ve started to avoid him just to keep myself from dissecting his every move.

Did that touch mean something? Were his words charged with just a little something extra? Did he glance backstage before singing that one particular love song because he was thinking of me while he sang it?

It’s bad.

So bad.

I need our approaching vacation more than anyone, if only so I can spend a few days away from Freddie and break this new, very annoying habit.

Three more shows.

Then we’ll be back in Nashville.

In Seattle, fifteen minutes before he’s scheduled to go on, he tugs me into his dressing room and closes the door behind us. His movements are so quick, so completely unexpected, that I’m breathless when I lean against the door, Freddie hovering over me with light dancing in his green eyes.

Maybe it’s my aforementioned newly discovered propensity to read into everything Freddie does, but for a split second, I could swear he looks like he wants to kiss me.

“Hey,” he says, his voice low and smooth.

I curl my hands into fists, fighting the urge to tilt my chin up and angle my lips toward his, to lean just a little bit closer.

“Hi,” I say instead, my voice a little too breathy. “What’s up?”

“Have you been avoiding me?” He presses one hand against the door behind me and leans forward, piercing me with his gaze.

I choke out a nervous laugh. “What? Of course not.”

His eyes narrow. “Are you sure?”

“Freddie, we’re together all the time.” It’s a stupid point to make. Even if it’s technically true, I’ve done an exceptional job of making sure that while we’re frequently in the same space, I’m almost always engaged in something else. Talking on the phone. Sending emails. Fielding texts.

On the upside, I’ve never been so on top of my work responsibilities.

But I didn’t think Freddie had noticed.

I shouldn’t like it so much that he has.

“Okay,” he concedes. “I just wanted to make sure you’re okay. That we’re okay.”

I swallow against the sudden dryness in my throat. “Perfect,” I manage to say. “Same as always.”

He holds my gaze for a beat longer, long enough for my heart to start pounding a little faster. If he had any idea what he does to me when he looks at me like that, he wouldn’t do it.

“In that case, I have something else to tell you,” he says.

“Okay.”

He lifts his hands to my shoulders and gives them a gentle squeeze. “I found Carina.”

It’s not quite as exciting as a kiss, but after so many days without word from my sister, it’s a close second.

Well, technically, I’ve gotten a few words. A text came in almost a week ago that read: Dom Worby. I fide.

Pretty sure it’s supposed to read Don’t worry. I’m fine. But the spelling errors didn’t do much to make me trust the words were true.

They did the opposite, really. Carina doesn’t drink or party. Maybe her jumbled words were just typos—that’s happened to everyone.

Or maybe she was texting under the influence.

I asked her that exact question when I responded, and I’ve texted half a dozen more times since then and called every single day.

She hasn’t texted again, and she hasn’t answered a single phone call.

She has, however, shown up in several more of Margot’s photos, which was evidence enough for the police to think there was nothing to worry about.

Yes. I called the police. But only to explore my options. Turns out I don’t have any. She isn’t really missing if she’s showing up on Instagram and responding—albeit badly—to text messages.

“You found her?” I ask Freddie. “How? Where?”

“She’s in Malibu,” he says. “Still with Margot, unfortunately. They’re in a beach house, probably one Margot is renting, but”—Freddie glances at his watch—“as of an hour ago when Wayne filled me in, Carina seems to be safe and well.”

I breathe out a sigh. Those words loosen a knot of tension I’ve been carrying around for days. She’s safe. Still with Margot, and still not responding to my messages, but at least I know she’s okay. “You asked Wayne to help?”

Freddie nods. “He’s friends with a guy who’s on Margot’s security team. It took some back and forth, but Wayne just got confirmation. He’s asked for the address, so as soon as we have that, we’ll know where to go to find her.”

“You think I should?” I ask. “Even though Wayne said she’s fine?”

He lifts one shoulder. “If it were me, I’d be worried about the text she sent. If she’s drinking, and she doesn’t have a lot of experience with that whole scene, she could easily be in over her head. ”

I nod, biting my lip as I sink back into the door.

It’s been nine years, ten months, and seventeen days since my brilliant, beautiful, amazing older sister was killed in a car accident the night of her senior prom.

