Chapter 50 Izzy
Chapter fifty
Izzy
“Is it weird that I’m more nervous to join you for your recording than I am for my first meeting with W&R Mercantile?” I ask Jaxon as he makes his way to me from where he was discussing business with Andre and Annie.
Turns out, Jaxon has not one but two jets. And the one we took last time? The one I thought was impressive? It was the baby jet.
This? This is a flying flex.
White leather seats. Three different seating areas. Real china and crystal. A literal espresso machine built into the wall. And, oh yeah, the rear seating section converts into a bed. Because of course it does.
The table between us is sleek and black, and even though we’re surrounded by his team, this moment somehow feels private. Personal.
It’s a reminder that he’s both the man who makes me feel like I am his world, and the one who has the world at his fingertips.
The one who was threatened with a breach of contract penalty amount that almost made me pass out when his manager called yesterday to deliver the threat, and the one who casually told his manager to wire the label the funds from his account.
I’d been the voice of reason and suggested maybe we could relocate our reunion/official dating sex marathon temporarily to Nashville.
Jaxon ducks slightly as he walks down the aisle to sit beside me, all six-foot-something of him a little too tall for even this luxury aircraft. He hands me an espresso mug—actual porcelain, not a paper cup—with a smile that somehow still makes my stomach do that annoying flip thing.
“You shouldn’t feel nervous about either,” he says, settling into the seat beside me. “All you have to do during recording is have fun, and you’re going to crush your client meeting. I know how much you’ve prepared for it.”
“Thanks,” I murmur, wrapping my hands around the little mug. “Still feels a little surreal.”
“What part?”
“All of it.” I gesture around us. “This jet. This trip. You.”
He leans in and kisses my temple. “Surreal is kind of my brand.”
It’s a joke. But it’s also not.
Because for all the ways Jaxon is still the boy I used to know, he’s also the man who commands stages and fills arenas and can casually drop a number like sixty million, when I asked him, point-blank, how expensive this jet was.
“I’m so glad you’re here though, Iz,” Jaxon says. “That you came with me this time.”
I playfully nudge him with my shoulder. “Turns out, all you had to do was ask.”
“I think Jen and Ken would’ve had something to say if I’d convinced their not-even-eighteen-year-old daughter to run off to Nashville with me.”
“Probably would’ve turned you in for kidnapping,” I joke.
His eyes widen at the thought. “Is that a thing? If they’re seventeen? Is it still kidnapping?”
I snort. “I have no idea. But calling the cops would not have been Jen Harper’s move. That woman would’ve sniffed out my location, driven down there herself, and spent the next six months lecturing me on my behavior. After giving me a hug and telling me how much she missed me.”
“And to think, all my dad did was confirm I was alive through my cell phone and debit card usage.”
I lay my head on his shoulder, trying to provide the comfort I know he needs now that he’s been forced to rethink his history with his dad. I think it was easier for him when all he felt was anger and resentment. Sadness and regret are much heavier to carry.
“I think,” I start tentatively, “it might’ve been the only way he knew how to support you and your dreams. Letting you go.”
“It’s…hard, having to reconcile his version of the past with the one I’ve let fuel my anger for so long.”
He pauses, staring at our intertwined hands. “And not being able to apologize for my part of it.”
“I think he forgave you a long time ago, Jax. He’d just be happy you finally forgave him.”
“And that I found my way back to you,” Jaxon says, giving me a light kiss on the forehead.
“I am pretty exceptional,” I tease.
Jaxon laughs. “The most exceptional.”
“I can agree to that,” I say, snuggling into his side once more.
We land in Nashville late in the morning, and within the hour, I’m standing in a studio that smells like coffee and pressure and something electric in the air.
It’s not the cozy vibe of Jaxon’s at-home recording studio—it’s all glass and angles and a quiet buzz of importance, with sound engineers, producers, and assistants moving like they’ve been doing this their whole lives.
Which, maybe they have.
Jaxon squeezes my hand as we step into the main control room.
“You good?” he asks.
I nod. Then shake my head. “No. I mean, yes. I just…this is a lot.”
“It is,” he admits. “But it’s also where the magic happens.”
Andre points me toward a couch near the back of the room. “Sit. Watch. Enjoy.”
Jaxon steps into the booth, adjusts the mic, and exchanges a few words with the team through the glass.
He works for a few hours, and I quickly become accustomed to the noise and organized chaos of the studio. I’m occasionally asked a question by Jaxon or Andre as they discuss which of two recordings they like better, but in general, I’m left alone.
I appreciate that they never make me feel like I’m in the way, but at the same time, they’re not trying to force me into something I know nothing about. I’m happy to just observe.
After a quick break, Jaxon heads back into the booth, and Annie gives me a soft smile as she hands me a set of headphones.
“Here,” she says. “This next track’s not final, but I think you’ll want to hear it.”
I slip them on just as the music begins.
A familiar melody plays, soft and slow, and then—a woman’s voice.
Not singing. Just laughing.
Laughing in that unfiltered, full-belly way that is distinctly embarrassing and distinctly mine.
