Page 30 of One More Made Up Love Song (Midnight Rush #2)

I can’t unpack my heart and explain how complicated my feelings are. Not when Freddie and his three closest friends are standing on the other side of the room.

Laney nods, but she hardly looks convinced.

“It’s just the nature of the industry,” Freddie says. “But we’re handling it. Ivy is being a very good sport.”

“I should say so,” Leo says. “Putting up with your ugly face.” He turns and looks at me. “What are you getting out of the deal, Ivy?”

I think of the demand I made—my insistence that I would help Freddie if he would help me land a job with his label.

It was an impulsive request when I made it.

A desperate attempt at self-preservation.

As if I sensed that if I did go through with the fake relationship, escaping might be my only means of survival.

But standing here among Freddie’s closest friends, it almost feels heartless to declare my only motivation for agreeing to the scheme was leaving Freddie and working somewhere else. “Oh, um…”

“We’re still working out the details,” Freddie says, saving me from having to answer. “Now.” He claps Jace on the back. “Do I get to hold the baby? Or is that against the rules?”

It’s an obvious deflection, one that makes my shoulders sag with relief. The conversation shifts to Jace and his kids, but I feel Freddie’s focus on me, making my skin hum with quiet energy. When I look up to meet his gaze, I can practically hear his voice in my head.

Are you okay?

I nod once, hoping he senses my gratitude. His mouth lifts into a small smile, then his attention is pulled away when Jace lowers baby Eli into his arms.

Freddie’s eyes brighten, his delight utterly unabashed as he smiles at Eli, who reaches up and pats Freddie’s cheeks, then smiles in return.

Oh. Oh, this is not good.

Freddie holding a baby? What sort of inexplicable torture is this? I’ve always been one to scoff at talk of biological clocks, but my body is having a visceral reaction right now, like my ovaries are ringing some sort of bell announcing their approval.

When I was little, my mother had a pair of peafowl on her rescue farm.

At first, I didn’t understand what triggered the peacock to lift his feathers, to unfurl the shimmering hues of turquoise and blue.

Then my mother explained the mating ritual, the peacock’s desire to impress his peahen with all that gorgeous plumage.

I’m not sure I fully understood then, but I definitely do now.

Mom’s peahen needed fancy blue feathers and an elaborate mating dance. Apparently, I just need to see Freddie Ridgefield holding a blond-haired baby with big blue eyes and a dimple in his left cheek.

“You okay?” Laney asks. She tugs her arm gently, and I look down only to realize I’ve been squeezing her elbow with a vise-like grip. I quickly let go, smoothing my palms down the sides of my jeans.

“Sorry,” I quickly say. “I don’t…” My words trail off, eyes still glued to Freddie as he bounces Eli and makes him laugh.

“Girl, I get it,” Laney says, breathing out a sigh. Jace has his daughter, Annie, in his arms, and Adam is playing a game with her, making her giggle. “Watching handsome men play with babies is its own kind of drug.”

The kids only last a few more minutes before Jace’s mom comes and takes them upstairs to get ready for bed.

But it’s not long before the rest of us are ready to call it a night too.

Freddie makes plans to head to the studio with the guys early the next morning, and I hang around, wondering if he’ll want me to go with him.

It’s the kind of thing I normally would do, but I have no idea how to handle my regular work responsibilities now that I’m also pretending to be his girlfriend.

Not that we’re pretending here, when we’re in his house with only friends and family surrounding us, but it still feels like something has shifted.

I don’t want to let Freddie down, so I swallow against the knot in my throat and stop him before he disappears into his bedroom for the night.

“Hey, you got a sec?” I ask.

He turns, halfway through a yawn. “Always for you,” he says. “What’s up?”

There are only two bedrooms on the main floor of Freddie’s house—his and mine. Everyone else has gone upstairs, and Carina is already in my room taking a shower, so it’s just the two of us in the small alcove outside his bedroom door.

He leans against the wall and runs his hands through his hair, leaving it completely askew, pointing in a dozen different directions. His hairstyle is naturally a little messy, but this looks more like bedhead than the artfully mussed look he usually wears.

Not in a bad way, though. In a sexy way. Here, in his house, he’s a little undone, a little less polished. And I get to see him that way. I get to stand here and look into his green eyes and be the last person he talks to before he goes to sleep.

“What are you smiling about?” he says, his tone light, almost teasing.

