Summer Serenade Read online

  Over and over again.

  Out of love, but it annoyed her.

  Ivy might be the youngest of five, but she was twenty-eight years old. She could decide her own path in life. She’d never planned to be a server at Quinn’s for this long, but she was comfortable here. Why do something else? Her family was nearby. She would be an aunt soon. No doubt, more nieces and nephews would follow.

  Thankfully, her mom was too busy with her “friend” Harry Peterson to hover the way she used to, but Ivy’s sister and three brothers felt they knew what was best for her. They still treated Ivy as if she were eighteen—the age she’d been when their father died of a massive heart attack.

  Sure, she couldn’t complain how Maggie and Ryder provided enough hours at the pub so Ivy could support herself. Or how David, who owned a restaurant supply company, dropped off food samples, especially desserts, given to him by clients. And each week, come rain or snow, Carter delivered a box overflowing with produce, eggs, and honey fresh from Quinn Organics—his farm. He also kept her freezer filled with beef from his cattle.

  Ivy was grateful for her siblings’ generosity and appreciated their concern, but she needed them to see she was living the life she wanted. She may not have replaced her dreams of moving to Nashville and taking her shot at stardom with another, but that was okay.

  O-K-A-Y.

  If only they could understand that…

  She filled a container with the silverware.

  The quiet in the kitchen made her glance around. Will, the assistant chef, must be on his break because he’d been here when she went to her car. “How is Bethany feeling?”

  “A little tired, but she’s resting and binging on her new favorite show tonight.”

  “Still having morning sickness?”

  “Not as much.” Ryder plated an order. “Some smells still get to her, but she won’t let it hold her back.”

  “Of course not.” Ivy liked her sister-in-law, who’d brought her amazing culinary talents to Quinn’s, much to the delight of customers, and love to Ryder’s life, much to the benefit of her brother. “You married a strong woman.”

  He nodded. “Anyone who can put up with a Quinn has to have a backbone.”

  “No kidding.” Avery, Carter’s wife, and Charlie, Maggie’s new husband, were the same as Bethany. “There are so many new significant others or spouses joining the family I wonder who’s next. Grams has been positively beside herself.”

  “Wait until all twenty-five Quinn cousins get married.” Ryder laughed. “Grams will float off the ground, and her friends will throw a gigantic party.”

  The friends—Betty, Maude, Nellie, and Ruby—were their grandmother’s besties who met every Wednesday to gossip and drink tea or coffee. On more than one occasion, those four same friends had helped Gertrude Quinn play matchmaker.

  “Better find yourself a husband A-S-A-P so you don’t make our branch of the family look bad,” Ryder teased.

  “David will have to be the next one. If I’m not working or performing, I’m trying to find some place that wants me to sing.” Or writing music. That was what Ivy did when she wasn’t at the pub. “I have no time to date. Forget about marrying anyone.”

  Ryder raised his eyebrows. “Have you told Grams?”

  “No way.” The words shot out sharp and staccato. “I don’t want her to go into matchmaker mode.”

  That brought another laugh. “You can’t stop Grams. Matchmaking is in her DNA. She’s determined to see all of us married.”

  Even though Grams might not give up so easily, Ivy shrugged. “Our grandmother will have to live with me being single.”

  Ryder peeked inside the oven before glancing at Ivy. “Good luck with that.”

  Ivy wasn’t worried. Well, not that much. She glanced around the kitchen. Nothing else needed to be done for now. That could change in five minutes.

  Ryder set two plates under the warmer. “This is for table seven.”

  She picked up the orders—meatloaf and macaroni and cheese.

  “We’re running low on tonight’s dinner special,” Ryder said. “Do you want me to save you a serving?”

  “No, thanks, but I’m impressed you’re handling this so well. You step in for your wife like it’s nothing.”

  “Same as Carter does with Avery when need be.” Ryder sounded nonchalant. “It’s how marriage works.”

  A longing built inside of Ivy. Even though she’d dated in high school, music had been her priority. A part of her wouldn’t mind having someone in her life to rely on like her three married siblings had. Granted, her family—immediate and extended—would do anything for her, but sometimes not even the gaggle of Quinn relatives was enough.

  “I wouldn’t know.” A moment of weakness was all she could allow herself. She forced her spine to go ramrod straight. “But I’m not planning to find out soon.”

