The Ex Factor - Erin McCarthy Page 0,59

like a weed. She was also young. And hot. And did Jolene mention she was hot? Tennyson was tall, thin, a brunette. No hips. Dramatic features. Basically, everything Jolene herself was not. Tennyson would be the last woman in the world she would want spending time with her and Chance. She also didn’t think that Chance would be too pumped at the idea of having a professional songwriter interfering in their process.

“I don’t think this is a smart idea,” she said, unnerved. Chance was finally softening up around the edges, and having his songwriting skills called in to question was bound to make him tense up. Besides, she didn’t want Sexy Songwriter butting in on their newly formed second-time-around relationship.

“I’m not trying to bust up your little love session,” Ginny said, her voice softer. “Even if I think it is truly insane, which I do. But my job is to make sure that reality is a priority, and you’re not burying your head in a fantasy world.”

So Ginny thought their relationship was a fantasy. Jolene supposed she couldn’t blame her. She and Chance did do better when it was nothing but the two of them, tucked away from the world. When they had tried to live their lives day to day, that’s when they had gotten in to trouble.

But that had nothing to do with their ability to write a record.

“It’s only been three days,” Chance said.

“It’s been four actually, but who’s counting? Oh, me.” Ginny glanced at her phone. “She’s here. Just give it a shot. You might be surprised. It could force you to be more efficient with your time.”

“Hello.” There was a knock on Chance’s gate. “Can I come in?”

“We’re back here,” Ginny yelled out.

Great. Jolene was not wearing a bra or pants or makeup. Hell, she hadn’t even been friendly with a hairbrush in two days. Now here was Tennyson, strolling through the gate with a smile on her beautiful face, looking like she fell off a plane from New York City with her shiny straight hair, her skinny jeans, and big chunky sunglasses. She had biceps to rival Madonna and a waist smaller than the average toddler. Jolene had never felt frumpier.

“Oh, sorry! Is this a bad time?” Tennyson looked taken aback by her appearance.

“You just caught us at breakfast,” Chance said, plastering a smile on his face and ambling toward her.

What the hell was that? Where was his signature scowl, the one he wore when he was annoyed about something? They shook hands.

Jolene tugged at the bottom of her T-shirt and wished like hell she had pulled on a sundress that morning. “Uh, hi,” she said. “Nice to meet you.” She gave Tennyson a wave that felt ridiculous. She was sure it looked ridiculous too. “Excuse me for a minute.”

For some reason she expected Chance to follow her so they could bitch and commiserate together in private while he pulled on a shirt and she dressed in the same clothes she’d been wearing for days. It had seemed romantic yesterday to be cut off from the world and clean laundry. Today it was just embarrassing. But Chance didn’t follow her, which only served to fluster her further.

Torn between wanting to shower and wanting to see what was going down outside, Jolene opted for a quick five minutes in-and-out. She needed her head in the game, and not one that was unwashed and unkempt.

Chance was spitting mad at Ginny. He wanted to rant and rave and throw things, like maybe his lawn chairs. He wanted to list all his credentials for her and ask her what her real agenda was because it did not make sense that she was flipping her wig this badly after just a few days.

But first he figured since none of this nonsense was Tennyson Mitchell’s fault, he needed to get rid of her. Then he’d be free to tear Ginny apart in private. Jolene had taken off, which was probably a good thing since she wasn’t wearing pants. With a little luck, he could get rid of this woman who he viewed as competition before Jolene returned. Yet even knowing the situation was not Tennyson’s fault, he was so annoyed he suspected his smile looked downright evil.

“I think there has been a bit of a misunderstanding,” he said, fighting to keep his voice calm. “Tennyson, I respect your work. Hell, I’ve been jealous of a song or two. But I write solo or I write with Jolene. Period.”

Tennyson held her