Page 32 of One More Made Up Love Song
He turns and takes a few steps toward his bedroom on the other side of the suite. I’d rather have the place all to myself, but it’s incidents like the one that happened tonight that make it easier to have someone inside the suite with me.
“What about Flint Hawthorne?” I call after him. “Is it true what they say about him only drinking water bottled in North Carolina?”
Wayne turns around. “Aren’t you friends with Flint Hawthorne? Ask him yourself.”
I grin. “Just testing your secret network.”
“Go to bed, Freddie.”
Ten minutes later, I climb into my bed and reach for my phone one last time before turning off the light. I key out a quick message to Ivy and hit send.
Freddie
Honestly, I’d be lucky to wind up with someone like you. And not just because you don’t care about my fame.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Ivy
The thing is,Freddie’s text really could have just been friendly. Spoken out of friendship. Something he would say toanyassistant he cares about and admires.
Which, those things have never been in question. I know Freddie cares about me. I know he admires me. I’d even go so far as to say he legitimately thinks I’m amazing.
As his assistant.
But that text. There was a thread of…I don’t know.Somethingthat felt like more.
I would be lucky to wind up with someone like you.
I don’t want to believe it means something. But I still haven’t been able to get it out of my head. For the past week, show after show, it’s been hovering around the edges of my brain, coloring every single interaction I have with Freddie.
It’s gotten so bad that I’ve started to avoid him just to keep myself from dissecting his every move.
Did that touch mean something? Were his wordscharged with just a little something extra? Did he glance backstage before singing that one particular love song because he was thinking of me while he sang it?
It’s bad.
So bad.
I need our approaching vacation more than anyone, if only so I can spend a few daysawayfrom Freddie and break this new, very annoying habit.
Three more shows.
Then we’ll be back in Nashville.
In Seattle, fifteen minutes before he’s scheduled to go on, he tugs me into his dressing room and closes the door behind us. His movements are so quick, so completely unexpected, that I’m breathless when I lean against the door, Freddie hovering over me with light dancing in his green eyes.
Maybe it’s my aforementioned newly discovered propensity to read intoeverythingFreddie does, but for a split second, I could swear he looks like he wants to kiss me.
“Hey,” he says, his voice low and smooth.
I curl my hands into fists, fighting the urge to tilt my chin up and angle my lips toward his, to lean just a little bit closer.
“Hi,” I say instead, my voice a little too breathy. “What’s up?”
“Have you been avoiding me?” He presses one hand against the door behind me and leans forward, piercing me with his gaze.
I choke out a nervous laugh. “What? Of course not.”
