Page 19 of One More Made Up Love Song (Midnight Rush #2)

CHAPTER TEN

Ivy

It’s late when I finally make my way to Freddie’s hotel room. Carina sobered up enough to take a shower and climb into pajamas, but she fell asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow.

I already called my parents to let them know Carina is safe, and I’ve been making a list of questions I intend to ask her as soon as she’s well enough to hear them. But for now, I have bigger problems to worry about.

My phone has been blowing up all afternoon—texts and emails from all the important people who manage Freddie’s career.

His agent, his record label’s publicist, his personal publicist—that conversation was the longest and the most overwhelming, by far.

I also heard from my best friends from college, three friends from high school I haven’t talked to in years, and my mother’s Pilates instructor.

Which, I need to talk to Mom about why her Pilates instructor has my number .

Then there are the texts from Leo, Jace, Adam, and Adam’s girlfriend, Laney, who all messaged me separately to offer some form of congratulations. It was Adam’s message that stung the most.

Adam

It shouldn’t have taken him so long to realize how great you are. I’m glad he finally did.

They’re going to be so disappointed when they realize it’s all pretend.

Not that my mother’s Pilates instructor will hear the truth.

But Freddie will tell his former bandmates. Of course he will. Since the four of them reunited last year, they’ve only gotten closer. He basically tells them everything.

I pace outside Freddie’s room for five full minutes before Wayne opens the door and finds me. He pauses as soon as we make eye contact, then glances back into the room before tugging the door closed behind him and leaning against it.

“You okay?” he asks.

“A guy I haven’t talked to since the tenth grade just texted me a link to his demo on YouTube,” I say. “He asked if I could pass it along.”

Wayne grimaces. “Guess that comes with the territory, huh?”

“Something like that.”

“Do you want to go inside?”

I love the patience in Wayne’s voice as he asks this. He’s not judging me for pacing outside—he’s acting more like he’s not at all surprised to have found me here and he’ll understand if I turn around and go back to my own room instead.

“I think I have to,” I say. “But I’m not sure I want to.”

“He’s pretty beat up about everything,” Wayne says. “If that matters.”

“I’m the one who asked him to kiss me,” I say. “This isn’t his fault.”

“He was only there in the first place because he insisted on coming along,” Wayne says. “That is his fault.”

“Does he think I’m mad about that?” I ask.

Wayne shrugs. “You aren’t? You seemed pretty upset in the car.”

Upset isn’t quite the right word for what I was in the car.

I was mostly just stunned.

When Freddie’s lips touched mine, fire exploded through my veins, my heart practically climbing into my throat. The feel of his hand on my cheek, the concern in his bright green eyes. For a split second, I forgot it wasn’t real. That he wasn’t kissing me just because he wanted to.

Once we left and got away from Margot, my stupid, traitorous heart wondered if he felt the same thing I did.

If the kiss awakened something, prompted him to see me as something more than just his assistant.

But then he turned around in the car and talked about my “brilliant idea,” and my hope fizzled and died.

The kiss was a well-executed strategy. But that’s all it was.

My brain gets it, but after kissing him, it’s going to take a measure of Herculean strength to convince my heart of the same thing—strength I’m not sure I have.

Especially now—when the whole world thinks Freddie Ridgefield is in love with me.

That’s why I was distant in the car. Why I seemed upset .

I was just trying to reorder my heart.

It’s stupid, honestly.

What did I think?

That somehow, one tiny kiss, initiated under duress, was going to trigger an epiphany and show Freddie he’s actually in love with me? That doesn’t make even a little bit of sense.

But during that kiss, my heart didn’t care about what made sense. It only cared about how right it felt to be close to him, to have his hands cradling my face.

I shove my hands deep into the pockets of my hoodie. “I’m not mad at him,” I say. “Just a little overwhelmed.”

Something passes over Wayne’s expression, and I catch a glimpse of how much he respects his boss.

“He’s probably been on the phone all day,” I say.

Wayne nods. “Nonstop.” He pulls out his keycard and opens Freddie’s hotel room door. “You ready?”

I nod. “Yeah. Thanks, Wayne.”

I find Freddie leaning against the headboard in his bedroom, legs stretched out in front of him, his guitar perched on his lap. He’s picking out a melody I don’t recognize, but he stops the second he sees me, immediately setting his guitar to the side.

