Chapter 2
Ash woke to the cacophony of cabinets opening and closing, metal clanging, and water running. He tried to open his eyes, but the light felt like a knife stabbing his irises, so that option was out. Instead, he decided to roll over, bury his head in whatever pillows he could find, and pretend that whatever was happening beyond his closed lids was not, in fact, happening. Except when he rolled, he dropped to a hard floor with a painful thud.
“What the…?” He seemed to be tangled in some sort of yarn-based creation with holes of varying sizes that had cuffed one of his hands and possibly a few of his toes. So now, instead of ignoring the outside world and sleeping off his hangover, he was battling with a blanket after falling off of a bed that seemed way too small.
He finally freed himself, rolling the sorry excuse for a blanket into a ball and tossing it back on the…couch?
Where the hell was he?
Ash tried to blink the light away, but it was relentless. So he pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes and somehow climbed to his feet so he could get his bearings. The first thing he saw was a window and, beyond that, a field that led to a chicken coop. He spun slowly, recognizing the building that led to the fenced-in field: his oldest brother Eli’s veterinary clinic. As he continued his slow rotation, he stopped short at what he knew now was the guesthouse kitchen that should have been empty. Instead he found a woman standing on the other side of the breakfast bar, facing him. She wore a flour-coated apron, hair in a wild bun atop her head, and…was that a goose egg on her forehead?
“Could you put on some pants and cover that thing?” she asked, blowing a loose brunette lock out of her eyes.
Ash glanced down to his boxer briefs where he was sporting some significant morning wood. He was in the middle of formulating a witty yet sexy comeback when the voice and the hair and every one of his five senses flooded with recognition despite the years since he’d last seen her.
“ Willow Morgan .” Her name was a declaration rather than a question. He grabbed a throw pillow from the couch and used it as a shield to hide his erection. “Did we…? I mean… What are you…?”
She cracked an egg with one hand, let the contents fall into a bowl in front of her on the counter, and then dropped the shell into what he hoped was a garbage can beside her. Then she groaned.
“Don’t flatter yourself, Murphy. The only thing that we did last night was concuss each other. Only difference between my injury and yours, though, is that you deserved it.”
Ash’s vision cleared even as the pounding in his head raged on. He found his jeans crumpled in a ball on one end of the couch and took his time climbing back into them, though not bothering with the zipper or button.
He brushed the tips of his fingers over his right temple and winced as he felt the bandage and the tender lump beneath it.
“What the hell did you hit me with?” he asked. “And why ? Also, what are you doing in my brother’s guesthouse?”
Willow’s jaw tensed. Despite the bump, Ash was pretty sure he saw a vein pulse beneath the skin on her forehead.
“A vase,” she began, holding up a thumb. “Because you broke into my bedroom.” She added her index finger. “For the next couple of months or so, depending on what’s next after the festival, I live here.” She nodded her head back toward the front door. “Thanks to your little destructive entry last night, you now owe your brother and Beth two vases.”
“Shit,” Ash mumbled through gritted teeth. Then his fingers wandered toward his head wound again. “Did you knock me out and then patch me up?”
Willow crossed her arms—her bare, lean arms that bore the muscles of a musician who always had a guitar strapped to her back. “Had to make sure I didn’t kill you once I saw who my intruder was.”
The corner of Ash’s mouth twitched. “You disappointed that vase wasn’t heavier?”
She narrowed her dark-brown eyes, then picked up a red spatula and pointed it at him. “Do you really want me to answer that?”
He strode toward the breakfast bar and the woman who, for all intents and purposes, had tried to kill him the night before. She couldn’t have been more than five foot three, but what she lacked in stature, she made up for in attitude and the voice he knew came from deep in her soul. He’d known it the first second he ever heard her sing all those years ago.
“Are you really gonna hate me forever?” he asked.
She went back to whatever her concoction was, furiously stirring with her spatula.
“I don’t know,” she remarked without sparing him another glance. “I’ll let you know at forever o’clock.” She cleared her throat. “Obviously, you can’t stay here, but I can call my brother. I’m sure they can get you a room at the guest ranch.”
Ash scoffed. “I came here to lay low. I can’t stay in a big, public tourist trap like that.”
She rolled her eyes but still hadn’t bothered to meet his gaze again. “Someone’s gotten a little big for his britches, hasn’t he?” But after a few more vigorous stirs of what looked like some sort of thick batter in the bowl, she finally looked up and sighed. “I guess your presence would be a pain in the ass over there.”
He slapped his hands against the counter, then winced as his head responded with an extra throb. “I guess it’s settled then.”
“What’s settled?” Willow asked.
Ash shrugged. “ You’re going to stay at the ranch instead while I hole up in my family’s guesthouse.”
She stopped midstir and finally looked at him again, which—from this close—made something jolt deep in his gut, even if her look was more of a glare.
