Chapter 23
Ville
As relieved as I was that we’d chosen to do the long distance thing, the relief didn’t help with the pain of driving away from him.
We didn’t even get off the long driveway before Wren said, “Ville, pull over.”
He was sitting in the back and I immediately did as I was told. Abi, who sat next to him, got out of the SUV.
She came to open the driver’s door and gave me a sad look. “I’m driving.”
For a moment I was confused, then I opened my mouth to protest, before closing it again. I took off my seat belt, grabbed my phone, and got out. I switched seats with her, and strapped myself back in, this time next to Wren.
He took hold of my hand and said nothing.
We’d been driving for about fifteen minutes when the tears started to fall down my face, and Wren moved to sit in the middle.
He gently pulled my arm until I leaned my head on his shoulder, then handed me a tissue.
Chuckling wetly, I cleaned my face, closed my eyes, and used the drive to the private air strip trying to collect myself. I was partially successful.
When we were in the air, flying toward Nashville, I put my feelings back where they belonged and started a meeting with Abi and Wren to sort out his schedule for the coming week.
We hit the ground running, which meant that I had barely time to message Emery every day.
I did it, but calls and video calls fell through before they had time to start.
It made me feel shitty, but I was just simply too tired to do anything but fall asleep to the sound of him telling me about his day.
Once Wren went into the studio, a nice private one on a fellow country artist’s property outside Nashville, I had more downtime. Of course my days were still filled with making last minute plans for the promotion cycle and the tour, but I could sit down with a beer every now and then, too.
One evening, about three weeks since I’d left Emery standing on that porch, he called me as I walked around the bike path that looped around the property.
“Hey, sugar,” he said, sounding tired but happy.
“Hey, baby. How are you feeling?” I asked, smiling just because I was hearing his voice.
“Good. Tired but good. Hey listen to this,” he said, and yawned hard before he launched into a story about one of his patients.
As always, he was very careful about his wording, being as neutral and general as he could so as not to violate HIPAA.
It made it less easy to follow what he was saying, but I got the gist which was that one of his patients had been suffering from some ailment that other doctors had ignored, and Emery was the one to put the pieces together that led to a diagnosis.
“That’s good. I’m glad you got it sorted for them.” I smiled as I watched one of Milton’s dogs realize I wasn’t following him anymore and turned to lope back. “I’m being accosted by a Great Dane,” I told Emery moments later while I patted the giant beast.
He chuckled. “You’re still at the Wilkins’s place?”
Milton Wilkins, one of the other big artists on the same label as Wren, had a surprisingly modest modern ranch house, the recording studio, and a veritable petting zoo for his kids.
And a bike path for them to ride on to deter them from driving in the yard where there were vehicles coming and going for most of the day.
“Yeah. They really got into working today, so they’re still doing it.
I’m on the bike path just to get some exercise in.
” I’d told him that it was my favorite way to spend time outside.
The four Wilkins kids were aged ten to sixteen and they were all outdoorsy, active children who liked to ride bikes and take care of their animals.
“Are you going back to the penthouse tonight?” he asked, knowing that the hour’s drive at the end of the night was a hit or miss for me.
“Not sure yet. If they run late, we’ll just crash in the studio.”
The studio had a few bedrooms and a living room area. It was a whole thing. Milton had wanted to have proper amenities for the musicians who came to use his studio, which meant Wren, his producer Merle, and I would all be able to stay.
While Wren and Merle had recorded the initial versions of most of the songs while I was preparing the BCR’s security in Colorado, this was the real deal. They were finalizing everything, and they were both perfectionists when it came to music.
“How’s he doing?” Emery asked, and I realized he wanted to know about Wren.
“He’s… okay. Having fun working.” I sighed a little bit. “He’s writing a song.”
“Okay?” I could imagine the furrow between Emery’s brows and smiled.
“This feels more personal. Like… actually personal. He hasn’t shown it to anyone, keeps fiddling with it.” Now I frowned. “I caught the working title of it, though. It’s called Dislocated Heart.”
“Ouch.”
“Yeah.” We both knew it was about Emery’s eldest brother.
We chatted for a while longer, then Emery sighed and said it was dinnertime.
“We’ll talk tomorrow,” I promised. I’d make it happen. “I love you.”
