Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 91146 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91146 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Laken couldn’t look more shocked if I had told him we were related. “Is he a fucking idiot?” He doesn’t give me a chance to reply. “He must be because there are several hits in that one teeny-tiny little book.”
“Will you show me which ones you think have potential?” My question leaves my mouth before I can comprehend that I’m taking the word of a man I only met a week ago over a producer who’s been in the industry for decades.
After jerking up his chin, Laken places the hairdryer onto the bedside table before filling its void with my beloved songbook. Only days ago, I would have ripped it from his grasp. Now, it seems as if it couldn’t be in safer hands.
“This one is good, but there’s something off with the lyrics. They feel moodier and more morose than the newer ones.”
When I peer down at the song he’s referencing, I gulp. “I wrote that when I was angry.”
It was the first lot of lyrics I penned after believing he had violated the last gift my sister had given me. “What about this one?”
You can act interested, but your heart can’t lie,
She’ll never capture your attention like
the woman who first caught your eye,
She’s a prop, a gimmick, not your one true love.
She won’t be the one you pick
when it comes push comes to shove.
As Laken continues reading the lyrics I wrote while jealous about the attention Bella was bestowing him, I watch his face for any clues.
He gives nothing away. Not a single hint.
He keeps his thoughts locked up tighter than a vault until his eyes lock with mine.
The pride in them gives him away.
“This is good, Nicole. Real good.”
I wait for a “but.”
It regretfully shows up only seconds later. “But…” I could kill him for the delay. “Aren’t you writing this from the wrong perspective?” When I peer up at him, confused, he works to ease it. “If your creativity comes from your life…”—he flicks through my songbook—“which this screams is the case, why is she jealous? Why aren’t you writing about how he feels watching her with him? And how it tears him to shreds knowing he can’t have her like that. You make it seem as if the jealousy is one-sided and only coming from her.” His eyes pop before he throws open my bedside table drawer and rummages through the limited items inside.
“What are you looking for?” I ask when his frustrated groan rumbles through both our chests.
“A pen and a piece of paper,” Laken replies, still hunting.
Shockingly, I snatch my songbook and favorite pen before thrusting them into his chest.
You’d swear I’d given him the key to my heart when he asks, “Are you sure?”
The fact he seeks permission weakens my hesitation in an instant.
When I nod, his grin stops my heart before he plops his backside onto the bed beside me. “This could be a perfect duet.”
After mouthing the lyrics I penned for the start of the song, he commences jotting down his own set.
I act disinterested because it
is the only way I can survive…
Watching you with him kills me,
I’m not gonna lie…
The smiles you once gave me
made me believe I was alive…
Now I’m struggling to find a way to thrive…
I don’t want you to be a prop,
a gimmick, or the one who got away…
I want you to be the only woman
I love each and every day.
“Don’t touch it!” I shout when Laken almost scraps the entire thing at the end of the final line. “This is the beginning. We move up from here.”
After flicking through his verse and mine, I make a handful of adjustments before seeking Laken’s opinion.
My heart refuses to beat while I wait for his approval. And when I get it, it is like all my Christmases have come at once.
I squeal like I’m years younger than I am before I flick to the next song in my songbook.
“Now work your magic on this one.”
By the time River announces he’s not waiting a second longer to eat, my bed is covered with composed song sheets, and my heart is the fullest it’s ever been.
Although I never imagined it occurring in a hotel room thousands of miles from my hometown, this is what I envisioned when I conjured up what producing an album would entail.
It should have never been “that isn’t right” or “that’s not the vision we’re going for.” It was meant to be an inspiring time that encouraged both creativity and originality.
Laken gave me that.
He gave me back my voice.
“In a minute, River,” Laken murmurs, his focus fixed on a song we’ve been working on for the past hour. “Let me finish this one first.”
“You said that three hours ago.” River stomps his foot. “I’m hungry now.”
“I won’t be a—” I curl my hand over Laken’s and squeeze it, stopping him mid-denial.