Page 5 of One More Made Up Love Song (Midnight Rush #2)

I grin. “If you sleep naked when Seth is asleep less than four feet away, you’re braver than I am.”

“I don’t actually sleep naked,” she whisper-yells. “I’m just saying. You still have to knock.”

“You’re right,” I say, conceding the point. “I should have knocked.” I hold up my phone one more time. “Now tell me why you’re moving out.”

She sighs. “Can we please talk about this tomorrow?”

“If you wanted to talk about it tomorrow, you should have texted me tomorrow. You texted me tonight, and now I’m not going to be able to sleep because I’m worried I’m a bad boss.”

“You aren’t a bad boss,” Ivy says, “but Seth and Wayne are both asleep, as you already pointed out, less than four feet away.”

“They can’t hear over the sound of the engine,” I say.

“Yes, we can,” Seth says from his bunk. “But do carry on. I’m curious how this will pan out.”

Ivy gives me a look that says I told you so , but I’m too far in to turn back, so I scowl right back, then climb up the ladder at the foot of her bunk and drop myself onto her bunk, pulling the privacy curtain closed behind me.

“Oh my gosh,” Ivy says as she shifts closer to the wall. “Are you serious right now?”

“I’m just going to sit right here,” I say as I try to angle my long legs into a comfortable position in the small space. My knee knocks against the wall, then my head bumps against a different wall. “Oof,” I grunt as I rub at the spot on my head. “This was probably a bad idea.”

“You think?” Ivy says, then she sighs. “Here, just stretch out this way. These bunks really aren’t meant for sitting, so if you’re staying, you’re just going to have to lie down.

” It takes some maneuvering and more than a few grunts and grumbles from Ivy, but I finally manage to stretch out beside her, head propped up on my elbow.

I catch the faint scent of Ivy’s hair, and a sudden wave of uncertainty washes over me.

We are close. Really close. We aren’t touching, but I can smell her. Feel her body heat. Hear the soft inhale of her breath.

It’s not like Ivy and I never touch. Our friendship is casual.

Easy. But we aren’t hugging every day. We’ve only hugged a few times, actually.

Once when I got the news of my latest Grammy nomination.

Once after the Midnight Rush reunion show when emotions were high for everyone.

Once when I was stressed about a particularly brutal stretch of tabloid gossip that was entirely fictional. Well, and tonight, I guess.

I’ve always gotten the sense Ivy isn’t much of a hugger, which is why it feels so notable that twice in one night, I’ve found myself this close to her.

Admittedly, I am the one who wandered into CVS and created a situation in which she had to save me, and I am also the one who just climbed into her bed.

Come to think of it, maybe I shouldn’t be so surprised she wants to move out.

“You’re ridiculous,” Ivy whispers.

“Yes,” I say, ignoring my insecurities. “You know this about me. Now, tell me the truth. Why are you moving out?”

She sighs, then she reaches up and turns off the light.

When she doesn’t say anything, I ask, “Is that a sign you aren’t willing to talk? ”

She huffs out a sigh. “It’s a sign that if we’re going to talk about this, it will be easier in the dark.”

My eyebrows lift. “Okay. That’s fair.”

She’s quiet for a long beat before she finally says, “I don’t have a life, Freddie.” The words are quiet, her tone soft, maybe even a little wistful. “I mean, I have a life. And it’s a good one. I love working for you. But…it’s your life, you know?”

Her words aren’t an exact echo of the thoughts I was wrestling with earlier, but they’re close. Here lately, it hasn’t felt like I’ve had much of a life either. At least not the kind I want.

“I don’t have my own friends,” Ivy continues. “I don’t have my own apartment. I haven’t been on a date in who knows how long. I’m not sure that’s normal.”

“You date?” I ask. A knot tightens in my gut at the thought. It isn’t discomfort, exactly. Just an uneasiness I don’t expect. In the five-plus years she’s been working for me, if Ivy has ever gone on a date, she hasn’t talked to me about it.

She scoffs. “Yes, I date.”

“When?”

“I went out with the pilot who flew us to Paris. Blake.”

“That was two years ago.”

“Which only illustrates my point,” she says. “I want to date, and I can’t when I’m living in your house.”

“I don’t understand why you can’t just date living where you live. Does it really make a difference?”

“Of course it makes a difference,” she says. “Your house is amazing. But it’s a little intimidating. If I want a guy to pick me up at my doorstep, I have to give him a five-step checklist on how to get through Wayne.”

“I could talk to Wayne about that,” I say .

“But it’s not just that,” Ivy says. “When people know I work for you, all they want to talk about is you. I just think a little bit of distance would be good for me.”

“If that’s true, then you’re dating the wrong guys.

They should only want to talk about you, and that shouldn’t be hard because you’re one of the most interesting people I know,” I say, but I can’t fault her.

Fame can be isolating, and as close as Ivy is to my life, there’s no way she hasn’t felt the impact of that.

“Thank you,” she says. “And you’re probably right. But I’d still like to give myself a fighting chance.”

Something about her words or maybe the way she’s holding herself, like she won’t let herself take a deep breath, makes me think there’s more to this situation than what she’s telling me. I can’t see her, but I can feel her next to me, and she’s radiating tension.

I slide my foot over and nudge hers. “Hey,” I say. “It’s just me. You can tell me if there’s more to this. If there’s anything you want me to do differently?—”

“It’s not you,” she says, cutting me off. “I promise it’s not.”

I don’t believe her, but I won’t push her more than I already have. “Okay,” I say instead. “Well, you know I support you. Let me know if there’s anything you need. I’m good at carrying moving boxes.”

She lets out a little chuckle. “Thanks.”

I should go. Let her sleep and try to get some sleep myself, but then Ivy shifts, and I catch the scent of her one more time. I feel a sudden impulse to move closer, but that would be crazy.

This is Ivy. My assistant. A woman who just told me she wants to move out because she’d like to date more. There is no reason why I should enjoy being close to her. “So…do I just roll out of this thing?”

She reaches over, her hand landing on my bare chest. Her palm is soft and warm, and it’s all I can do not to suck in a breath at the contact.

“Where’s your hand?” she asks.

I move my hand and press it on top of hers. “Right here.”

She takes my hand and wraps it in hers, then lifts it like she’s bracing herself. “Now roll,” she says. “It’s easier if you have something to stabilize you on the way down.”

I hang on, then slide the curtain back and roll out of her bunk, landing on my bare feet. “What do you hold onto when you get out?”

“Nothing,” she says, “but I’ve got a lot more practice than you.” She reaches for the curtain and closes it, pausing before it covers the last few inches of space and hides her from view. “Good night, Freddie,” she says, then she closes the curtain the rest of the way.

I slowly make my way back to my room, strangely unsettled by the whole conversation. When I close my door and finally collapse into bed for good, I reach up and rub a hand over my chest. There’s a dull ache behind my ribs, the same one that was triggered when I first read Ivy’s text.

I don’t know what it means. And I don’t know if my conversation with Ivy made things better or worse.

I just know I don’t like feeling this way. About my life. About Ivy. About anything. And I don’t know what I’m supposed to do to fix it.