Page 6 of One More Made Up Love Song (Midnight Rush #2)

CHAPTER THREE

Ivy

I glance up at the glowing red light above the studio door, an indication that the radio show currently interviewing Freddie is live on the air.

He’s visible through a large glass window, sitting across from a balding guy in his forties, who the station calls Captain Stan for reasons I haven’t yet figured out.

There’s a set of headphones sitting on the desk next to me, in case I want to listen in, but I’ve heard Freddie answer these questions a million times. After this past year, when two different PR crises threatened his career, he knows better than to go off-script. Not that he ever truly has before.

Both times he wound up in the press with unflattering headlines, he wasn’t at fault.

The first time, he was having dinner with his parents, who were visiting him in New York, and a fan and her daughter wouldn’t leave him alone until Freddie very sternly asked them to back away from his table.

The second time, he was defending me, when a guy at a bar got a little too handsy, and some idiot took video, editing it just enough to make it look like Freddie was drunk and in an angry bar fight.

Freddie doesn’t drink, and he only punched the guy once.

I still feel a little guilty about that one.

I saw the red flags. I should have backed away from the guy a lot sooner than I did.

I lift my eyes to Freddie, who is smiling at the radio host, green eyes sparkling, and a twist of gratitude makes my heart feel tight.

He might drive me up the wall and push my buttons and do ridiculous things like climb into my bunk uninvited. But he’s still a good man. Maybe the best man I know.

Which is precisely why I need some space. All the touching that happened yesterday made it painfully clear.

If you had asked me yesterday what the cruelest form of torture would be, I would not have conjured up a shirtless Freddie crawling into my very tiny bunk to have a heart-to-heart about my living situation.

But after last night? My answer has definitely changed.

There is nothing Freddie could do that would be more torturous than that. The way he smelled, clean and fresh, the way his skin felt under my palm when I went searching for his hand.

I turned the light off because I couldn’t trust myself not to stare at his body, to study the many, many tattoos that decorate his torso. But I didn’t account for the unexpected intimacy created by talking— in the dark.

I texted him about moving out for my own peace of mind, but I had no clue he would charge in like Sherlock Holmes, ready to ask me all the hard questions.

That was a miscalculation I shouldn’t have made.

I know Freddie better than anyone. I should have guessed he would have reacted like he did.

Nothing gets to him more than the knowledge that someone he cares about isn’t happy.

To be in Freddie’s inner circle is truly amazing. He’s so good to his friends. Good to me.

And I don’t want that to stop.

But if I’m going to keep my heart from cracking open, I have to do it on my own terms. From my own apartment.

My phone buzzes in my hand, and I glance down to see a text from Mira Stapleton.

Mira

Hey Ivy! Long time, no see. My messages aren’t getting through to Freddie. Did his number change?

I tap my phone onto my palm and debate whether I should respond.

Despite my annoyance that Mira is the only woman who has actually managed to get Freddie on a date the past few years, I can’t truly hate her.

Mostly because she’s one of the nicest people I’ve ever met—genuine and funny and real—and she talks to me like I’m a real person and not just hired help.

But I also can’t hate her because I’m pretty confident Freddie doesn’t like her as much as she likes him.

They don’t have a ton of chemistry, and he’s never seemed all that excited about going out with her.

She’s an easy date when his publicist wants him to make a public appearance, but I know him well enough to pick up on his lack of enthusiasm.

It’s selfish of me to think it, but if I have to watch Freddie date another woman, I’d rather it be someone like Mira—someone he doesn’t actually like .

Honestly, I probably would have quit by now if he made a habit of dating people for real. He goes out plenty, but rarely more than once with the same person. And it’s never been more than twice with anyone but Mira.

I pocket my phone without responding to Mira’s message. I’m pretty sure she doesn’t actually think Freddie’s number changed. She’s just hoping I’ll nudge him to respond to what I’m guessing was an unanswered text she sent to him.

I’ll ask him about it later. It’s probably time he put the poor woman out of her misery and tell her he doesn’t have feelings for her.

“How’s he doing?” a voice asks from behind me.

I swivel around, one hand flying to my chest. As far as I knew, I was alone in the control room opposite the recording studio.

“Sloane,” I say to Freddie’s agent. “What are you doing here?”

