Page 51 of Beneath a Tennessee Sky

“Home?” she asks.

“Home,” I confirm.

We get back to the penthouse. My first thought is getting her naked.

“No, sir.” She grins. “Work first. I want to help you.”

I pout. “You can help me. I’m all stoved up. I need release.”

“You sit on the tension and let it fuel you,” she says. “Where’s the notebook?”

I groan. “I have new ones. My old one is filled.”

“Get it. Let’s get this party started.”

She perches on the couch, legs tucked under her like she belongs. I pick up my guitar, and for the first time in weeks, my fingers remember what to do.

“Play me what you have,” she says.

I start with the least terrible track—a ballad about coming home. Halfway through, Jinnie frowns.

“Stop. The bridge is all wrong.”

I blink. “What?”

“The part about ‘walking alone’—that’s not you.” She shakes her head and reaches for one of the new notebooks.

“It feels like me.”

“Does it?” she asks. “You have brothers.”

“Yeah, but that’s not the same.”

“Jack, was that your line or someone else’s?”

She knows me well. “It’s not mine.”

I set the guitar down and rub my face with both hands. “Dex suggested it. Said it needed more angst. I thought maybe he was right.”

Jinnie tilts her head, her hazel eyes studying me. “Angst doesn’t suit you, Jack. Not like that. Your music has always been raw and honest, not manufactured.”

I stare at her, the weight of her words sinking in. She’s right. I’ve been so caught up in pleasing Dex, Richard, and the label, that I’ve lost sight of why I’m even here.

“You think I should scrap everything?” I ask, my voice quiet.

Jinnie shrugs. “Not everything. But you need to strip it back to the basics. Start over with what you feel, not what you think they want to hear.”

I exhale slowly, nodding. “Okay. Let’s try.”

She grabs a pen and flips open the notebook, already scribbling something down. “What are you feeling right now?”

“Right now?” I glance at her, my chest tightening. “Relieved. Grateful. Like I can breathe again.”

“Good,” she says, tapping the pen against the pages.

Just like that, I feel the giant wall in my brain crumbling. I pick up the guitar and start playing. After a full day of writing and eating takeout, I feel like I’ve found my footing again.

I text Liz and let her know I’m ready to get in the studio.

Jinnie is staring out the window, watching the lights below.

I come up behind her, wrapping my arms around her waist. “Thank you.”

She leans back into me. “For what?”

“Everything.” I press my lips to her temple. “For keeping me honest.”

Jinnie turns in my arms, her hands coming up to frame my face. “Just promise me one thing.”

“Anything.”

“Don’t lose yourself in all this.” Her thumbs brush my cheeks. “I like the real Jack Hayes.”

I kiss her then. When we break apart, her eyes are dark, her lips swollen.

“I’m right here,” I whisper against her mouth. “And you promised me after work, there would be play.”

“I did.”