Page 50 of Heartbreaker
“Why did you fire her?”
I hesitate. “Well…because of you, I guess.”
“Because of me?” He looks confused.
“When Liza Bancroft blindsided me during that interview, talking about how you were seen leaving my hotel room, asking whether or not we were sleeping together, all that stuff—Farrah just sat there playing on her phone. Then, when I confronted her in the car afterward, she basically blew me off and downplayed it.” I hesitate, not wanting to let him know how much I think about him, but I also feel like it's important to be honest. About this anyway. “I remembered what you told me about making sure I surround myself with people I trust. And I don't trust her anymore. So I fired her.”
He’s quiet for a moment, watching me intently. “You did the right thing. But now you have to man up, so to speak, and stick to your guns. Don’t let them tell you who you have to work with. You have the power now, Jade.”
“Sometimes it doesn’t feel like it.” I stare into the fireplace, watching the flames dance and swirl. “Sometimes I feel like a puppet being pulled in so many directions I get dizzy.”
“I remember that feeling well. But at some point, you have to put yourself first.”
“How expensive do you think it’ll be for me to break all ties?” I ask softly. It’s almost rhetorical because I don't think there’s any way for him to know. I didn’t even realize that was in the back of my mind until the words slipped out.
“It shouldn’t cost you anything,” he says. “If they care about public perception, they’ll let you go. But you should get a good lawyer and say that there are creative differences now that you’ve gotten to this point in your career. It depends on the specifics of your contract, but honestly, you should be able to get out of it. They could fight you, and they probably will, but I can recommend a badass entertainment attorney who can help you with this. If you want to talk to her, I’ll send you her info.”
“Yes. Thank you.”
“Any time.” He nods for the hall. “You were going to go freshen up?”
“Oh, right.” I hurry into my room.
I look a little tired, and my hair’s in a messy ponytail, but that’s okay. The less attractive I am, the less chance there will be that we almost kiss again. Last night, he was on his best behavior—so much so it’s almost insulting considering that my body is in a constant state of arousal. Just being in the same room as him makes it hard to think.
The good news is that he’s a masterful songwriter and we genuinely work well together. We feed off each other’s ideas, and though I’m nowhere near the guitar player he was, he does it all by ear. He can tell me what chords to play—and he’s right on. Every. Single. Time. It’s unnerving how instinctive it is for him.
“What’s for breakfast?” I ask when I find him in the kitchen.
“There’s a quiche and the instructions look pretty simple. I preheated the oven, so we should be good to go in about twenty-five minutes.”
“Perfect. Let me get some coffee, and you can show me what you were talking about.”
“Great.” He leaves the kitchen as I pour myself a cup of coffee.
It’s been snowing since last night and everything is coated in white. Even though it’s somewhat dark and gloomy, it’s also mystical and beautiful and inspiring. I want to write a song about it. But not just the snow. I want to capture the whole feeling, the essence of the snow. Or the essence of being snowed in with a gorgeous stranger.
“Midnight snow,” I murmur, immediately pulling my phone out of my pocket.
“Midnight snow?” Royal asks, startling me.
“Song title,” I say, holding up my cell. “I make notes in my phone.”
“Jesus, you’re like a fucking mind reader,” he says.
“What do you mean?” I ask absently as I type in my thoughts.
“Last night, after you fell asleep, I was thinking the same thing. Not midnight snow, specifically—I kind of hate the word midnight, if you know what I mean—but just snow that falls at night. How it looks as it’s coming down and the feelings it inspires.”
“Oh.” I look up, finding his strong gaze zeroed in on mine. “I’m sorry about the word midnight, but it works for me. For this.”
“It does.” He scratches his head. “Anyway, I brought your guitar. I worked on some lyrics while I was watching the snow fall, and I have some melodies in my head. If you can play this series of chords…” He hands me a piece of paper.
It looks simple enough, so I nod and perch on the end of one of the stools. The music comes almost naturally, as if I already know the melody.
Because he’s singing it.
And though it’s not exactly what I had in mind, it’s in the same vein.
