Apparently I’m only capable of nodding. Creighton’s lips quirk into a smile, and then he’s gone. I’m still making my way out of the bedroom when I hear the front door shut behind him.
Well, I guess that’s that. I wander back out into the living room and pull my phone from my pocket. All my social-media notifications are still going bananas, so I ignore them, along with the missed calls and voice mails from a number I don’t recognize.
It doesn’t take a genius to figure out who would call me a dozen times and leave a dozen messages. I hope JC was right that no publicity is bad publicity.
Going to the window, I can’t help but feel like Rapunzel staring down from her tower, although with much shorter hair. Except in Rapunzel’s case, her tower was at least familiar. I’m completely out of my element here, and I’ve never felt every moment of my Kentucky upbringing quite so keenly as when I stand in this penthouse.
A lyric hits me almost instantly, and I squeeze my eyes closed and hear it again in my head. Pressing my forehead to the glass, I quiet my mind to everything but the words and melody that are taking shape.
Six songs. I need to write six songs, and maybe, just maybe, I’ve got the beginnings of one. My purse is still on my shoulder, and I hurry to the chair near the fireplace and pull out my notebook.
As I scribble out the words and notes, the thrill of excitement rises in my blood. I need a guitar. I really, really need a guitar. It’s one thing Creighton couldn’t know I’d want since he arranged for all of this to be delivered before he even knew who I was.
I look out the window at the darkened city. It’s too late to go exploring for a guitar now, so I keep scribbling lyrics, erasing them and rewriting, until my hand is cramped and my back aches.
I lay down my pencil and rise, my muscles protesting and my head fuzzy. The little sleep I got last night and the sheer craziness of what I’ve done is catching up with me.
Flipping my notebook shut, I wander back into the bedroom, hearing the siren’s call of the giant bed. After running my hand along the silky-smooth comforter, I give up the battle and strip off my clothes where I stand before I slide between the covers.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow I’ll find a guitar shop.
My eyes snap open and I blink several times, scanning the room.
Where am I?
Then everything comes rushing back. Creighton’s penthouse. New York City. Turning my head to the side, I see nothing but smooth, unrumpled comforter beside me.
I sit up and stretch, my attention going to the clock. It’s already close to noon, and there’s no evidence Creighton ever made it to bed. Swinging my legs over the side and pushing off the plush mattress, I rise and survey the large bedroom.
Nope. No sign of him.
My stomach grumbles and I wander toward the kitchen, wondering if I’m going to find a note or something informing me as to where my husband is. The granite countertop is spotless and note-less.
I grab my phone from my purse, and see a text from almost three hours earlier.
I’ll be home later. Make yourself comfortable. Call the doorman if you need anything.
I’m surprised he has my number, but there’s no questioning who the message is from.
My burning desire for a guitar hasn’t faded, but I have absolutely no intention of asking a doorman to fetch me one. This is New York, and New York has everything.
I pull out my phone to do some quick Google searching.
Bingo. Apparently Rudy’s Music is a New York fixture, and looks absolutely perfect. I check the distance, and realize it’s too far to walk. I have no idea how to get in touch with Creighton’s driver, so I decide that for the first time in my life, I’m going to catch a cab. It can’t be that hard.
I don’t even bother to shower or change my clothes before I’m out the door. After all, I’ve got songs to write, and for the first time in months, I can’t wait to dig in.
I’m riding high on the knowledge that I’ve just written the most epic song of my career to date. Granted, my official career has only spanned nine months, but I’ve been writing songs for much longer. Regardless, the song is epic. I’m as humble as the next girl, but even I know when I’ve struck gold.
I don’t even realize the time as I walk through the giant door into the lobby of Creighton’s building. For the last however many hours, I’ve been tucked into a corner at Rudy’s, losing myself in the music. The super-cool old dude finally asked me to leave an hour after he would have normally closed. I guess he was caught up in the music too, but was gracious and awesome, and promised to come to my show the next time I performed in the city.
I swipe the key card the doorman gave me as I left the building, hit the P button, and lean back against the mirrored walls of the elevator. Because Creighton owns the entire top floor, the elevator opens directly into a lobby that has only one door. I left it unlocked, assuming only someone with the key card could get back up here.