Page 20 of One More Made Up Love Song
For a split second, I stop fighting and let myself consider what it would mean if I let this stirring turn into an actualfeeling.
Could I have feelings for Ivy?
As quickly as the thought takes root, fear—or maybe just logic—wells up and yanks it back out again.
Ivy is my assistant.
Justmy assistant.
A woman I hired partly because she promised she would never be in danger of falling for me.
As far as my work life goes—and let’s face it, my work life is basically myonlylife—Ivy is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I can’t lose her, so I have to think about this rationally. Noticing Ivy’s eyes, enjoying her touch—those are complications neither of us needs. I remind myself for a second time that one of her reasons for wanting to move out is todatemore.
That’s the most important thing to remember. There’s no reason to want something Ivy clearly doesn’t want herself.
Then again, she’s the one touching me right now, standing close enough that if I wanted to lean down and kiss her, I could.
“This one, I don’t know.” Ivy brushes her pointer finger over the tiny pawprints moving up the inside of my arm. “But based on the theme, I’m guessing they reference a childhood pet?”
“Her name was Panda,” I say. “A border collie.”
“And the leaves here,” Ivy says, jumping her fingers over to my ribs. “An apple tree?”
I wince the slightest bit—she’s close to the only spot I’m ticklish—and I grin. “For Washington state.”
“Right. And your guitar—that one is obvious.”
“My grandfather’s guitar,” I correct. “The one he gave me.”
She doesn’t comment on the fact that I have three tattoos that are tributes to my grandparents while I only have tiny initials referencing my parents and brother. But I doubt she’s surprised.
Ivy’s met my family. She probably only needed one interaction to fully understand the dynamic of our relationship.
“And these stars here…” Ivy says. Her hand skims over to my other side. “These are for Midnight Rush, right?”
I nod. “And the letters here,” I say. I turn my arm to show her the back of my wrist.
Ivy touches each letter as she says, “J for Jace, L for Leo, D for Deke. I love that.” Her eyes move over my body one last time then finally lift to meet mine. “Okay. That’s all I got.”
I look down at my chest and tap right in the center, just over my sternum. “This one is a symbol of mindfulness. It reminds me that whatever I do, I do it with intention. And this one,” I say, turning and pointing to the one that wraps over the top of my right shoulder, “is a longevity knot. I got it when I decided not to drink anymore. Sort of a live long and prosper kind of thing.”
“Right. I did know about that one,” she says. She taps onthe treble clef on the right side of my heart. “And I guess this one is pretty obvious.”
“Look closer,” I say, and she leans in.
I catch the scent of her, and for the second time in less than twenty-four hours, I resist the urge to tug her against me, press her body flush against mine. All my thoughts about her working for me, about why thisisn’ta good idea, seem a lot less important when she’s close enough for me to breathe her in.
What is happening to me?
Better question. What am I supposed to do about it?
“Oh, there are hearts,” Ivy says. “All the swirly parts around the clef, they make hearts.”
“Because I don’t want to make music that doesn’t have heart.” Maybe I should have shown this tattoo to Sloane. It might have made her more forgiving about my lack of progress on the songs I can’t seem to write for the album I may never record.
Ivy presses her lips together, like she’s fighting a grin. “That one is kind of cheesy, Freddie.”
“You say to a man who started his career in aboyband.”