I let out a little chuckle and lift my hand to his hair, smoothing down the wildest parts. “You just made your hair completely ridiculous.”

He grins. “I did it for you. Just to entertain you.”

His eyes close, and he slumps against the wall a little, like my fingers in his hair might lull him to sleep right here in the hallway.

It’s all I can do to stop touching him, but once his hair is tamed again, I let my hand fall.

Before everything happened, I might not have stopped.

But now, I’m weighing every action, wondering if he’ll read into things differently.

It’s exhausting. And silly, really. If anything, faking gives me an excuse to touch him more.

But my feelings are too close to the surface. Every inch I give him, the more worried I am that he’ll see through the facade and recognize this isn’t fake to me. When I touch him, take care of him, it’s because I want to.

“So, I’m wondering how things are going to look the next few days,” I finally manage to ask.

He opens his eyes. “What do you mean?”

“Work-wise, I guess. Like, do you want me to go to the studio with you tomorrow? I only ask because you reached out to the housekeeper about the guys coming early, and that’s something I would normally do. I don’t want you to think I can’t do my job just because we’re…also doing this other thing.”

He nods, like he fully understands my question. “Yeah, not gonna lie. It feels weird to ask you to do stuff now. Bossing you around—I don’t know. I don’t want to take advantage of you.”

“But I’m not your real girlfriend, Freddie. And I’m still getting paid, so I shouldn’t stop doing what I usually do. Besides, you never boss me around. You ask me to do stuff, and you always ask nicely. That’s different. Honestly, most of the time, I’m the one bossing you around.”

He chuckles, then his voice drops deliciously low when he says, “I like it when you boss me around.”

Heat flushes my skin, coiling low in my belly, and I clench my fists, willing my body not to respond. I drop my eyes and force a slow, steadying breath.

How does he do this to me with just a few words? The man will be my undoing.

“Sorry,” he says. “That probably sounded?—”

“It’s fine,” I say, waving a hand dismissively. “I know what you meant.”

I’m not sure I really do, but I’ll happily change the subject if it will distract him from noticing the warmth I can still feel in my cheeks.

“So…tomorrow?” I say.

“Right. Tomorrow.” He studies me for a long moment. “What do you want to do? Do you want to come to the studio?”

I bite my lip. Of course I want to go. But it’s probably the last thing I need. Watching him work is almost as addictive as watching him snuggle babies.

“I’ll absolutely be there if you think you’ll need me,” I say. “But if not, it might be nice to spend some time with Carina.”

“You should do that, then,” Freddie says.

“I can still take care of stuff,” I quickly say. “I’ll stay on top of texts and emails and everything else. And if you need anything while you’re there, you can just call?—”

“Hey,” he says, cutting me off. “It’ll be fine. You never take time off. You should.”

I nod, feeling both relieved and disappointed at the same time.

“Okay,” I say. “I will, then.”

He yawns and rubs his eyes, but he makes no move to leave. Instead, he crosses his arms over his chest and leans against the wall, closing his eyes.

“Freddie,” I say through a chuckle. “Go to bed.”

He smiles without moving. “I like standing here with you.”

My traitorous heart thumps in response. “But I need to go to bed too,” I say. I push him gently toward his door. “Come on. I’ll see you in the morning.”

He finally stands upright, stretching his arms high over his head. His shirt lifts, and his pants are low enough on his hips that I catch another glimpse of the tattoo just by his hip bone—the one I’m certain is mystery tattoo number eighteen.

He must understand my staring because he asks, “Do you want to see it?”

My gaze darts up to meet his. “That’s number eighteen?”

He nods. “The only one my fans haven’t mapped.” His tone is perfunctory, matter-of-fact, and it makes me think of the woman who came to his concert with half of his tattoos already inked onto her body. It’s not a wonder he keeps this one secret.

“Can you show me without taking off your pants?” I ask. Because I do want to see it. But I can only stand so close to the edge of a cliff before self-preservation kicks in. And seeing Freddie sans pants would definitely knock me clean into the canyon.

Freddie rolls his eyes and reaches for the waistband of his pants, his eyes dancing as he says, “Yes, Ivy. I’m not suggesting I strip for you. Do you think I would have offered otherwise?”

I lift my hands. “Sorry. I was just making sure. I didn’t want to be accidentally scarred.”

“Wow,” Freddie says. “Scarred? Hit me where it hurts.”