And then Jaxon’s voice, in the studio, layered into the track: “Sometimes, when you’re out there chasing wild, you forget the sounds of home.”
My breath catches.
Because this song—it’s us.
All the little things. The memories. The moments I thought he’d forgotten.
I look through the glass at him.
And he’s looking right at me.
***
We leave the studio hand in hand, stepping into the Tennessee night air, the stars scattered like glitter above us.
It’s late.
The kind of late that makes the world feel like it’s exhaled. Quiet. Soft around the edges. Even the city seems to have taken a breath, the traffic a distant hum, the streetlights glowing warm instead of harsh.
Jaxon tugs me gently toward the car, but we’re not in any rush. Not tonight. Not with the way his fingers are laced through mine like they were made to be there.
“How could you possibly have a recording of my laugh?” I ask now that we’re alone.
“You left that voicemail for me a couple weeks ago. I think you meant to hang up, but you started laughing at something Becca said. It…well, let’s just say I’ve listened to it an unhealthy number of times since then. It makes me…”
“Horny,” I say with a teasing smile.
“Happy.”
He opens the car door for me, and I slide into the passenger seat of his sleek black SUV, the leather still warm from the sun. He rounds the front and climbs in beside me, resting his hand on my knee. The silence between us isn’t awkward. It’s easy.
But even in the ease, my thoughts are a little tangled.
Because as much as I’m trying to just be in this moment—something I’ve never been particularly good at—the truth is, I’m thinking about everything.
About the way his voice sounded in the booth.
About the way his eyes never left mine as he recorded that final track.
About the way the producer whispered “damn” under his breath and how Annie smiled softly like she’d known all along.
And about how, just before he stepped out of the recording room, Jaxon had said, “It’s called Izzy’s Song.”
No arguments. Nothing from his team.
Just understanding.
I didn’t say anything in the moment. But my throat got tight and my heart stretched just a little more than I expected.
Now, as he drives us through the quiet streets of Nashville, the lights of his security team behind us, I steal a glance at him.
His jaw is relaxed, one hand on the wheel, the other still resting on my leg like he needs the contact to keep himself grounded.
His gaze is on the road, but he seems distant.
“You okay?”
He nods. “More than okay.”
“You looked like you were somewhere else for a second.”
His smile turns a little wistful. “I was just thinking how different it all feels now. Recording used to be the most important part of my life. But now?” He turns onto a side street, slowing as we approach a red light.
“It’s still important. I still love it. But it’s not the whole thing anymore. It’s not me. You are.”
It’s too much and not enough all at once. My fingers tighten around his.
The light turns green, and we drive the rest of the way in silence—comfortable and full.
When we pull into the gated drive of his Nashville home, Jaxon waves at Tim as he sits in the gatehouse, talking to Annie.
“Oh hey, Annie. Imagine finding you here,” Jaxon teases his assistant.
“Go home, you two,” she scolds, but from the look of pure happiness on both their faces, I know they don’t mind.
We reach the house, and Jaxon parks but doesn’t move to get out right away. He turns toward me, brushing a piece of hair away from my face.
“I want to show you something,” he says.
I follow him inside.
The house is quiet, the team off doing their own thing, and Jaxon leads me down the hallway to his music room. The one he’d shown me last time on the tour, but we never spent any time in. The floors are old wood, the walls lined with guitars, shelves stacked with notebooks and awards.
The energy here is different.
It feels like him.
He sits on the edge of the low leather couch, pulling out a tattered notebook from under the coffee table.
“I wrote this when I was nineteen,” he says, flipping it open. “Before the first tour. Before the fame. Before the producers and the execs started telling me what I should be. I found it when I was here after the HMAs. When all I wanted was to be with you.”
He hands it to me, and I scan the first page.
It’s messy. Scratched-out lines, uneven margins, ink smudges.
The song is about a girl.
Not me—at least not then.
But as I read, I feel her becoming me. The way she laughs. The way she runs. The way he can’t stop chasing her.
I hand it back to him, unable to speak.
He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Even when I didn’t know, I knew. You were always in there somewhere. I just had to live enough life to see it.”
And it hits me—all at once.
I’m not just a muse. I’m not just a lyric.
I’m his home.
I climb into his lap, straddling him, my forehead against his.
“Jaxon Steele,” I whisper. “I love you so much.”
“I’ll take it.”
“And even though it hurt so much to have you leave, I’m glad you did. I’m glad we were able to grow into the people we are now, so we’d recognize we were meant to be more than friends. And I’m so glad we made it back to each other.”
“I love you, Iz.”
We stay like that for a while, our foreheads pressed together, the past and future colliding in this perfect in-between.
And eventually, when we do make it to bed—when his arms wrap around me and our bodies find that rhythm that feels like music and prayer and love all at once—I don’t think about the meeting tomorrow.
I don’t think about anything except how grateful I am that he came back.
That I let him in.
That he’s mine.
Tomorrow will be another busy day in the recording studio for Jaxon and in the office for me, preparing for my meeting with W&R Mercantile—the one that will now be in person rather than virtual.
But tonight?
Tonight is ours.
And for once, I don’t feel like I’m chasing something I can’t catch.
I’ve already found it.