God, he wished he could remember the details of the night before. He wished he could remember a lot of nights that he didn’t, but he was also grateful for others that would remain a mystery.
She opened her mouth, most likely to breathe fire and scorch him right where he stood, but he was offered a limited reprieve thanks to a frenzied knock on the door followed by another voice he knew all too well.
“Ashton Murphy, open this door and show me proof of life, or so help me, god, I am going to murder you where you stand.”
He offered Willow a shrug. “Sorry, Morgan. Looks like you’ll have to get in line.”
He strolled to the door, still shirtless with his unzipped jeans resting on his hips, and threw it open to find Sloane Edwards, his manager and publicist, in a fitted checkered pantsuit, crisp white blouse, stilettos that probably made it near impossible to walk from her rental to the door, and her blond, chin-length bob styled perfectly. Not a hair out of place, including the blunt bangs that hung just below her brows. Yet somehow Ash knew—as he always did—that she was at her wits’ end.
“Sloane!” He threw his arms open as if the two of them always greeted each other with a bear hug. (They did not.) “You found me!” Already.
She stormed past him and into the guesthouse, pivoting to face him only after he’d slammed the door closed.
“You’re not answering your phone,” she offered instead of any traditional greeting. But then again, Sloane never wasted time on unnecessary words. He liked that about her.
“I’m using a loaner,” he replied. “Not even sure what the number is.” Ash also liked that for the past however many hours, Sloane—or anyone else, for that matter—had not been able to contact him directly.
“Arrested?” she added to her non-greeting. “Again?”
He held up his hands to show her that he was, in fact, handcuff free, and flashed her a grin. “They let me off with a warning.”
She crossed her arms. “After your team paid for the damage to the hotel room. And by team , I mean me .”
“And by you , you mean me , right? Whatever card you gave them draws from my account, doesn’t it?” He waved her off. “Besides, you say damage . I say incidentals . Whatever is in the hotel room is fair game as long as it’s paid for, and as you just informed me, I paid .”
“Incidentals, huh?” Sloane raised her brows. “Did you throw the hotel phone at the wall? No. Out the window? No again. At the seventy-five-inch 4K television that used to be mounted on the wall but is now a pile of broken glass? Ding! Ding! Ding! We have a winner.”
Ash shrugged. “Tried the cell phone first, but all that did was bust up my phone.” Hence the loaner.
Sloane tried to level him with her gaze or maybe…melt him with invisible death rays? He wasn’t sure.
“I guess you’re lucky that some people are actually feeling sympathy for you right now.”
Ash clenched his teeth and let a breath out through his nose, suddenly devoid of any snappy comebacks.
Sloane sighed. “Divorce sucks, Murphy. I get that. Even more so when it’s in the public eye, but you chose this life and all that comes with it. And you chose me to make sure you manage that public eye better than anyone else out there.”
Suddenly remembering where he was, Ash darted a glance over his shoulder to find that Willow was gone.
“Who’s that?” Sloane asked, nodding toward the floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out on the open field.
Ash followed her gaze as Sloane strode straight up to the glass, using her hands as a visor against the morning sun as she peered out toward the chicken coop. Her mouth hung open as she pivoted back to face him.
“Tell me that is not Willow Morgan out there.” But Sloane’s lips were already curling into a grin, and Ash could see the diabolical wheels turning in her head.
“It’s not what it looks like, Sloane,” he told her, an echo of the very same words he’d spoken when she barged into his tour bus bedroom four years earlier.
“Oh yea?” Sloane asked, her blue eyes brewing up a publicity storm. “Because to me it looks like a comeback.” She sauntered over to the couch, stretched her arms across the backrest, and crossed her legs. “Put on a shirt, Murphy. Because we are about to spin.”
***
“No,” Willow told them, pacing back and forth in front of the breakfast bar. “Absolutely not. I’m here to work, not to be the next notch on a player’s belt.”
Sloane swiveled back and forth on a breakfast barstool, drumming her perfectly manicured nails on the counter as if Willow’s protestations meant nothing.
Ash stood by the couch with his arms crossed over his chest, guessing he wasn’t as good an actor as Sloane was. He hated his publicist’s plan as much as Willow did, but he also knew that if he dared to open his phone up to any entertainment website or social media outlet that he’d likely find his name—and another record of less-than-stellar public behavior—trending.
“I’m not asking you to actually sleep with him,” Sloane replied with a laugh. “We’ll leave that to speculation. All I’m asking is for periodic photos to be ‘leaked’ by outlets of my choosing and for the two of you to debut a song together at the cute little festival where you’re performing a couple of months from now.”
“Come on, Sloane. Acoustic Acres is projected to get at least 20,000 a day with Willow headlining,” Ash interjected.
Willow’s brows shot up, and for a second she glanced at him with something other than ire or disdain.
