Page 34 of Rumor Has It

“You won’t hear any argument from me if you’d like to spend the afternoon naked.”

“Has anyone ever mentioned you’re forthright?”

Not about everything. I swallow, nudging her toward the inn.

I don’t want to use Cassidy, though I should lower the bar about her expectations of me. Gatlin and Bellamy’s morning show returns from hiatus in less than two weeks. The interview I recorded with Gatlin will air and, even though I played my cards close to my chest, the publicity will do what it was meant to—what the new singles are doing—continue building excitement surrounding the tour.

A tour I’ve been waiting on pins and needles for and simultaneously dread. The upcoming months are the most hectic of my life and the past six have been the most stressful.

She could come with you.

I let the thought float away. Cassidy’s been candid that her roots are here. I don’t know how whatever is burgeoning between us can survive my travel schedule.

Been there.

Done that.

The white indent on my left ring finger is a souvenir I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.

At this moment, what I can offer Cassidy is bound by the trust I have in anyone. So, yes, my lack of honesty about moving up the interview with Gatlin, why I didn’t want to leave Nashville and why I’m in no rush to return, makes me absolute chicken shit.

Yet, everything I’ve just thought amounts to a hill of beans to my heart.

The desire for a reprieve from what my life has become is as all-encompassing as the depression I fell under. My appetite for normalcy is tremendous. And since I encountered Cassidy standing in her pajamas in the kitchen, my ambition to see her warm sleep-soft body first thing every morning is a goal I haven’t had since hearing the producer of my first LP say I had what it took to be a star.

It has me questioning a lot.

My name might open doors, but can it prop this one open?

When you have it all, including unimaginable problems, is the loneliness at the top worth it? If were Cassidy, I’d avoid it. Me.

The grandmother clock hanging on the wall chimes as we’re coming in from outside. My purchases from the gift shop are waiting on the kitchen table. Someone has placed them next to a picnic basket, along with the notebook of lyrics I’d forgotten at the Sanchez place. I should’ve been conscientious about where I set it down, but I was dead set on running after Cassidy.

“How’d all that get here?” I close the morning porch door, reach for the book, fold it in two, and stuff it into my back pocket. I’m thankful it’s not gone for good.

Cassidy picks up the note on top. I read it over her shoulder.

Cass—We’re sorry for ruining y’alls lunch. Love, Aunt D

P.S. Isaiah’s delivery came. His bags are in the foyer.

“Oh, man. They didn’t have to do this.” My stomach disagrees and lets out a roaring protest. I’m starving.

“Great. Now I feel even guiltier you missed lunch,” she bemoans.

I hold Cassidy by the upper arms and press a kiss to her forehead to reassure her. “I’m not missing anything.”

Not by a long shot.

We dig into the basket, pulling out tubs of chicken and the sides the ladies prepared. Daveigh tucked in dessert for two and an extra bottle of wine. I need to find a way of showing Mrs. Sanchez my appreciation.

“The label says Peach Reserve. Wanna glass?” Ravenous, I troll the cabinets for wine glasses while gnawing on a drumstick from a plastic container.

“I wouldn’t miss it. That’s the wine that everyone hoards. Guests, restaurants… Us,” Cassidy tells me, grabbing two plates from an opposite shelf.

“Roh, yeyah?” The drumstick clenched in my jaw that I’m trying not to drool around muffles my words as I pour our drinks. The food smells incredible. My stomach has thrown in the towel on good manners and civility.

Cassidy unrolls a greasy napkin revealing biscuits and pops the lids on the side dishes.

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