The Ex Factor - Erin McCarthy Page 0,6

the holdover from her early days in Nashville, Dean the Dick. Take what you wanted from that nickname. Both definitions applied.

“You should pack lingerie, just in case.”

Jolene gave her sister a long look. “And what happened to, you shouldn’t be sleeping with Chance?”

“Honey, it’s inevitable. Might as well look good doing it.”

Jolene was pretty sure it was inevitable too. She might put up a good fight for oh, five minutes, but in tight quarters all alone with Chance and no contact with the outside world? One word from him, and she would be on board. It was embarrassing to be that simple. She had to resist. She had to fight her urges. This wasn’t about knocking boots, it was about the future. Their careers.

“I’m not going to sleep with him.”

But she put her sexiest bra and panty set in the suitcase anyway. The one Chance had jokingly said brought out the red in her eyes because she was as persuasive as the devil when she wore it. She clicked the case shut. “Come on, Dolly, let’s go see Daddy.”

She sure hoped she knew what the hell she was doing.

And that the cabin was lacking in things for them to throw at each other if it all went south.

Glancing out his living room window, Chance saw Jolene pulling into his drive, laying on the horn as she bounced in the seat of her truck. Damn, this was going to be a challenge. Him, Jolene, a secluded cabin, and the condoms he’d packed in his duffel bag, just in case things got frisky.

Which would be stupid, but when had he ever been all that smart? Chance was willing to admit he had trouble getting the hell out of his own way. He knew he did. He didn’t want to be that guy, but it was a defense mechanism honed from years of being surrounded by successful family members and his parents’ friends. He’d been the only child of Buck Rivers, legendary songwriter with more country hits than anyone else in the eighties, and growing up, the house had been filled with talent all the time. There had been jam sessions, and songwriting bursts, and good old fashioned parties where Chance’s role was to come into the room, show his father’s friends how talented Buck’s progeny was, then make himself scarce.

It had created both a strong sense of entitlement and a need to prove himself. He knew he was also stubborn, and chained to ideas that didn’t always make sense. He tried to work through his own stuff, but sometimes he dug in and it was only after his boot heels were eight inches deep, he realized what he was doing.

Now his anger was another issue altogether. That he was trying to keep in check. Because he didn’t like to be that guy. The one who tossed guitars in pools and stole award plaques. Who got drunk and slept with women because it was the only thing preventing him from slugging his buddies after they gave him crap for losing Jolene. He hadn’t lost Jolene. He had stomped away.

After she’d broken things off with him, citing his anger as a major issue.

Not to mention that to this day he still didn’t understand why she was pissed about him hugging some woman. She hugged men. Everyone hugged fans and co-workers. It was impolite to not hug someone who held her arms open. It shouldn’t have been the big deal Jolene made it out to be, like he was cheating on her. He would never cheat. He’d seen what it could do to a marriage.

All of which was a hell of a lot of baggage to be dragging on this bullshit songwriting expedition. Otherwise known as Ginny Wants Her Paycheck.

Jolene honked in his driveway a second time. He knew she was in his driveway, he just wasn’t sure he could do this without losing his shit twelve ways to Sunday. They were already starting off on the wrong foot because she was driving. He hated being driven around by her. It made him feel like her boy toy. Though when he had suggested that she’d laughed hysterically and told him a boy toy would be a hell of a lot more compliant.

He grabbed his duffel bag and his guitar, went out the door of his condo, and locked it behind him. Swallowing his frustration, he strode to the truck and yanked open the passenger door. He deposited his guitar in the back seat. He wasn’t