Free Far Too Tempting by Lauren Blakely Page B

all it took was a kiss to ignite such musical possibilities. I can picture the next several days, as songs and bridges and choruses unfurl in front of me with reckless abandon, as music pours forth like a rainstorm in the desert. Jeremy will be thrilled. My fans will be happy. But more than that, I’m happy again because making music feeds my soul. It’s my heartbeat, it’s my blood pumping, it’s the air I need to breathe.
    Then my phone buzzes. I grab it from my back pocket and click open a text message.
    Dinner was lovely. Thank you so very much for your time.
    And that’s it. No mention of the kiss that rocked through my bones. No mention of the phenomenal attraction. No mention of wanting to take me out again.
    Matthew truly did erase those ten minutes on the street, and is now the super-professional reporter.
    I close the message and return to my notebook. I tap my pencil against the paper. I scrawl out a few random words, like Shut it down, all business, then so annoyed right now.
    But the rhythm is gone; the inspiration has slinked away. I write down the words Mixed Messages at the top of the page. If this ever becomes a song it’ll be the perfect title, because that’s what Matthew is sending me.
    And I am confused as hell.
    I try to write more words, more music, more lyrics. But all I hear is a warped-sounding song that makes no sense. Like my dinner with Matthew.

Chapter Eight
    Matthew doesn’t wait a week. He e-mails me two days later, and his name on my phone sends a rush through me, in spite of my annoyance with him. I force myself to ignore his note for a few minutes as I wander through my old East Village stomping grounds in hot pursuit of inspiration. This is where I first lived when I moved into Manhattan and where I lived when Aidan dumped me and I wrote my epic album, so maybe I can find that evasive Muse hiding under a stoop here on my old block on Ludlow Street, where the scent of kimchi and bimini bowls permeated our old apartment thanks to the Korean restaurant we lived above. I haven’t found the secret sauce for a new song, but the smell reminds me that I’m hungry, so I dart inside and order my favorite veggie bibimbap bowl, grabbing a stool at the counter.
    Then I let myself click on his e-mail.
    I hate that there’s a part of me that wants his message to say he can’t stop thinking about me, and that he didn’t mean it when he said he wanted to erase the kiss.
    But that’s not what the note says.
    from: [email protected]
    to: [email protected]
    time: 11:47 AM
    subject: Re: Article
    Dear Jane –
    I know I said I’d reach back out in a week, but I couldn’t resist passing along this note from a reader who adores your work. I also wanted to let you know I’ve received more than forty-seven such requests, asking to cover what you’re working on next. ALL FROM YOUR FANS. You have so many. My contacts at iTunes also are quite eager to run an extended profile on you.
    Perhaps this comes across as pressure. Let me assure you, I simply want to give my readers and your legions of fans what they want—more of YOU.
    Best,
    Matthew
    Then there’s the e-mail attached from a fan. It’s one sentence, but it says, I love Jane madly!! Please, please, please give us more of her!!!
    I mark the note as a keeper, but only because I love my fans madly too. It never gets old hearing from them, but I don’t want to disappoint them, either. I don’t want this gal to feel let down if my next album is a mediocre mish-mosh of adequate songs. I’m about to close out of my e-mail when a new note pops up on my screen, with only Matthew’s first name, rather than his full name. Intrigued, I click it open.
    from: [email protected]
    to: [email protected]
    time: 11:48 AM
    subject: Time Travel Tricks Fail
    I really shouldn’t say this, but that whole erasing those ten minutes didn’t do the trick for me. I’m still thinking about them.
    from: [email protected]
    to: