Say You're Mine - Layla Hagen Page 0,13

room. Even though we had a much larger one at the cottage, I’d wanted one in my penthouse too. I got ideas for new songs at the weirdest hours, and having a room dedicated to my creative endeavors put me in the right mood. I mostly wrote songs at home, but I’d had the room padded anyway for the rare occasion when I’d want to play the piano too.

I sat on the cushioned chair with the notebook propped against it. Music had always been in my blood. My mom liked to think she was the reason for it since she encouraged me constantly during my childhood. Even now, we bonded over it, even though said bonding always came with a dash of teasing.

“Young man, when are your lyrics going to be friendly to a mother’s ears?”

It always made me chuckle, because the answer was “Never.” Our songs were raw and unfiltered, and that meant including dirty words when the song required it. I’d gotten a lot of flak for that from the record company, but I wasn’t budging. Art was art, and I refused to change it to save the radio DJs headaches.

I scribbled a few random words on the blank sheet. I always started like this, and then gradually I’d see the connection between them and deduce the theme of the song.

I’d been asked more than once where I came up with the ideas, and my answer hadn’t changed in years: I didn’t. The songs revealed themselves to me.

I’d always known I wanted to create music, just as Isabelle had always known she wanted to be a counselor. The feisty redhead immediately hijacked my thoughts. She was so refreshingly different that I couldn’t help wanting to know more about her. At that bowling session, I could barely keep my hands off her, especially because she was so damn responsive to me. There was a draw between us, a connection I’d never encountered before, and I wanted to explore that. I’d wanted to capture that sassy mouth and explore her until she went weak in the knees.

I was used to attention from women. It came with the job description, and truth be told, it was all superficial and got old fast. But what was going on with Isabelle was different, as if she saw me—Brayden Clarke the man, not the lead singer of GreenFire. It felt real.

I spent half the night in my rehearsal room, resulting in complete exhaustion the next morning, but it didn’t matter. I had the beginning of a hell of a good song, all thanks to Isabelle.

It was a Friday, which meant I needed to call my parents. We always chatted Friday mornings, unless I’d been performing the night before. They owned wheat fields back home in Oregon, and their lives hadn’t changed since I was a kid. It revolved around the cycle of nature, and they were busiest during crop time. It was comforting to know that some things remained the same.

I poured myself a bowl of cereal and called with FaceTime, as they always wanted to see me too.

“Son, can you hear us?” Dad practically yelled. I kept them up with the latest in phone technology, but they never got the hang of it all.

“We can see you,” Mom exclaimed equally loud. They always spoke like this, as if thinking the farther away I was, the louder they had to be.

“I can see you and hear you,” I assured them.

We chatted for about ten minutes before they informed me that they had plans.

“We’re going to the pumpkin festival at The Barn,” Dad said.

That place had been the hotspot of my childhood. Everything in our small town happened at The Barn. I hadn’t been home in years. Isabelle’s question popped up in my mind unexpectedly.

“Does it feel strange, living in this bubble?”

It didn’t bother me, but sometimes you got used to bars and didn’t want to see them anymore.

Having a security detail had always been a necessary precaution, because we’d had our fair share of unpleasant situations when we rose to fame. I’d had fans break into my hotel room, and into my previous apartment. They stalked me even during a visit back home. More than once they got past my bodyguards and, in their desperation to reach me, ripped off my shirt. The saying “They want a piece of us” was brutally literal sometimes.

For years, I’d been content to have every move planned beforehand, have the coast cleared. I’d always told myself it came