Page 30 of One More Made Up Love Song
“No—I’m sorry, are these things I’m supposed to know? Am I being tested somehow?”
“No and yes,” I said. “Okay, last question.” I propped my hands on my hips and looked at her for a long moment, already hoping she would forgive me for how truly ridiculous our entire conversation had been so far. “Can you promise you arenotin danger of falling in love with me?”
She scoffed. “What?”
“Take a minute,” I said. “Am I your type?”
“You’re a musician,” she said, “which means, by default, you aren’t my type.”
I liked her answer, even if it wasn’t one I expected. “You don’t date musicians?”
“I mean, I’ve never had the opportunity, but I’d like to be taken seriously in the industry, so no. I don’t.”
“Okay. Good. That’s great,” I said.
And then I offered her a job.
I’d been looking for an assistant for weeks, and she was perfect. Unaffected by my fame. Smart. Career-driven. Andnota fan.
She told me she didn’t graduate for another six weeks.
I told her I wasn’t in a hurry.
She told me her goal was to work for a record label as an artist relations manager.
I suggested what better way to learn about the life of an artist than by working with one directly?
Then I mentioned the salary I was willing to pay her, and she ran out of arguments.
That was five years ago—when she said without hesitation that I wasn’t her type. But she didn’t really know me then. She only said it because I’m a musician and she wanted to be taken seriously in the industry. But does that truly matter if she’s working for me?
I don’t have a lot of experience with love, despite how much I sing about it. But it still feels like something is shifting between us.
Ivy must pass Wayne at the door, because he walks in seconds later, and I don’t hear the latch click more than once.
“What’s up with you?” he says, eyebrows pulled together.
I sit up a little taller. “What? Nothing. Why?”
He motions to his face. “Because you’ve got this weird goofy grin on your face.”
I reach a hand up and wipe it over my mouth. “It’s nothing. Ivy was—never mind. It’s not important. How’s everything out there?”
His jaw tenses, but then he nods. “Good. Everything is good.”
Wayne isn’t exactly emotive, but I can still tell he’s lying. “What happened? What aren’t you telling me?”
“Nothing,” he says. “There was a minor issue with some hotel staff, but we figured it out before anything could happen. Everything is good.”
“Wayne,” I say. “Just tell me what it was.”
He sits down in the armchair perpendicular to me and breathes out a sigh. “A guy who works the front desk loaned his employee badge to a friend. Or at least someone heclaimsis a friend. I’m more inclined to think it was someone willing to pay him a lot of cash to get her inside the hotel. We caught her in a maids’ uniform with a load of sheets in her arms, on her way up torefresh your linens.” He adds air quotes to the last part of his sentence, and I frown.
“He gave her my room number?”
Wayne nods. “And he was fired for it.” He leans back and runs a palm over his shaved head, the light catching in his pale blue eyes. “They both swore they didn’t have any malicious intent. She just wanted to meet you.”
I choke out a laugh. “It’s never malicious, is it? All in good fun.”
