The Ex Factor - Erin McCarthy Page 0,11

a promo spot. He had been sweet and tender and romantic and he’d made her feel alive, from head to toe. They’d been booked for separate rooms because their budding interest in each other was a secret they hadn’t been keeping all that well, but still naively believed they were, so they’d kept up the front. But Chance had never even opened the door to his suite. He’d spent two days holed up with her while they had explored every inch of each other.

Her cheeks heated at the memory. “Start what?” Her expression must have given her thoughts away because Chance laughed.

“Writing, I mean,” he said with a grin.

Right. The album. “I want to put the groceries up. But I’m ready whenever you are. Maybe we can go for a walk.”

“Sounds like a plan. Then later we should make a run for supplies. I need some whiskey. I can build us a fire outside tonight if you want.”

“That sounds good.” A fire. Whiskey. The stars. Chance. Yep. There was zero possibility that her panties would stay on. “Any ideas on what we should be writing about? What story do we want to tell?”

Chance’s expression changed from amused to serious. He slowly reached up and played with the ends of her hair. Jolene’s breath caught and her heart suddenly ached.

“I think the story we need to tell is about lost chances. About endings. Moving on.” His voice was low.

Her Lost Chance. She swallowed hard and closed her eyes briefly. That was perfect. Absolutely and utterly painful, but perfect. This was emotion she could convey. “I think you’re on to something. We can move from anger and hurt to distance, separation. Acceptance. Finding peace.”

Not that she had reached that point yet, but she was hoping she would eventually. Some day. The fact that he had gotten there already made her feel, well, sad.

He nodded. “That gives me a fine base to work with.”

Work with. Their relationship was going to be fodder for an album. The thought made her heart clench. She knew it was smart from a business standpoint. Their fans were going to love to hear their story. But this was dangerous territory. It was one thing for them to write separately about what had happened to them, it was another thing altogether to be doing it collaboratively. She didn’t know about Chance, but bravado about agreements and naked songwriting aside, she was fairly certain she was too raw to be detached or objective about this particular subject.

But that was what made a good song--not being removed at all, but knee deep in emotion.

Pensive and a little melancholy, Jolene went into the kitchen and started removing groceries from the bags. Comfort food was her defense mechanism, but as much as she hated to admit it, the reality was that she needed to back off the mac and cheese. It was either that or hit the gym for an hour a day, and that was even less appealing. So she had packed veggies and fruit and Greek yogurt. Almonds. All the things that were good for her but never ever satisfied her.

Now she was really depressed.

“You ready for that walk?” Chance asked, after moving her suitcase and his duffle bag into the bedroom. He had his guitar in his hand.

That guitar was one she’d bought him. This was one she’d picked up on impulse, when she’d been doing a retro photo shoot in Austin. It had been a prop that she’d decided to purchase and gift him just for fun. The one he’d tossed in her pool had been a very collectable 1959 Gibson that had set him back a pretty penny. This one was nothing special, modern, but she’d liked the color. It was a black that bled to red and for some reason it had reminded her of him. Maybe because unlike the typical country picker, he lived in black and gray. He’d always told her his idea of adding a pop of color was walking next to her. And he’d always seemed to prefer this guitar to the other one, which was typical Chance. Unpredictable. Sentimental, whether he’d admit it or not.

Damn it. She needed to stop thinking about his better qualities and focus on his annoying ones, of which there were plenty.

“Sure,” she said, striving for breezy as she threw some bottled water and her notebook into a bag. She had expected to feel anger on this trip, and irritation. Not melancholy. She would have welcomed the anger