Page 23 of Until the End

“You’ve got a great start, Ginny. Give me a call when those other songs are ready. We’ll get something worked out.”

“What are the chances I could convince you to come here to record?”

He narrows his eyes. “Pretty minimal.”

“I’ll come up with the right incentive. Then you won’t be able to say no.”

Henry chuckles. “Good luck with that.”

We say goodbye, and I keep tweaking parts of the songs I’ve already written. A couple of them are close to being perfect, but they’re not quite there yet. I haven’t heard that note in my head when it finally hits the mark.

By the time I surface, it’s late afternoon, and my shoulders are aching from being hunched over my piano and notebook. I walk straight to my back patio, stretching my neck back and forth to relieve the pressure. Fresh air is always needed when I’ve spent an entire day in the studio. It brings life back into my brain and body.

The glint of the pool catches my eye, and a terrible idea comes to mind.

I haven’t been able to stop thinking about what Gia and Lottie told me the other day.

Could Carson really have feelings for me? I mean…he’s my best friend. I have no doubt he loves me, but is it possible he could love me as more than a friend? And how do I feel about that?

The idea sends a bolt of warmth into my belly. I firmly believe that any woman lucky enough to be loved by Carson would never want for anything her entire life. When Carson goes all in on something, he doesn’t do it halfway. There are no shortcuts when he’s interested.

I always wondered if that’s why he never settled down with anyone. Giving your entire soul to someone isn’t something you can easily take back once it’s done. He’d need to be selective—careful—about who he makes his entire world.

You’ll never be good enough.

The voice in my head cuts deep to the heart of my worry. How could I ever be the woman worthy of Carson? I don’t have anything to offer him because he’s not a material guy. My fame and fortune mean nothing to him. He’d only want me…and I don’t know if I’m enough.

No.

That’s not true. Iamenough. I am not just the music I write or the money I make. There’s more to me than how famous I am. I refuse to allow the vitriol Wesley used to sling at me to become my narrative.

“You’re stronger than him,” I say out loud.

With renewed confidence, I march upstairs to my bedroom. Chelsea ordered clothes for me when Daren said I couldn’t get my stuff out of my house yet. After the police went through it, Daren wanted his team to examine the scene before they cleaned up. He hasn’t told me what they’ve found yet, and I’m trying hard not to think about it.

I dig through a drawer in my closet. Half the swimsuits in here won’t even cover my ass, not to mention they’re held together by strings as thin as floss.

But maybe that’s the goal…

Am I seriously contemplating wearing a sexy bikini to test Carson’s feelings?

Would it even work?

I grab the red swimsuit that keeps catching my eye and put it on. My reflection in the full-length mirror on the wall has me biting my lip. I barely recognize myself in this. Reserved is a nice way to describe my typical clothing choices. Chelsea must’ve thought she was being sneaky buying this stuff. If it works, I may have to send her a thank-you card.

Snagging a black cover-up from the hanger, I put it on before going back outside. The sunshine has warmed the concrete under my feet, and I pause by the side of the pool to soak it in. Summer has always been my favorite time of year. Even when it’s a million degrees outside, I bask in the warmth.

Okay, what do I do next? I could get in the pool and send him a picture from a floaty or lie on one of my loungers. This swimsuit is doing great things for my average boobs. I don’tthink I’m ready to send him an image of my half-covered booty cheeks yet…

Oh, god…what am I even thinking?

This is such a bad idea.

I grab a green floaty from the storage space and wade into the warm water. If I can make it look like I’m actually in the middle of doing something instead of trying to get his attention, then I can play it off a whole lot easier if he doesn’t return my feelings.

My first attempt to get in the floaty ends with me going under the water. I come up, wiping water out of my eyes and giggling at myself. For some reason, it helps me relax into the moment. This is a silly fact-finding mission. It doesn’t have to mean anything more than that.

Once I get into the plastic floating chair, I snatch my phone from the side of the pool. I allow myself three tries to get a pic I like and send it before I can think about it.

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