“Did I ask you?” Ginny snapped.
Suddenly the name burst through Jolene’s sex-and love-soaked brain and hit her like a two-by-four. Tennyson Mitchell was the new It Girl songwriter everyone wanted to work with. Her list of hits was growing like a weed. She was also young. And hot. And did Jolene mention she was hot? Tennyson was tall, thin, a brunette. No hips. Exotic features. Basically, everything Jolene was not. Tennyson would be the last woman in the world she’d want spending time with her man.
“I don’t think this is a smart idea,” she said, unnerved. Chance was finally softening up around the edges, and having his songwriting skills called into question was bound to make him tense up. Besides, she didn’t want Sexy Songwriter butting in on their newly formed second-time-around relationship.
“I’m not trying to bust up your little love session,” Ginny said, her voice softer. “Even if I think it is truly insane, which I do. But my job is to make sure that reality is a priority and you’re not burying your head in a fantasy world.”
So Ginny thought their relationship was a fantasy. Jolene supposed she couldn’t blame her. She and Chance did do better when it was nothing but the two of them, tucked away from the world. When they’d tried to live their lives day to day was when they’d gotten into trouble.
But that had nothing to do with their ability to write a record.
“It’s only been three days,” Chance said.
“It’s been four, actually, but who’s counting? Oh, me.” Ginny glanced at her phone. “She’s here. Just give it a shot. You might be surprised. It could force you to be more efficient with your time.”
“Hello.” There was a knock on Chance’s gate. “Can I come in?”
“We’re back here,” Ginny yelled out.
Great. Jolene was not wearing a bra or pants or makeup. Hell, she hadn’t been friendly with a hairbrush in two days. Now here was Tennyson, strolling through the gate with a smile on her beautiful face, looking like she fell off a plane from New York City with her shiny straight hair, skinny jeans, and big chunky sunglasses. She had biceps to rival Madonna’s and a waist smaller than the average toddler’s. Jolene had never felt frumpier.
“Oh, sorry! Is this a bad time?” Tennyson looked taken aback by Jolene’s appearance.
“You just caught us at breakfast,” Chance said, plastering a smile on his face and ambling toward her.
What the hell was that? Where was his signature scowl, the one he wore when he was annoyed about something? Apparently it disappeared when skinny and attractive women entered the picture. They shook hands.
Jolene tugged at the bottom of her T-shirt and wished like hell she had pulled on a sundress that morning. “Uh, hi,” she said. “Nice to meet you.” She gave Tennyson a wave that felt ridiculous. She was sure it looked ridiculous, too. “Excuse me for a minute.”
For some stupid reason, she expected Chance to follow her so they could bitch and commiserate in private while he pulled on a shirt and she dressed in the same clothes she’d been wearing for days. It had seemed romantic yesterday to be cut off from the world and clean laundry. Today it seemed pathetic and embarrassing. But Chance didn’t follow her, which only served to fluster her further.
Torn between wanting to shower and wanting to see what was going down outside, Jolene opted for a quick-rinse compromise. She needed her head in the game, and not one that was unwashed and unkempt.
—
Chance was spitting mad at Ginny. He wanted to rant and rave and throw things, like maybe his lawn chairs. He wanted to list all his credentials and ask what her real agenda was, because it did not make sense that she was flipping her wig this badly after just a few days.
But first he needed to get rid of Tennyson Mitchell, since none of this nonsense was her fault. Then he’d be free to tear Ginny apart in private. Jolene had taken off, which was probably a good thing, since she wasn’t wearing pants. With a little luck, he could get rid of this woman—whom, frankly, he viewed as competition—before Jolene returned. Yet even knowing the situation was not Tennyson’s fault, he was so annoyed that he suspected his smile looked downright evil.
“I think there has been a bit of a misunderstanding,” he said, fighting to keep his voice calm. “Tennyson, I respect your work. Hell, I’ve been jealous of a song or two. But I write solo or I write with Jolene. Period.”