“Any luck?” I say. Because it’s easier to talk about music than to start the conversation I actually came here to have.

“Nah. Nothing much. A few bars of a melody maybe, but nothing that feels promising.”

“Let me hear it,” I say, and his eyebrows lift. I don’t know what he was expecting when I appeared in his doorway, but after the day we’ve had, I’m sure it wasn’t this.

“For real?”

I nod as I climb onto the foot of his bed, and he reaches for his guitar .

“Okay, well…I was thinking something that starts like this…” He plays a chord. “Then shifts into something softer like this.” He plays through a few more measures.

I must be too tired to filter my emotions, because Freddie frowns as soon as he finishes.

“That bad?”

“Not at all,” I say. “It’s pretty. It just…”

“Sounds like my dog died?”

I grimace. “Definitely. But maybe that’s the sound you’re going for? Not all of your music needs to be happy.”

He sighs. “But it does need to feel real, and that…” His words trail off. “I don’t know. I’ll figure it out eventually. Probably.”

I pull my feet up and sit cross-legged on the bed. “It wasn’t this much of a struggle last time, was it?” I ask. “The writing?”

In the five years I’ve worked for Freddie, he’s released two albums. The first was complete when he hired me, but the second I witnessed from beginning to end—when the songs started as ideas, little snatches of melody played late at night on the tour bus, lyrics scribbled onto random sheets of paper and left like a trail of confetti in Freddie’s wake.

He was practically feverish, possessed by his own creativity, energy buzzing under his skin for weeks and weeks until he finally landed on a track list that he loved and that still made his label happy.

People are sometimes dismissive of Freddie because of his boyband start. But watching him take three chords and six measures and turn them into a song that hit number one on the Billboard charts was as impressive as it was captivating.

But this time around, it’s been nothing like that .

Now, he’s not writing at all. He talks about writing all the time.

Hides himself away, certain that this time, inspiration will strike.

But from the outside looking in, it mostly seems like he’s spinning his wheels.

I know he has at least a dozen tracks that could go on the album, so the situation isn’t truly dire.

But he isn’t happy with them. He thinks the track list lacks cohesion, and it definitely doesn’t have the one song everyone will remember most.

He runs a hand through his hair and licks his lips, reminding me of the kiss, of the conversation we aren’t having. Honestly, I’ve been so tense all afternoon, it’s a nice reprieve to just be here with him, to remember the parts of our friendship that I love.

“It’s never been this hard,” Freddie says.

I’m not sure I’ve ever heard this level of defeat in his voice. “Maybe it’ll be better once you’re with Leo. Maybe you just need time with him—or Adam, even. Did you decide whether to include the song he sent over?”

Freddie huffs out a laugh. “I’d be stupid not to. It’s the only one that’s any good.”

I pull my knees up to my chest and wrap my arms around them. “I’m sure you’ll get there.”

“Will I?” He’s quiet for a long beat before he says, “Sometimes I think about Adam living out on his farm, spending time with Laney, his dogs. Of course he can write songs, you know? He’s living. What if I can’t write because…”

He doesn’t finish his sentence, but I can fill in the end easily enough. Is that really how he feels? Like he isn’t living?

When he’s on stage in an arena full of people all cheering his name or meeting women who have his tattoos inked all over their bodies—that doesn’t feel like a life?

Maybe not. Those connections are all superficial. Freddie has spent the last six months on the road, sleeping in a different city every night. He has me and Seth and the rest of his staff, but we all work for him. It’s not exactly the same, is it?

“I don’t know,” he says, finally setting his guitar to the side. “I’ll write something eventually. One more made-up love song.” His tone shifts from discouraged to downright derisive, and a new thought pops into my brain.

Is Freddie lonely? Is that what this is about? He wants to be in love?

Despite my frustration, a very silly part of me wants to throw my arm into the air and volunteer as tribute. I’m right here, perfectly available, and mostly in love with him already. I know everything there is to know about the man—good and bad—and I still like him. That should count for something.

Except it can’t, and every cell of my stupid body knows it.

Because if Freddie had even a smidgen of real feelings for me, would he have agreed to kiss me like it was no big deal? He was that sure of my romantic indifference. So sure that he didn’t even hesitate before using me as a prop—a publicity stunt.

But more than that, it can’t count because when Freddie hired me, I promised him it never would. I’ve honored every single term of our agreement except one. And I’ll swallow that one until the day I die.