“Seriously? Malcolm Holt? Swoon-worthy romantic leading man? Comic book hero? I honestly have never seen another man look that good in a spandex costume.”
“I’ll be sure to tell him that. I think his ego might explode when he hears it.” Malcolm was one of the hottest actors in Hollywood right now. His curly dark hair, bright blue eyes, and dimples made him a compelling mix of charming, adorable, and drop-dead sexy. Most women didn’t stand a chance in his presence.
While she loved Malcolm, Ivy was immune to his charms. She was one of the few people who knew he was gay. And while she was excited to see him again, she was more excited to see how her partner in crime reacted to the small-town southern life.
“Wait,” Pepper said. “I thought you two dated a while back?”
“We did.” At least, that’s what the press reported. The truth was that they were just good friends. He was her best friend, really. When he needed a high-profile relationship for a big movie, Ivy was happy to be seen out and about with him. And, because he made her promise, when they “broke up” she wrote a song about him. It would be suspicious if she didn’t. That song was one of the few in her repertoire that was more about
regret and her throwing away the relationship than it was about her boyfriend being a jerk. She just couldn’t write a song about Malcolm being a jerk.
“But you don’t hate him and he doesn’t hate you?”
“No, we stayed friends. He’s the only one I stayed friends with over the years.”
“Darn,” Pepper cursed. “I was hoping the lead singer of Mayhem might drop into town, too.”
At that, Ivy snorted into the phone. “If he did, Doc Owen’s clinic would be hopping and there’d be a run on antibiotics.” Fortunately, Ivy had a strict zero-tolerance policy of safe sex that served her well and had kept her from picking up more than a few song lyrics from him.
“Aww. Why do you always have to ruin it for me?”
“I’m sorry, Pepper. I thought you would’ve figured that out from the songs. Let me just say it’s safe to cross off almost all my exes from your fantasy list, okay? That includes Malcolm. None of them are worth the adoration of a good, strong woman like you.”
“Then why do you date them, Ivy?”
That question stopped Ivy in her tracks, halfway between the bread aisle and the checkout stands. She couldn’t tell anyone, not even Pepper, why she really had such bad taste in men. If her fans learned the truth, she could potentially lose the ones she had left. They wouldn’t understand; they’d feel manipulated. “I don’t know. I guess I just like them bad and emotionally unavailable. Don’t ask me why.”
“You need some therapy.”
“Don’t hold back, girl.” Ivy chuckled nervously into the phone. “Listen, I’m about to check out, so I’ll let you go. If Malcolm books a flight, you’ll be the first one to know.”
Pepper said her good-byes and Ivy hung up. Lord, Pepper was a perceptive one. It was probably her work. Being a hairstylist was right up there with bartending when it came to pseudopsychology. For the price of a cut and color, you could get some peace of mind and look great.
But she didn’t need Pepper digging around in her love life. That was a dark quagmire that no one should tread into. On that note, she put a five-dollar bottle of wine in her cart. Malcolm would be horrified, but some days a five-dollar bottle of wine was just the ticket.
By the time Ivy returned to the cabin, she was feeling less restless. The trip had done her some good, clearing her mind and getting her in a better mood. She put her groceries away and opted to do a little work. Her brain worked best in the evening. She poured a glass of blackberry merlot, grabbed her notebook, and headed back out onto her screened porch.
Ivy tried to end every night with a few quiet moments with her notebook. She wrote her songs in this notebook, but really, it was more like a diary for her. Around the time she was twelve or so, she’d found that her diary was filled more with poetic interpretations of her daily angst than just the usual journal entries. The poems eventually evolved into lyrics.
Ninety percent of what she wrote was just for her. Not every song was a single, and not every song was intended for anyone’s ears but her own. Lyrics were her way of processing her thoughts and feelings.
And tonight, she was feeling a little nostalgic for her hometown. She’d come home to find a chicken casserole and an orange gelatin salad on her porch from Miss Francine. A small plate with a scoop of each was sitting beside her on the table. It would make the perfect late dinner after filling up at tea. She’d have to remember to get the thank-you note in the mail first thing tomorrow.
Not once in all the years she’d lived in California or Manhattan had she ever received a gift from a neighbor. Not even a plate of cookies at Christmas, much less food for no reason. People didn’t even bring food after funerals when they paid their respects to the family. Ivy hadn’t been to a single funeral in Rosewood where she didn’t have to haul in a platter of fried chicken for her mama. How exactly did people grieve their loss while they were starving?
There was something happy and familiar about being home again. She loved her beach house with the ocean views and the warm breezes. She enjoyed her Manhattan apartment overlooking Central Park. But being home was different. Comfortable. She hadn’t expected that. Given the way she’d left, she was certain the people here would be cold to her. Who knows, maybe they were smiling to her face and talking about her behind her back. As long as she didn’t know about it, she’d live in contented, ignorant bliss.
As she looked down at the blank sheet of paper, words started to flow. It was a nostalgic song; one about home and the comfort of the family and friends she missed. When she was done, Ivy read over it again and smiled. It was the first song she’d written in a long time that wasn’t about a relationship. She liked this song. Kevin wouldn’t understand it. He’d asked her to write something different, but this wasn’t it. He would think she’d lost her mind. This one was just for her.
It was after midnight when she finally put the pen down. She needed to get to bed. She’d promised her dad she would come by the high school in the morning to talk to his band students.
Setting her notebook aside, she headed into the bedroom humming the song.
Chapter 8
Blake was distracted and tired. He hadn’t slept well the last few days and his thoughts kept drifting unproductively. The common theme of his troubles: Ivy. His mind repeatedly went over their encounters, replaying them again and again. What he’d said. What he should’ve said. How badly he’d wanted to touch her. It was like a mosquito bite that he knew he should leave alone, yet he constantly had the urge to scratch it, making things worse.
It wasn’t until one of his freshman PE students called his name that he realized he was zoning out in the middle of second period. Apparently they were finished with warm-up exercises and had been standing there quite a while waiting for his instructions on what to do next.