Her boyfriend didn’t think he’d had too much to drink—but it was still enough that two blocks after leaving the dance, he missed a stop sign and pulled through an intersection, where an enormous diesel pick-up t-boned him, hitting the passenger side first and killing Daphne instantly.

I was seventeen, one year behind Daphne in school and following behind her with my own date, on our way to the same afterparty she’d invited me to. It was a party just for seniors, but I had special privileges because Daphne was the prom queen, the one everyone loved, and I was her little sister.

I’ve since stopped asking all the what-if questions that plagued me for years.

What if I’d told Daphne I caught a whiff of alcohol on her boyfriend’s breath?

What if I’d followed her to the parking lot and insisted she take his keys and drive instead?

What if I’d begged her to ride with me?

None of those questions will ever have answers, and even if they did, they wouldn’t bring Daphne back.

But two things have been true since that warm spring night.

One: I hate getting dressed up. My junior prom dress was the last formal dress I’ve ever worn, and I have zero plans to change that anytime soon.

Tricky, seeing as how Freddie has attended the Grammys every year I’ve worked for him, and he’s been to the Oscars twice. It’s typical for PAs, even multiple PAs to attend with their employers, but I’ve gotten pretty good at weaseling out of formal events.

I’m pretty sure Freddie thinks I just don’t want to give up my Converse. Which, he’s not entirely wrong about that.

And two: I do not drink alcohol. Not ever.

That’s something Carina and I have in common—a promise we made to each other.

It’s hard to process what it means if she broke that promise.

“Yeah, I probably should make sure she’s okay,” I say.

Freddie nods. “I think that’s a good call. And we’ll be in LA on Sunday.”

“Which is very close to Malibu.”

He smiles. “Yep.”

“So I can go get her.”

“You can send Wayne to go get her,” Freddie says. “You aren’t going anywhere near Margot.”

I don’t roll my eyes, and I don’t argue with him.

Partly because he has to be on stage in a matter of minutes.

My eyes drop to the maroon suit he’s currently wearing.

On anyone else it might look silly, but Freddie pulls off looks like this one with ease.

With several inches of skin visible at his collar, his tattoos peeking out in multiple places, he looks anything but silly. Fit. Confident. Sexy. Like a rockstar.

A rockstar who can’t actually keep me from going after Carina myself. I know my sister well enough to guess how much she’d hate having a security guard sent to retrieve her like she’s a wayward, troublesome child. Even if that’s exactly how I’m thinking about her right now.

But that’s a conversation I can have with Freddie another time .

Freddie squeezes my shoulders. “You okay?” he asks. “I thought you’d be happy.”

I look up and meet his sharp, green gaze. “Better than okay,” I say. “Thank you for finding her. I’ll thank Wayne too.”

“Anything for you,” Freddie says, and my breath catches. Why does he have to look at me like this? Why does he have to be so good? To care so much? It makes it impossible to read any potential signals.

Anything for me. But why me? Because I’m an employee?

His friend? This is the man who hand-delivered thank you cards to every single person who worked on his tour.

He is exactly the kind of man who would do anything to help anyone.

His words, the gestures, the touches, they really could have nothing to do with romance.

It could—and I’ve reminded myself of this no less than a thousand times—be all in my head.

I shrug out of his grip and take a step backward.

Freddie’s hands fall to his sides, and for a brief second, something flashes across his expression—something like hurt, or maybe confusion? It disappears so quickly, I have to think I imagined it, but the weird tension hovering between us stays.

“Your suit is ridiculous,” I finally say, because I have to say something, and teasing each other is something Freddie and I have always done well.

Freddie smirks and turns toward the mirror, then flips his lapels up. “Liar. This suit is amazing and you know it.”

“Nope,” I say. “1987 called, and they want it back.”

He grins. “Don’t let Wren hear you. She loves this suit.”

I roll my eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Break a leg out there.”

“See you after?” he asks, holding my gaze .

I nod, but as soon as he disappears out the door, I sink onto the couch behind me and sigh. “Where else am I going to be?”