Page 7 of No More Love Songs

I nod. “I’ll raid the pantry.”

Brice pushes his chair out and stands. “And I’ll get the hell out of the way.”

Twenty minutes later and Gray and I are walking into the basement. Half of it was converted into a game room for the kids, the other half is completely dedicated to all things music. From Gray’s extensive collection of instruments to the endless filing cabinets of sheet music (because he’s old school like that) to the entire wall of shelves filled entirely with old records (I mentioned he was old school, right?). Scattered all around the space are random bits of furniture for comfy sitting, creative social gathering and even the occasional nap. At the very end of the space is the recording studio, built large enough to accommodate a full band though usually it’s just me and my guitar in there. Still, I like it. Every last inch of this space fuels my muse. I feel my fingers twitch, aching to pluck at strings and my throat open ready to belt out whatever emotions hide away at the depths of my core while I’m out in the world.

I’m on my last step my phone vibrates in my hand, and I glance at it automatically.

“Janelle?” Gray asks, looking over his shoulder.

“No.” I slide the phone into my pocket and out of sight. I don’t need to read the whole message to get the meaning of it. This is the seventh one like it I’ve gotten in the last few days, it’d be damn near impossible not to know what he wants by now. “Just an update from the label about the changes they’ve been making since Barry’s death.” It’s mostly true. Barry was the heart of the label, the man who signed me way back when. Now that he’s gone, I’m afraid his passing is just the beginning of things coming to an end. Time will tell just how much of what he built will die with him.

Gray takes the information at face value and goes about his business. I watch him as he gets everything ready.

He changes when he’s down here too. Nothing puts him in his element like this does. Parenting is a close second, but the board doesn’t throw curveballs like the kids do. Where they keep him on his toes, here he’s the master.

“You’re not really going to torture me with dating apps and match-making, are you?” I ask quietly while I open my guitar case and get my girl ready. Halo. That’s what I call her. Because someone said I sounded like an angel about a million years ago.

“No.” He looks up at me. There’s no smile, but his eyes are spilling over with empathy. “I know what it took for you to reach this point. I’m not going to force you down a path that rips open everything you’ve only just found a way to heal.”

“But what about all the shit you said to Janelle?” I know it got me what I wanted, but Grayson wouldn’t lie to get it. It’s not who he is.

“There’s more than one way to fall in love, Sky. No one specified it had to be romantic. Or involve a man.”

I make a face. “I kind of think it does have to involve a man.”

He just rolls his eyes and goes on, “The way I see it, there are plenty of loopholes here. We just have to find the ones we like and jump through them.” This time he cracks a smile. “And if Brice happens to invite over the guys from his softball team, and you happen end up in a picture or two with some of them and Janelle happens to see them, I think we can sell her on the effort we made.”

“He plays in a gay league.”

Gray shrugs. “Janelle doesn’t know that.”

There is that. Plus, the ones I’ve met are gorgeous. “Easy on the eyes with no risk of feelings sounds like the perfect date.”

“Exactly.” He waves his hand for me to go inside the recording booth. “Come on. Magic time.”

My favorite words.

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KIT

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The house is stilldark when I walk in. It’s not my first time coming in through the kitchen door before dawn, but it always feels a little strange. Sleep fills the air and I take care not to make any noise that might wake Gray’s sleeping family.

Then, as soon as I open the door to the basement and take the first step down the stairs, the whole energy changes. I can hear Gray talking, giving direction, so Skylar must be in the booth. I’ve never worked with her myself, but it’d be damn near impossible to turn on the radio, let alone work in the industry, and not have heard of her. Country music’s never been a favorite of mine, but I can’t deny I know the words to every Skylar Thompson song ever released. The way she’s managed to infuse rock and blues into her sound and the sheer power of her vocals gives her a sound all her own, even if she has been deemed the reigning queen of country love songs for nearly two decades now.

I make my way through the game room portion of the basement and quietly wander into the studio space. As suspected, Grayson is in full producer mode and Skylar is perched on a stool inside the booth, guitar resting naturally on her thigh like it’s an extension of her body.

Not wanting to distract them, I have a seat on the sofa a few feet back and stay quiet until they’re done.

Grayson has headphones on, so I can only hear half of the conversation, but I gather they’ve noticed I’m here when he leans into the mic and says, “If he were here to kill me, he wouldn’t have a seat on the sofa. Stop being a lunatic, it’s just Kit. Now dial down the drama and sing it again like I told you.”

Then he slides the headphones off and spins around in his chair to face me. “Oh, good. It really is you.”

“Were you more worried about getting killed or having to admit to her you were wrong?” I tease, nodding at our queen of country behind him. She’s got her eyes closed now, feeling her way through the song as she sings and plays like we’re not even here. Like it’s just her and the music. I know that feeling. I love that feeling.

“I’d have hoped for a quick, instant death, not opportunities for conversation while I die in slow motion,” he admits grinning. “Sorry to drag you out here two hours earlier than planned.”

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