Page 42 of One More Made Up Love Song (Midnight Rush #2)

Minutes later, we’re standing on the edge of a rock looking out over the river.

It flows toward us, cascading over a waterfall into the deep green water below.

At the base of the falls, the swimming hole is wide and deep, perfect for swimming.

“We jump from here,” I say, looking over the edge of the rock to the water below.

It’s only a five-foot drop—an easy jump—but Freddie’s eyeing it like he’s second-guessing his decision to come.

“You sure about this?” I say. I tug my t-shirt over my head and drop it onto the rock behind me.

His eyes move over my body, and he grins, unabashed appreciation in his gaze. “If you’re getting in, I’m getting in with you.”

“Better hurry, then,” I say. Then I kick off my shorts and run to the edge of the rock, hurling myself into the water below.

The cold mountain water steals my breath just like I warned Freddie it would, so I’m gasping when I reach the surface, pushing my hair away from my face. I let out a whoop because I can’t not— it really is that cold—and I look up to where Freddie is still standing on the rock.

He’s stripped down to his boxer briefs, and I relish the chance to study him so openly, to take in the sight of his long, lean frame. I really do love his tattoos—every single one of them.

“Having second thoughts?” I yell up at him, treading water to keep myself afloat.

“It looks cold,” he calls back.

“It is cold. Now get in!”

I will never forget the scream Freddie lets out when he hits the water, or the way he’s smiling when he pops back up through the surface.

I laugh and flick a little water into his face. “I think you found your soprano notes,” I say playfully.

He swims over to me, wrapping his arms around my middle and tugs me down until we’re both under the water. We both come up laughing and splashing, water dripping off our eyelashes and down the ends of our noses.

“Okay, you’re right,” Freddie says. “It does feel good.”

“See?” I say. “I told you it would.”

We’re maybe two feet apart, both of us treading water, just staring at each other.

There are so many things I want to say to Freddie. Things I need to tell him. But for right now, it feels good to just be with him. To relax without having to talk about anything big.

I turn and swim toward an enormous boulder on the other side of the river. It’s wide and flat, with a low lip that makes it easy to climb on.

I push myself up and onto the edge, turning so I can sit with my legs still dangling, my feet and calves fully submerged in the water.

Freddie swims over and hooks his hands onto the rock on either side of my knees so I’m sitting inside the circle of his arms. I am not unhappy with this development, with how easy he’s making it to be close to him.

“You’re a good swimmer,” he says. Water beads up on his eyelashes, and I’m struck by how impossibly long they look. His eyes are the same mossy green as the river.

“East Tennessee regional champ,” I say. “Two-hundred-meter freestyle.”

“Really? How did I not know that?”

I shrug. “It’s a very small claim to fame.”

“There is no such thing,” he says. “Tell me something else.”

“Like what?”

“Anything,” he says. “What were you like in high school?”

I smirk, then lean back on the flat rock, stretching my arms over my head. “You mean, when I wasn’t making out with one of the Benson brothers?”

He scowls, then ducks under the surface, but then he shoots out lightning fast, darting sideways and hoisting himself out of the water.

He comes down right next to me and leans over my body, cold water dripping onto my chest and stomach.

He reaches up and takes my hands, pinning them over my head, his grip firm but still gentle enough that I could tug away easily if I wanted to.

Then he shakes his head like he’s a shaggy dog, sending drops of icy water all over me.

I squeal and laugh, squeezing my eyes closed until he stops. When I open them, he’s hovering over me, green eyes wide, a smile playing on his lips.

“What’s it going to take to banish all thoughts of the Benson brothers from your mind?” he asks.

A bead of water drips off the end of his hair and lands on my collarbone. “Probably…” I say, “I’m going to need to replace my old memories with new ones.”

He leans down and brushes the tip of his nose against mine. “Memories of swimming hole kisses?” he asks, mouth so close, I can almost feel the movement of his lips as he speaks.

“Mm-hmm,” I say, tilting my face up, the anticipation practically killing me.

“Ivy, is this okay?” he whispers, lips still torturously close. “We’ve never…”

He doesn’t have to finish the sentence because I know what he’s asking.

We’ve never kissed with no one watching.

Even if we’ve wanted it, there has always been some ulterior motive, some extra reason the kiss seems necessary. The press or the paparazzi, even just his fans.

But we’re utterly alone now. If we kiss, it will only be because we want to.

Because we want it for us.

For each other.

“It’s more than okay,” I whisper. “It’s exactly what I want.”

His mouth crashes onto mine with a fervency that’s been absent in all our other kisses.

Even the one at Voltage, when we both got lost in the moment, pales in comparison to this.

At Voltage, and every other time we’ve kissed, Freddie’s fame has been woven into the moment.

I was always kissing the famous Freddie Ridgefield .

But out here, I’m just kissing Freddie.

He’s just a guy, kissing me at the swimming hole because he can. Because he wants to.

And he does want to. I feel his desire with every brush of his lips, with every slide of his tongue as he takes my mouth over and over again.

Freddie wraps a hand around the curve of my waist, his long fingers splaying against my water-chilled skin.

His thumb brushes across my ribs, and I suck in a breath, every spot he touches burning with new awareness.

I want more of this, more of him, and a deep yearning pushes through my chest, then expands outward, filling me with peaceful certainty.

I love him. I love him and I’m always going to love him.

“Ivy,” Freddie says against my mouth.

I lean up and kiss him before he can move away, not yet ready to give him up. “Mmm?”

“This rock”—I interrupt him with a kiss—“is really uncomfortable.”

