Blue Horizons (A Horizons Novel Book 1) (23 page)

PULLING AWAY FROM the curb and leaving her here at the airport is by far one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. My hands grip the steering wheel and I squeeze with as much force as possible. If I don’t, there’s a good possibility that I’ll pull over and go right back to her.

I hate those flashbacks. They cause me physical pain to see her so easily sucked right in. I also hate that I’m not given any warning signals to back off. I mean, what the hell? I have no idea when, where, or what happened to her to make her this way, but I swear, if I ever meet this guy, I will end him.

Glancing in the rearview mirror, she’s still standing there, and my heart swells at the thought she isn’t ready to say goodbye to me either.

It feels so strange to have a girl be interested in me, because of
me
, and not who I am out in the world. As far as I can tell, she has no idea that I’m Will Ashton, country superstar, and that makes me feel so good. I don’t really feel like I’m deceiving her—after all, I’m being me when I’m with her, so hopefully once she finds out, she won’t be angry with me.

Rounding the corner as I pull out of departures, she disappears. My heart crashes into my chest and panic settles in on it. I really hope she meant it when she said she would see me over the holidays. I’m not past going to her place in NYC to make that happen if I have to.

I’m in love with this girl.

One weekend—that’s all it took. Hell, one look was enough. I’m surprised, shocked, and elated all at the same time. In thirty years, I have never felt about a girl the way I feel about her. Damn, it was so hard not to lay every bit of it out there, but I have so many other things that need to come first.

Reaching into my console, I grab my phone and pull up her name.

Me: Is it too soon to text you yet?

I know I’m breaking some unspoken guy code by not waiting, but I just can’t.

Ava: Nope. Your timing is perfect.

Her response makes me smile and the pressure on my chest eases.

Me: Good. I forgot to tell you to have a nice flight.

Ava: Thank you, and it looks like I will. I just got my boarding pass and am looking at a very low seat number. So low, it says 2A.

Me: Nothing but the best for you.

And I mean that; I want to give her the world.

Ava: Ah, how sweet…

I can just see her face and hear her sarcastic tone. A smile stretches across my face. Damn, this girl makes me happy.

Me: Funny girl is back, and just so you know, I like her too.

Ava: I’m glad. Thanks again for the ticket.

Me: Anytime.

Ava: By the way, what’s your last name?

Oh no. I understand why she might want to know, and I do know hers, but if I tell her and she just by chance googles Ashton, there’s a good possibility photos of me will come up and I’m not ready for that yet.

Me: Nice try there, detective, but I’m not telling.

Ava: That’s not fair, you know mine.

Me: I do, and I promise I’ll tell you everything next time I see you.

Ava: Everything? Do you have a criminal record?

A loud laugh escapes me and echoes throughout the truck.

Me: Let me guess . . . Are you a reporter?

Ava: Nope. Actually despise them.

I wonder why?

Me: Me too.

She’s going to hate them even more once they catch wind of her. Anxiety washes through as it occurs to me that I might need to hire her a bodyguard. Some of these people from the media can get handsy. Just the thought makes me see red.

My phone chimes.

Ava: Aren’t you driving?

Me: Yes.

Ava: Then you can’t talk to me! Should you crash and die, I’ll be left hanging and never find out who you really are!

I laugh at her reasoning, but I’m certain if she really wanted to know, she’d figure it out. After all, Clay and Emma probably exchanged information.

Me: LOL. Fair point. Text me when you land?

I need to know when I’m going to talk to her again, and I need her to know that I want to.

Ava: Yes. :)

Me: Looking forward to it.

Walking into the house, I head straight for the living room and pull my grandfather’s guitar off the wall. I don’t know why I’m nervous to play it, but I am. It’s only been two months; it’s not like it’s been three years.

Sitting on the couch, Whiskey curls up and places his head on one foot. His eyes are droopy and he looks depressed, and I can’t help but think I know exactly how he feels.

The house seems bigger, emptier, and definitely quieter. That little dog of hers had nails that clicked on the floor everywhere she went.

Pulling the pick out from between the strings, I strum a G chord, a D chord, an E minor chord, and a C chord. My fingers are a little stiff, but getting back at it is just like riding a bike—you really never forget.

