Page 31 of One More Made Up Love Song (Midnight Rush #2)

It feels good to be bantering like this, a little bit like we’re back to our old selves again, except right now, there’s a tension buzzing between us that feels thick enough to cut. Then Freddie shimmies the waist of his pants low enough for me to see his secret tattoo, and my throat goes dry.

He’s fully decent—I’m only seeing skin—but it’s not skin I usually see. He could be standing here in a swimsuit, otherwise unclothed, and it would still feel less scandalous than this.

I force myself to focus on the ink instead of the jut of his hipbone or the light dusting of hair on his abdomen.

“It’s a maple leaf,” I say. “Are you secretly Canadian?”

He chuckles. “No. But my grandparents had a big-leaf maple tree in their backyard. It had these huge leaves that turned bright yellow every fall. Whenever my parents didn’t know what to do with me, how to handle me, I guess, they would send me down the street to my grandparents’ house.

” He shifts his pants back up, covering the tattoo, and lets his shirt fall back down.

“My grandfather is the one who taught me how to play guitar. When the weather was good, we would sit outside under the maple tree and play until it was too dark to see.”

“You’ve never told me that,” I say. “About your grandfather.”

“I should tell you more about him. Best man I’ve ever known.”

I fold my arms across my chest and lean against the wall, mirroring Freddie’s pose.

Even though I already told him to go to bed, I like to hear him talk about his family.

At least his grandparents. His parents drive me crazy, with the way they seem to express only mild appreciation for his chosen career.

And his brother is no better. But whenever he mentions his grandparents, they seem like people I would have liked.

“He died when?” I say, speaking of his grandfather. “How old were you?”

“Nineteen,” he says. “Then twenty when Grandma died.”

“So they got to see you in Midnight Rush.”

Freddie smiles, his expression a little wistful. “Yeah. They did. We did a show in Seattle, and they were able to come and watch from a private balcony. That was a great night.”

“I bet they were so proud of you.”

He shrugs. “It’s not quite a PhD in mathematics, but yeah. They were proud.”

I cock my head, studying his face, searching for any hint of malice or hurt. But there isn’t any. If there was ever hurt over his parents’ disinterest in his career, I don’t think it’s still there. There was a tiny bit of sarcasm in his tone, but it didn’t seem deeply rooted.

“When did you stop trying to impress them?” I ask, and Freddie lifts his eyebrows.

“My parents?”

I nod.

He considers my question for so long, I wonder if I shouldn’t have asked.

But then he says, “Honestly, I don’t know that I’ve ever tried to impress them.

They never understood me, really. And I got that when I was a little kid.

Six or seven, even. I knew I was different.

That what mattered to them was never going to matter to me.

” He runs a hand across his face. “I don’t know.

It didn’t feel like a painful thing. Just a part of my reality.

And I can’t really complain, right? They supported me when I wanted to try out for Midnight Rush, then when I moved to Nashville.

They didn’t stand in my way. But that doesn’t mean they’re going to enjoy my music just because it’s mine. ”

His patience with his parents does him credit, but it also makes me want to take him home to my parents, just so they can gush over him like I know they would.

Mom would sit him down at her kitchen table and fill him with homemade peach pie and ask him a thousand questions about his music and touring and his favorite cities and his favorite songs and then she would let him name one of her rescue donkeys and promise every time she said its name, she’d think of Freddie.

That’s just how my parents are. Fully invested. The world’s greatest cheerleaders.

“They should enjoy your music because it’s yours,” I say. “But also because it’s brilliant.”

“Wait, hold on,” Freddie says, reaching for his phone. “ Can you say that one more time? I’d like to record Ivy Conway saying I’m brilliant.”

I roll my eyes. “Okay. Now it’s really time for bed.” I push away from the wall, but Freddie catches my wrist.

“Wait,” he says.

I pause, turning back, eyes snagging on the way he’s holding me, his thumb just over the pulse point on the inside of my arm. I wonder if he can feel how quickly the blood is racing through my veins. His thumb moves the slightest bit, tracing a tiny circle across my skin.

He licks his lips, and for a split second, I could swear his gaze drops to my lips.

There’s something in his gaze I’ve never seen before—something weighty and intentional that sends awareness skittering over my skin.

I lean forward the slightest bit, yielding to the magnetic pull of his presence.

But then his hand slides down to mine, and he gives it a quick squeeze before letting me go and taking a step backward.

“Good night, Ivy,” he says softly. Then he turns and slips into his bedroom without glancing back.

I sag against the wall and close my eyes, heart still pounding.

It wasn’t much. Just a whisper of a touch across my wrist. That isn’t enough to justify feeling any kind of hope. But I can’t help it. When I walk across the kitchen to my own room, I can’t help but feel like I’m floating.