His happy hum told me he was far from being tired of hearing it. “I love you too, sugar.”
I ended the call and smiled, even though it hurt to be away from him.
“So what’s your man like?” Milton asked one afternoon while we were sitting in the studio’s kitchen, making coffee for everyone.
Well, I was doing that. Milton was hanging out because he was bored. He was supposed to be writing his own album but was blocked and concentrating more on family life and playing host.
I lifted my gaze from where I was refilling the water tank thing on the fancy machine.
“My guy?”
“Yeah. The one you left in Colorado,” he said as if it was common knowledge.
Maybe Wren had told him about it, I wasn’t sure and didn’t really care.
At least Milton’s expression was curious and not at all judgy.
I’d gotten used to some of the conservative, often Christian country musicians that Wren tried to steer clear of for obvious reasons.
Milton and his wife were on the more liberal side of things, thank the universe.
“He’s part of this insanely big family. Almost all of them live on the family ranch. Many of his siblings have jobs on the property, their own businesses even, but Emery’s a doctor at the clinic in town.”
Milton made an impressed sound. “A doctor? That’s fancy.”
I chuckled. “Not really. He’s definitely the smartest person I know, though. Very down to earth.”
“D’you have a picture of this doctor man?” he asked, grinning a little.
Did I ever. I chuckled and got my phone out of my back pocket, then found a picture Gemma had snapped of us one evening.
I handed the phone to Milton and thought about what he’d see.
We were sitting in the living room, in one corner of the couch with Emery against me as we watched some movie with a few of his siblings.
He had turned his face up to say something to me, and I looked down, and I remembered the moment because he’d been breathtaking with all that love in his eyes. And it’d been at least a week, if not more, before we ever said the words out loud.
Then Gemma had said something, making us laugh, and we’d looked at her just to realize it was a photo op. We looked—
“You’re in love with him,” Milton stated in a gentle, calm voice.
“Yeah,” I admitted, feeling my chest tighten.
“Looks mutual.”
Chuckling again, I nodded. “It definitely is.”
He handed the phone back to me and sighed. “It’s not gonna be easy. Wren said it’s new?”
“Kind of. The loving is new. We eh, met up a few times over the years.”
Milton chuckled and got up to find the creamer for the coffee. “That’s kind of how I met the Mrs.”
I smiled. “Oh yeah?”
We fixed the coffees as he told me all about how he met the love of his life, and it struck me that I could, finally, relate.
The album got to a point in the production where Wren didn’t need to be involved anymore, which meant we left Milton’s place and went back into the city.
I started to watch Wren more closely, seeing this new strain that seemed to begin immediately after starting the press and publicity bullshit. With the previous album last year, it’d taken well into the tour for him to start showing the same signs.
It was a lot, watching him slowly begin to resent the thing he was made for.
Then one day, we were at the label’s headquarters where he was doing some interviews instead of going to everyone’s location separately.
I stood on the sidelines, by the door to the room, with Kamon posted outside.
I’d insisted on the practice of there being someone from my team around in addition to me, whenever we weren’t at Wren’s condo.
Since nobody was paying attention to me, I checked my phone to see if Emery had updated me on his ongoing issue with his boss.
There had been some sort of an incident with doctor fuckhead having been unable to accept Emery’s judgment again, and he’d been truly upset about it last night when we’d talked.
The door opened and Kamon peeked in. “Boss? Ellings wants you. I called Abi in.”
I nodded, sliding my phone into my pocket, then made brief eye contact with Wren who had noticed the interaction, and he tipped his chin in acknowledgment. He thought it was excessive, having more than just me around, but he tolerated it. I stepped out and closed the door.
“Did she say what it was about?” I asked Kamon, trying to figure out why Wren’s normally so hands-off handler would want to see me.
“Nope.”
Abigail appeared at the end of the hall, and I clapped Kamon’s shoulder, then went to meet her.
“You going upstairs?” she asked, slowing down but not stopping.
“Yup. Hold the fort.” I smiled.
She grinned. “Consider it done.”
I found my way to the elevators and then two floors up to where Rachel Ellings’ office was located.
Her assistant, Zara, gestured for me to go in as soon as she spotted me.
“Lovely blouse,” I told her, and she rolled her eyes like she always would.