“I flew in for a meeting with another client,” she says. “Figured it wouldn’t hurt to check in while I’m in town.”

Sloane Mercer is a million times better than Freddie’s old agent, mostly because she’s honest. But she’s also slightly terrifying.

She’s gorgeous, for one. Tall and sleek and business-professional, with a polish to her appearance I could never dream of achieving.

Somehow, she is both nurturing, like the best kind of mom—she has two grown children, so she has some experience on that front—and unflinchingly firm.

She made it very clear in her first meetings with Freddie that if he does what she says, she will always steer him toward success. But he has to trust her.

It’s a relief, honestly, to be working with her.

After so many years with Kevin, Freddie’s old agent, I got really good at recognizing his lies.

But it was always work to get Freddie to see them.

Kevin was the agent for Midnight Rush, the boyband that launched Freddie’s career, so there was probably some measure of nostalgia or misdirected loyalty that kept Freddie hanging on to Kevin for so long.

But Sloane, in the nine months since Freddie hired her, has already proven her worth.

That doesn’t mean I’m not surprised to see her.

It isn’t that strange that Sloane is in Chicago to meet with another client. It’s a big city. But I’m still guessing this is more than just a casual drop-in.

With how little progress Freddie has made on his album, she has to be feeling the stress of his looming deadline as much as he is.

“He’s doing great,” I say, trying to keep my voice chill. “He’s a natural in interviews.”

Sloane steps closer to the giant window looking into the recording booth and folds her arms.

Freddie looks up, eyes widening as he processes her presence, then lifts his head in acknowledgement.

Sloane waves, then turns back to face me.

“And the music?” she asks. “Any progress on that front?”

My phone buzzes in my hand, and I look at the screen, relief washing through me as I see a call coming in from my mom.

“I’m sorry, I need to take this. It’s my mom,” I say as I stand. I tilt my head toward Freddie. “He should be done in just a few minutes. I’m sure he’ll be happy to fill you in.”

As I duck out of the control room and into the hallway, it feels a little like I’m throwing Freddie under the bus, but honestly, Sloane will get her answers one way or another, and Freddie is the only one who can give her what she wants.

At least in this regard, I’m happy to just be the assistant and not the one responsible for making music. Or any other kind of creative decisions. I know my strengths—I’m a problem solver, a task manager, an organizer of things and people and priorities. I should not be trusted with anything else.

“Hey, Mom,” I answer. “What’s up?”

“Oh, I’m so glad you answered,” Mom says, the tone of her voice immediately setting me on edge.

Mom and I are close enough that she often calls just to say hi.

Sometimes she wants to give me updates on Dad’s tree farm.

He’s shifting to Japanese maples in the east field, or he just got a new contract to provide crepe myrtle trees for Lowe’s Home Improvement stores.

Other times, she wants to tell me about the latest addition to the donkey sanctuary she’s been building over the last few years.

I shouldn’t just call it a donkey sanctuary.

She has other animals too. A peacock, several llamas, a couple of pot-bellied pigs a family across town bought as pets but surrendered when they grew to be well over a hundred pounds each.

Last week, she texted me pictures of a baby donkey she picked up in Asheville.

She named him Pirate because he was born with only one eye.

But Mom doesn’t want to talk about donkeys today. I can already tell. “What’s wrong? What is it?” I ask.

She breathes out the kind of sigh I recognize, and I know, before she says anything else, what she’s about to tell me.

“It’s Carina,” she says. “She’s gone again.”

I lean against a vending machine in the hallway and pinch the bridge of my nose. I am getting very tired of worrying about my little sister. “Gone where? Did she tell you anything this time?”

“Not a thing. She at least left a note, but it was vague. Chasing something big. Be back soon. Don’t worry about me!” Mom says. “But how am I supposed to not worry? She’s only twenty-one years old.”

The tension in my shoulders eases the slightest bit. I get why Mom’s upset, but if Carina left a note, I’m not as concerned. This isn’t the first time she’s gotten a wild hair and taken off on an unplanned trip. She always responds to Mom’s texts eventually. I’m sure she will this time too.

“I know, but Mom, twenty-one means she is a legal adult. Maybe you really shouldn’t worry about her.”

Mom huffs. “You know it isn’t that easy.”

“Carina’s smart, Mom. And the note’s an improvement over the last time she took off.”