“You also mentioned his blond hair and blue eyes.”
“You can stop talking now.”
Andrew laughs once more at my humiliation. “Anyway, since you’renotgoing back to Connor for inspiration,”—he forcefully emphasizes thenot—“what are you going to do to find some new inspiration?”
I shake my head. “If I knew where I could find inspiration, then this songwriter gig would be easy. But it’s not only a lack of inspiration. Maybe it’s sort of a lack of motivation too. Because I know if I keep doing the same thing I’ve been doing over and over again, then I’m just going to keep getting the same results.”
“And what would those results be?” he asks, then answers himself before I have the chance to. “Oh, right. Platinum records, sold-out arenas, and multiple Grammys.”
“Let’s not forget the endless media scrutiny and half of the internet making fun of me on a daily basis for how I supposedly can’t keep a man interested.”
Whoops.That came out angrier than I intended.
Andrew makes a sympathetic face. “People are always going to talk shit about celebrities. There’s no escaping that.”
“True. But I don’t have to keep feeding them the same material so they can keep making the same tired, tasteless jokes.”
“Try giving them something new, then.”
I consider that for a minute. I’m pretty sure it’s what the creative voice inside me has been pushing at my brain trying to tell me to do. But how?
It’s not like I can simply go to my label and say,Hey, I’m going to completely change my image and put out a new album that sounds nothing like my previous ones. That’s okay, right?Especially not now, after all the trouble I’m already in.
But my brother’s words stay with me for the rest of the night after he drops me back off at the inn. They stay with me when I take my guitar onto the porch, playing as quietly as I can while I watch the sunset.
And when Addison comes outside, silently setting a dish of peach cobbler on the table beside me, I still hear them. Only, as I look up at her to thank her, and she gives me a kind, gentle smile in return, the words in my head change a bit. They come in my own voice now, instead of Andrew’s.
Try something new.
Yeah, I really think I’d like to.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
ADDISON
“Weneedmorecherrytomato halves for the salads,” one of the servers calls out, after poking her head in the fridge and apparently coming up empty.
“Already on it,” Sam says as he dumps a carton of the tiny fruits onto a cutting board, using his other hand to corral them as they try to roll off the edge.
The lunch rush feels like it will never end today, but my kitchen staff is great, so everything has been running smoothly.
I drizzle a cream sauce as artfully as I can over a plate of fried pork chops before pushing the plate across the line and turning to dress the next one. We keep up our steady rhythm for another forty-five minutes until things finally slow down.
And, of course, once I get a blissful minute to breathe, Brenden comes barging through the kitchen doors demanding coffee. Or not exactly demanding. Begging, more like. But still.
“Calm down,” I tell him. “That pot’s fresh.”
He happily dashes over to the machine and pours himself a cup. With his caffeine addiction fed, I expect him to leave, but he doesn’t. He leans his back against the counter and crosses his arms over his chest whileholding his mug. The look he gives me suggests he’s about to say something that will annoy me, but after a few moments of staring, all he says is, “So?”
“So what?” I ask, grabbing a rag to wipe down the serving line.
“How was it having a visitor at your house?”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Fine.”
“Justfine?” he asks, pitching his voice a bit higher in a teasing tone.
“Mmhmm.”