Page 37 of Sweet Escape

And I have the pieces of two songs swirling around each other in my mind, battling for attention.

The one that’s winning right now is something I imagine to be my first single. I don’t know why I think that when I’ve always assumed “Sharp Heart” would be. It’s my favorite song I’ve ever written, an angsty piece I wrote in a fit of rage when the guy I was sleeping with at the time began to slowly cut me out of his life without telling me.

I truly believe it’s the reason Humble Roads signed me in the first place.

But now, with this song beginning to tumble its way out of my head and onto the paper in front of me, I’m not so sure if “Sharp Heart” will be the showstopper I’ve always believed it is.

Now I wonder if maybe whatever this is that I’m working on might take its place.

A cool breeze ripples over my skin, but I don’t stop to grab my sweater from the car. Instead, I push on. My notebook sits open in front of me, my phone on one page and my wallet on the other, holding them down against the tiny bit of wind that is rushing through the park.

I saw this spot on my way back into town from the vineyard, a beautiful little green space with a white gazebo and a bunch of picnictables. It called to me, for whatever reason. So I pulled over and lugged my guitar out of the trunk, picked a sunny corner, and sat my ass in the grass.

And the music has flowed out of me ever since.

Which is also why I refuse to give up in my quest to talk to Memphis.

The man is infuriating. The idea that there is so much demand on his time that he can’t talk to me for five minutes is just plain stupid.

The tour thing sounds like such a cop-out, too.

I adjust the tuning pegs slightly, laughing to myself.

God, I should sign up for one of his tours. Then he’d be obligated to talk to me.

My fingers slow as I think that over again, wondering if maybe ...

I laugh.

It might be the most perfect idea ever.

I grab my phone and do a quick search for the Hawthorne Vines website, clicking around until I find information about the daily winery tours.

Blah, blah, blah, groups of ten once a day on weekdays and twice a day on weekends, blah, blah, blah, ends with a trip to the tasting room. Then I select “buy tickets.”

Looks like the tour for tomorrow has two tickets available.

I smirk.

But then I see that Wednesday’s tour has eight available.

Mischief rolls through me, and I don’t even give myself time to think it all the way through before I’m checking out, eight tickets in my cart.

If there are a ton of people on the tour, he’ll find a way to ignore me. I don’t doubt that. It’s in his nature to be as difficult as possible. And if I were to buy up all the tickets for, say ... Friday, when all ten are still available, I’m sure he’d cancel the tour. The man loves nothing more than to storm out of a room.

But if there’s one or two other people ... I mean, there’s no way he’d cancel on someone else, right? He’llhaveto give me his attention.

I double-check my email to make sure the confirmation has come through before I set my phone aside, feeling pleased and rather devious.

My muse is speaking to me, and I will let nothing get in my way to make sure it is heard.

“Hey, Errol, how’s your day going?”

He lifts his head, smiling at me as I stop at the desk where he’s making notes in some kind of ledger.

“Hello, Miss Walsh. I’m doing well, thanks for asking. How about you?”

I lean on the counter and rest my chin in my hand. “Fantastic, actually.”

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