Sloane grinned. “Imagine what those numbers would be if we hinted at Willow inviting a special guest onstage for a yet-unreleased song.” She pressed her palm to her chest. “I’m not only asking this for Mad Man Murphy over there…” She nodded her head in Ash’s direction.
He winced. Mad Man Murphy? Did she make that up, or was that one of the little gems he’d find online once he found his phone?
“But think about what this might do for you .” Sloane sighed. “There’s been some speculation about writer’s block, and I’m not saying I’m buying into it. But your label did push the release date, did they not? Think about what your fans would say if they caught wind of you ‘collaborating’”—she put finger quotes around the word—“with country music’s resident bad boy?”
Ash ran a hand through his hair and stepped between the two women. “No.” He was the one shaking his head now. “We’re not putting Willow in the middle of this. I got arrested last night. I messed up the whole end-of-the-marriage thing. I should be the one to figure out how to clean it up.” He held his arms out and spun slowly. “That’s why I’m here. I need to lay low in a place where cameras and social media and all of that bullshit can’t find me. The last thing I want to do is drag Meadow Valley or anyone in town into the circus.”
He stared at the woman who’d helped build his career and image over the past decade and silently pleaded with her to leave the whole ordeal alone. He’d— they’d —figure something out. Just not this.
“I’ll do it,” he heard from over his shoulder, and Ash pivoted to find a resigned Willow still in her flour-covered apron, shoulders squared and chin held high.
“What?” he asked. “Wait… what ?” he repeated. “ Why? ”
Willow cleared her throat and smoothed out her apron. Though all she really did was smear the flour farther across the fabric. “Sloane’s right.” Willow shrugged. “My album was pushed because it’s not done. The label wants a Billboard country hit for the first single, and they’re not convinced that hit is any of the other eleven songs I’ve already recorded.” She let out a bitter laugh. “I can’t believe I am this much of a cliché. Debut album is enough of a hit that they sign me for number two, and I go and fall into the sophomore slump.”
She strode toward Ash and gently poked her index finger against his still-bare chest. Jesus, he could smell the sweet mix of sugar and butter, the coconut of her shampoo. It hit him in one intoxicating wave, making him lose the ability to speak, which he guessed was okay because Willow looked like she had a lot more to say.
She stared at him for several seconds, her chest rising and falling, the heat from her fingertip threatening to brand his skin.
“You sleep on the couch,” she began. “And we work . Day and night, however long it takes.”
Ash nodded.
“No drinking, no drugs, and—and no women or any other distractions in the house.”
He wanted to tell her that there had only been two times in his life when he’d gotten blackout drunk and that somehow, thanks to the menacing asshole that was the universe, Willow Morgan had been there for both, even if the former was only via email. But what did it matter anymore? She saw him like every other person who read the tweets, posts, and comments. And on some level, he deserved it. So he simply said, “That’s a lot of no , but okay.”
She whirled on Sloane. “I choose where and when we snap a selfie. I post on my own social media. Both of you agree not to disclose our location to anyone , and nothing gets mentioned about any song until it’s actually written and I have my label’s permission to debut it at the festival. Are we in agreement?”
Willow glanced back and forth between Ash and Sloane. He was still too stunned to articulate any of the thoughts swirling around in his head, but Sloane was smiling like a hyena cornering her prey.
“We are very much in agreement,” Sloane told her, extending her hand. But Willow didn’t reciprocate.
“I want it in writing,” Willow replied instead. “Signed by all parties involved.”
Sloane slowly lowered her hand but laughed. “I like her, Murphy.” She turned to face him. “Dare I say it might actually be a good thing that A.B. posted her engagement news last night before we had a chance to announce the divorce? Your… reaction …might actually earn you the sympathy vote. Poor, jilted Ash Murphy. We get your fans to eat this up and then BAM! You rebound with Willow Morgan and a duet!”
“It’s not a rebound,” Willow and Ash said at the same time.
Well, good to know she was adamantly opposed to that sort of connection between them. He wouldn’t want to mistake her agreement for any sort of forgiveness or reconciliation. This was work for Willow, and that was all it would be for him. She’d get a song, and he’d get an image makeover. Again.
Sloane shrugged and then flicked a piece of nonexistent lint from the shoulder of her suit jacket and grabbed her phone from the counter. “I’ll have a draft of the contract sent over this afternoon.” She pointed at Ash. “You stay out of trouble, especially the kind that involves handcuffs and fingerprints.” Then she turned her attention back to Willow. “And you… Well, you just keep being America’s next country sweetheart, and we’ll all get what we want out of this spectacular new arrangement. I’ll see myself out.”
And with that, Sloane sauntered toward the door and back out into the morning sun.
“What the hell just happened?” Ash asked after several beats of silence.
“I think…” Willow began, staring blankly toward the door through which Sloane had disappeared. “That I just sold my soul to the devil for a song.”