The Ex Factor - Erin McCarthy Page 0,48
sure what that would accomplish.
“Ginny is not the boss of me.”
Nobody was the boss of him, which was kind of his problem in general. But she couldn’t say much. She had her own set of control issues and she knew he was joking.
“Don’t tease. Just explain why you think we should go back.”
“Change of scenery. Go back to where we were successful in writing together.”
Her anxiety kicked up another notch. He made it sound so… dire. “Maybe we should revisit some of the pivotal places that influenced our relationship to spark some emotion.”
“Like the record label’s jet?” he asked, giving her a wink.
Oh, Lord. Jolene laughed, her cheeks heating. She’d forgotten about that particular rendezvous. “No! I meant like your old house in East Nashville and my pool. The studio. The Blue Bird. The diner.” Anything would be better than sitting around feeling frustrated. “I’m not going to lie, I’m suddenly panicking. What if we’re dead, Chance? What if the music has died?”
Bad enough to go down in flames because she and Chance had been too stubborn to collaborate, but it would be much worse to have her career end simply because they had run out of ideas. She was twenty-five years old. How in the hell could she be out of ideas? It was downright terrifying.
So much for being rational. But this was just the culmination of low-grade worry over her career she’d been experiencing ever since she and Chance had broken up.
“That is the most melodramatic thing I’ve heard in a good long while. Calm down, darlin’ we’re just worn out from knocking boots. We probably need a good night’s sleep.”
Jolene glanced at her phone. “It’s only eight o’clock. This is the longest day ever.”
“But not a bad one.”
Chance looked slightly vulnerable in a way that made Jolene made to squeeze him in a hug. She gave him a reassuring smile. “Definitely not a bad one. But I think we should jump in the car and go out, do something. We’re spinning our wheels here. You’re right, we need a change of scenery and there is no way I can sleep worrying.”
He nodded. “Sounds like a plan. We taking the dog or leaving her here to destroy the rental cottage?”
“She can come with us.” Dolly did have a mischievous side to her. They probably shouldn’t leave her alone too long without supervision. “Let me grab a sweater and my purse.”
Chance stood up and stretched. “Are we going back to Nashville? If we are, can I stop at the diner and grab a snack.”
“You’re hungry again?” She was having a career crisis. She was on the verge of being done for and all he could think about was food?
“I’m always hungry.”
It was so unfair. He could eat nonstop and never gain weight. “Fine, we can stop. But I don’t think I’ll be able to eat until we have some sort of breakthrough and get a second song rolling.”
“You never were a late-night snacker.”
Then, to her surprise, he leaned over and kissed her forehead. “It’s going to be just fine, doll. I promise.”
She immediately felt the tension in her shoulders relax. “Thanks,” she said slowly.
She wasn’t sure how it had happened, but it felt like they had achieved a new level in their communication skills. It was reassuring. Easy.
Yet it seemed to have come at the expense of their ability to create music together. But he was right. They shouldn’t panic just yet.
“You ready?” he asked. “I’ll grab Dolly’s leash.”
“Give me a minute.”
The look he gave her meant he was well aware one minute meant more like thirty. “Hell. You’re going to paint your face, aren’t you?”
“I have to, since you twisted my arm and we’re driving all the way back to Nashville.” Jolene cupped his cheeks and gave him a soft kiss. “Entertain yourself for five minutes. Eat a snack.”
“I’m not seven. I can’t be placated with crackers from your purse. I have needs, JoJo.”
That made her laugh. “When have you ever turned down a snack?”
“That’s beside the point.”
She rolled her eyes and went to make herself presentable. They were going out in public. She needed her war paint on. She didn’t mind, for the most part. She’d always loved playing with makeup. She could still feel the sting of her backside when her mama had caught her liberally smearing her Avon lipstick onto her pouty five-year-old mouth. At the time she hadn’t realized that the purchase of that lipstick tube had cost her mother a black eye when