I laugh and finally let Freddie go, then use my hands to push myself up so I’m sitting.

The sun has already fallen below the tree line, and a cool breeze blows across the water, making my skin break out in goosebumps.

I glance at my watch. It’s just past seven, so we have a few hours before the sun sets completely, but the longer we’re here, the colder the water is going to feel.

Freddie must be thinking the same because he turns to look at me. “I’m suddenly realizing we have to get back in the water to get out of the water,” he says.

“Not unless we want to go on a really long hike,” I say. I nudge his leg with mine. “Come on. It’s like ripping off a Band-Aid. The longer we stall, the worse it’s going to be. ”

Once we cross the river and make it out of the water, we make quick work of drying off and getting back into our clothes.

“From about two to four o’clock every afternoon in the summer, this entire rock is in full sunlight,” I say as I slip on my Birkenstocks. “We used to swim until we were nearly blue, then climb up here and stretch out on our towels and read while the sun warmed us back up again.”

“Sounds pretty magical,” Freddie says.

We head up the path, slowly making our way back to the house. Freddie is quieter than I expect him to be, and I start to worry, to wonder if he regrets the way he kissed me in the river.

It’s probably a stupid worry. But this is still so new, and we still haven’t talked about anything yet. I don’t know that I’ll stop second-guessing until we’ve talked about where we stand.

“Did I ever tell you I set up a retirement fund for my parents?” Freddie asks.

We step out of the woods and onto a wider path that cuts through the east field, so I pause my steps, waiting for Freddie to catch up so we can walk side by side.

“I don’t think so,” I say. “When?”

“Years ago. Right after my first solo album went triple platinum.” His eyes shift, looking out across the field to the mountains melting into the horizon. This late in the day, the fading blue of the sky makes it hard to see where mountains stop and sky begins.

I walk slowly, waiting for Freddie to continue, sensing that he has more to say but might need time to say it.

In another hour, this field will be full of fireflies dancing among the redbud trees. It’ll be beautiful, almost magical, so if we have to walk around this field until then, you won’t hear me complain.

“I paid off their house,” Freddie says. “Bought them a car. And put enough money into an account that they could’ve retired right then if they’d wanted to.”

I reach over and slip my arm through his. “What did they say? Surely they were grateful.”

He lets out a little chuckle. “They definitely were. They said thank you. But then I suggested they use the money to travel. To come see me perform if they want or, I don’t know, go literally anywhere in the world that isn’t inside the fifty square miles outside their neighborhood. And you know what my mother said?”

“Tell me,” I say softly.

“She reached over and squeezed my hand before saying, ‘Thank you, dear. But our life isn’t small because it has to be. It’s small because we want it to be.’”

“Wow,” I say. “You really aren’t anything like them.”

Freddie lets out a humorless laugh. “I’m definitely more my grandfather’s son than either of my parents.

The point is, I’ve thought about that a lot over the years.

About not wanting a small life. And I thought the only way I could do that was to have the opposite.

So I chased it. Fame. Fortune. Stadiums full of fans who were only there because of me.

I built a really big life.” He shakes his head and lets out a little chuckle.

“Because I was so afraid to wind up like them. To be small. ”

“I don’t think that’s a bad thing, Freddie.”

“Maybe not. Trouble is, it wasn’t making me happy. That’s why I couldn’t write. Because everything felt hollow. Big and meaningless? That’s not a better option.”

I resist the urge to tell him that nothing about his life is meaningless. But I can only offer him words, and I don’t want them to seem like empty platitudes when they contradict how he feels.

So I just wait. I wait and listen and let him talk.

“So I’ve been thinking lately that maybe it isn’t about living big or living small.

It’s more about living with people where you belong.

I’ve never felt that with my parents. Not ever.

So I think I was chasing what I thought I needed.

A big, important, impressive life. But I don’t think it has anything to do with that.

I think I just want to belong somewhere.

” He lifts his shoulders into a shrug and offers me a sheepish grin.

“Is it too soon to say I feel like I belong here?”

He reaches out and takes my hand, rubbing his thumb across the back of my palm.

“Here with your family because I really liked naming one of your mom’s donkeys.

And I could talk to your dad about trees all day.

And after the car ride today, I’ve even developed an appreciation for Carina’s taste in music. ”

I laugh at this and roll my eyes. “Please don’t ever let her hear you say that.”

“I also mean here with you ,” he says, his lips lifting into a tiny grin.

“Because I really liked kissing you at the swimming hole.” He tugs me forward and lifts my hand, pressing it against his chest just over his heart.

“But I also mean here with you. Because I’m not sure belonging is a place so much as it’s a person.

I’m pretty sure I can feel at home anywhere, as long as I’m with you. ”

I close my eyes, breath caught in my throat as I replay his words over and over. As long as he’s with me. Me.

I have loved Freddie from a distance for so long, agonized over my feelings, willed myself to get over him, to just freaking move on .

But I couldn’t quit him. No matter how hard I tried, I could never shake the hope that somehow, some way, he would eventually see me like I see him.

And now we’re here.

Standing in the middle of a field full of redbud trees, and he’s telling me I’m his home.

I open my eyes to see him searching my gaze, hope clear in his expression.

“Freddie, are you telling me what I think you’re telling me?” I ask, not even trying to hide the tremble in my voice.

He offers me a sheepish, lopsided smile. “That I’m in love with you?” he asks, and all the air whooshes out of my lungs. “Yeah,” he says softly. “That’s what I’m telling you.”