The harmonies of the chords echo through the room, and the familiarity it brings calms me. Why I let the weeks pass, I’ll never know. Playing the guitar was never something I just wanted to do; it was something I
needed
to do. It’s always connected me to myself and given me a release that I’ve not been able to find anywhere else.

Playing the chords again, I think about a Willie Nelson quote—“Three chords and the truth, that’s what a country song is.”

That’s what my songs used to be . . . true.

Ava’s right—we’ve lost our originality, and it’s time to get that back. Shifting my fingers, I play the intro to “Why Can’t the Future Be Now,” and lose myself in remembering what her voice sounded like singing my words.

Her voice.

I wonder if she’s ever considered singing professionally. She said she plays the piano and has perfect pitch—maybe she’s a songwriter too.

Thinking of her and some of the things she’s said, I pull my favorite composition book and a pencil out of the drawer of the coffee table and jot down some potential song lyrics. I should have known she’d be a muse as well. The thoughts and feelings I’ve had around her over the last four days, I could write a dozen songs about.

My phones buzzes next to me, and I see that it’s Juliet calling. I contemplate not picking up, but she did call me last night too and I never called her back. Dropping the pencil, I answer my phone.

“Hey, Jules.”

“Hi,” a little voice says back to me. It’s so good to hear his voice, instantly I smile.

“Hey, Bryce, how’s my little man?” I set the guitar down and walk over to the large windows along the back wall.

“Good. When are you coming home?” he asks.

I glance toward the sky and see some clouds moving in. Rain means the leaves will drop, and along with them, the temperature too. The fall season is officially winding down and snow is just around the corner.

“Tomorrow.” I had thought about tonight, but I’ll wait out the weather.

“Promise?”

“I promise.” Just the thought of seeing him so soon has me excited. I can’t wait to hug him.

“Okay.” I can hear the smile in his voice.

“Has Uncle Clay come by?” I sure hope he’s checked in on them.

“Yes, but mama wants to see you. We miss you.” I run my hand over my jaw and close my eyes.

“I miss you too, buddy. Tell your mom I’ll be there for dinner.”

“Okay,” he says softly. Gotta love little kids on the phone.

“I love you, Bryce.”

“Love you too.” My heart gets bigger every time I hear this from him.

“Later, cowboy.”

He giggles at my nickname for him. “Later,” and he hangs up.

Placing the guitar on the couch, I walk back to the room Ava slept in. Opening the door, strawberries float my way and I breathe in the smell of her. She’s made the bed, and her towels are lying on the end of it. Looking around the room, she’s left nothing behind, and a pang of sadness hits me; I don’t even have a picture.

Lying down in the middle of her bed, I glance at the clock. Two more hours until she lands. Two more hours until she texts me. Twenty-four more hours for me to figure out how to implement what happens next in my life.

IT’S BEEN A little over four weeks since I’ve seen Ash, and not a day goes by that we don’t talk.

I still don’t know what his last name is, and honestly, I don’t care. I asked him that one time, and never again. I don’t think he’s hiding anything crazy—he seems pretty genuine, and he’s always told me he’d tell me the next time he saw me.

Part of me wonders if it has to do with money. He’s only thirty and his house at the lake must have cost a fortune. People with money tend to not want other people to know just how much. If I knew his last name, I’d be able to search for him on the internet, and that might give it away.

The girls asked me about him right when I got back from North Carolina, but I left my answers pretty vague, and in return, they left me alone. Once, we talked about this gig tonight and the possibility of us trying to meet up with Ash and Clay, but Emma hesitated, so I dropped the subject.

Every day he sends me a text good morning, every afternoon he sends me a photo of whatever he’s looking at, and every evening we talk before going to bed.

It’s the day after Thanksgiving, and the girls and I are in Nashville. Word of our arrival for the benefit tonight has created a bit of a buzz, and sure enough, in front of the hotel, paparazzi have staked out.

Closing the door to the limo, people start tapping on the window, trying to get our attention.

“Seriously! Who says, ‘When I grow up, I want stand around and take bad photos of good people’?” Emma growls.

It’s the one part of this job that I hate the most.

“It’s not that bad, just ignore them,” says Scott, the intern tagging along with Mona. Emma, Cora, Mona, and myself all turn to glare at him.

“Who said he could speak?” Cora asks, pinning Mona with a get-rid-of-this-guy look.