Page 42 of One More Made Up Love Song
“Something like that.”
“Do you want to go inside?”
I love the patience in Wayne’s voice as he asks this. He’s not judging me for pacing outside—he’s acting more like he’s not at all surprised to have found me here and he’llunderstand if I turn around and go back to my own room instead.
“I think I have to,” I say. “But I’m not sure Iwantto.”
“He’s pretty beat up about everything,” Wayne says. “If that matters.”
“I’m the one who asked him to kiss me,” I say. “This isn’t his fault.”
“He was only there in the first place because he insisted on coming along,” Wayne says. “Thatishis fault.”
“Does he think I’m mad about that?” I ask.
Wayne shrugs. “You aren’t? You seemed pretty upset in the car.”
Upset isn’tquitethe right word for what I was in the car.
I was mostly just stunned.
When Freddie’s lips touched mine, fire exploded through my veins, my heart practically climbing into my throat. The feel of his hand on my cheek, the concern in his bright green eyes. For a split second, I forgot it wasn’t real. That he wasn’t kissing me just because he wanted to.
Once we left and got away from Margot, my stupid, traitorous heart wondered if he felt the same thing I did. If the kiss awakened something, prompted him to see me as somethingmorethan just his assistant. But then he turned around in the car and talked about my “brilliant idea,” and my hope fizzled and died.
The kiss was a well-executed strategy. But that’s all it was.
My brain gets it, but after kissing him, it’s going to take a measure of Herculean strength to convince my heart of the same thing—strength I’m not sure I have.
Especially now—when the whole world thinks Freddie Ridgefield is in love with me.
That’s why I was distant in the car. Why I seemed upset.
I was just trying to reorder my heart.
It’s stupid, honestly.
What did I think?
That somehow, one tiny kiss, initiated under duress, was going to trigger an epiphany and show Freddie he’s actually in love with me? That doesn’t make even a little bit of sense.
But during that kiss, my heart didn’t care about what made sense. It only cared about how right it felt to be close to him, to have his hands cradling my face.
I shove my hands deep into the pockets of my hoodie. “I’m not mad at him,” I say. “Just a little overwhelmed.”
Something passes over Wayne’s expression, and I catch a glimpse of how much he respects his boss.
“He’s probably been on the phone all day,” I say.
Wayne nods. “Nonstop.” He pulls out his keycard and opens Freddie’s hotel room door. “You ready?”
I nod. “Yeah. Thanks, Wayne.”
I find Freddie leaning against the headboard in his bedroom, legs stretched out in front of him, his guitar perched on his lap. He’s picking out a melody I don’t recognize, but he stops the second he sees me, immediately setting his guitar to the side.
“Any luck?” I say. Because it’s easier to talk about music than to start the conversation I actually came here to have.
“Nah. Nothing much. A few bars of a melody maybe, but nothing that feels promising.”
