Page 36 of The Wiener Across the Way

Oh yeah. He had a whole life that didn’t revolve around me. “Oh. Right. Of course.”

“Come to my game this week.” He ran a thumb across my bottom lip. “Thursday night.”

“Okay.” Everyone on my staff was going to murder me for taking a second evening off. Especially the night before the first show of the festival. But I couldn’t resist. I needed to see him again.

Because, umm, the press would go wild seeing me at his game. That’s why I needed to see him again. Not because I wanted to rip his clothes off and see exactly how big every single part of his body was.

He took a step back and shoved his hands into his pockets. I wanted to believe it was because he had to restrain himself from reaching for me again. “I’ll message you when I get home.”

“Call. I’ll be up.”

He dragged his eyes from where they were glued to my lips up to my eyes, and he shook his head like I was being a brat. “You need your rest, sweetheart.”

Like I was going to be able to sleep anytime soon. “Maybe you can tell me another story to help me get to sleep.”

Pooh whined again and Deck knelt down to pat her head. “Be a good girl, I’ll see you in a few days.”

When he stood back up, he stepped close and brushed a light kiss across my lips again. “I’ll talk to you in a few hours.”

And then he was gone, and I was a pile of goo.

I waved the key over the fancy lock and spent another good three or more minutes leaning against the back of the door hoping he changed his mind and would knock. He didn’t.

He wouldn’t. That was just dreaming on my part.

“Come on, Pooh. Let’s go drown our sorrows for having a crush on a hottie football player in some cheese.”

After I got her out for a potty and then settled in for the night in my bed, I grabbed my guitar. There were at least a dozen messages waiting for me to respond to from Skeeter and Penelope, but these days, if the muse was going to show up, I was going to ignore the world.

My creative inspiration had been a source of stress for a while. Where the ideas used to flow so easily, it seemed those days were over. I used to be able to just reach out into the universe like there was any number of tunes, lyrics, and ideas for songs, and all I had to do was just pluck one down.

Now I had to work for it, and while I always wanted to make the best art I could for my fans, I worried that I wasn’t giving them my all.

Or maybe I’d given them too much.

I grabbed my phone and scrolled through the recent notes I’d written. They were sappy and happy and different from anything else I’d come up with in months. I strummed a few chords and started playing with the song I’d tried out at the Rust Rocks concert the other night.

I’d meant it to be something a bit slower and ballad like, but with these new lyrics, maybe it was supposed to be lighter and poppier.

When my phone rang a few hours later, I hadn’t even realized how much time had passed. I set the guitar down, pleased that I had a good half a song on paper. But there was also a buzz of anxiety right behind my breastbone that that was all I had to show for songs on the next album. That studio date was approaching much faster than I liked, and I just wished I had made a whole hell of a lot more progress.

“Hey, you.” I tucked the phone next to my ear and curled my feet up under me on the couch. I was trying really hard to sound nonchalant. This was just a new friend letting me know he’d made it home after a long late-night drive. “Made it home all right?”

“Yep. You kept me awake the whole way.”

“I did?”

“You and ‘Book Boyfriend’, ‘Strength’, and ‘Cozy Kind of Love’, and a couple dozen or so more songs.”

He’d listened to my music on his drive? That made me smile in a silly, stupid, happy way. “I like that I kept you company on the way home. Sleep tight. I’ll see you on Thursday.”

I wanted to spend the whole night on the phone with him again, but I didn’t want to be the reason he didn’t do a respectable job of doing his footballing in the morning. I’d hate if he got smashed instead of doing the smashing because he was tired. “Goodnight.”

He hesitated for a moment before he said goodnight back and we hung up. I set the phone down on the couch next to me, stared at for a long time, picked it back up, ready to dial his number again, and then rubbed my eyes and checked the clock. Ooph. It was almost four o’clock in the morning.

Sleep was the last thing on my mind. A pang of guilt nudged me about the time I’d taken off today and the impending game on Thursday. I had to make sure no one could say my work at the festival this weekend was slipping because I’d starting seeing someone new.

Especially not the record company. I needed them on my side.

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