  She carried the plates out of the kitchen.

  Thirty minutes later, Ivy sans apron stood in front of a microphone with her guitar and a light shining on her. She recognized a few faces—locals and relatives—sitting at the tables and bar, but most were strangers, which she preferred. Though she’d never admit that to her family, who always came to hear her perform. No matter who was sitting in the audience, they deserved her best so she sang her heart out, as she always did.

  For them.

  For herself.

  And for her dad, who’d always believed in her.

  You’re going to be a star, baby girl.

  Ivy hoped he wasn’t disappointed she’d never followed through with her—their—dream, but she enjoyed thinking about him as one of the stars in heaven, twinkling above them, their personal angel who watched over them day and night. She wanted to believe he would be happy with the decisions she’d made. She had a feeling he would enjoy the songs she wrote even if she rarely performed any.

  Ivy ran through her set of covers, mainly country hits with a few crossover songs that pop radio stations also played. As her fingers strummed the guitar, she lost herself in the lyrics. It was as if everything had disappeared except this stage, the audience, and her.

  She loved the feeling.

  The connection with those listening to her.

  Performing on stage was like going home. Not to her studio apartment, but to her parents’ house. When her dad was alive and her mom had eyes only for him. When Ivy was planning to move to Nashville to pursue a music career. When she dared to…dream.

  Her set was ending. She had one final song on her list. But something else popped into her mind.

  Should I?

  Why not?

  “I want to thank y’all for coming out to Quinn’s tonight,” Ivy said into the microphone. She might have been born and raised in Idaho, but whenever she performed, she let the country girl inside her come out. “I’m Ivy, and I hope you’re having a great time.”

  The audience cheered.

  “To close my set, I’d like to sing a song I wrote. This one is for Maggie and Ryder Quinn.” And for Dad. “Thanks for letting me perform tonight.”

  With that, Ivy played the opening notes. The newly finished song didn’t have a title yet. But the gratitude she sang about was real, and she hoped meaningful to her sister and brother. And her two brothers who weren’t here.

  Closing her eyes, she stopped playing but kept singing, repeating the chorus one last time. She held the final note for as long as she could before her lungs screamed for oxygen.

  When she opened her eyes, everyone was on their feet, clapping, cheering, and whistling. A few shouted, “Encore!”

  The crowd’s reaction overwhelmed Ivy. She bowed and headed toward the kitchen, needing space.

  Halfway there, a bearded man stepped in her path.

  He wore faded blue jeans, a blue T-shirt with the name of the hottest new video game on the front, a beanie pulled low on his forehead, and sunglasses.

  Who wore a beanie in the summer and sunglasses inside at night? Must be a hipster. Probably fr
om Portland or Seattle given his lumberjack-worthy beard, but she shouldn’t judge. Quinn’s was known for their friendly customer service. She wouldn’t disappoint. “May I help you?”

  “Your set was great.” His lips curved into a charming smile. “You have a fantastic voice, and I won’t be forgetting that last song anytime soon.”

  The compliment made her stand taller. “Thanks. I’m happy you enjoyed the show.”

  “I did. I…” His voice trailed off. “Could I buy you a drink?”

  She forced her shoulders not to sag and her smile not to falter. He was still a customer, but she hated that the guy couldn’t have just said his two cents before returning to his table. She hated being hit on at work.

  “No, thanks.” She clutched her guitar like a lifeline. “I can’t. I’m busy.”

  “Are you performing again?” he asked.

  He must not be from around here, which meant he didn’t know she was on the staff. “No.”

  The man opened his mouth as if to speak but then pressed his lips together. “Thanks for the music. I hope you enjoy the rest of your evening.”

  “You, too.”

  She barely had the words out before he turned, wove his way around tables, and left the pub.

  Whoever he was, Ivy appreciated he’d accepted her “no” and hadn’t pushed her.

  The party at table five motioned to her before pointing to empty glasses.

  “Let me get rid of my guitar, and I’ll be right there.”

  In the small room, she placed her guitar in the case. Closing the lid and securing the clasps gave her the time to put the performer part of herself away. She put on her apron.

  You have a fantastic voice, and I won’t be forgetting that last song anytime soon.

  Most people applauded and cheered when she finished a set but few sought her out. Even if the guy had hit on her, she took his compliment at face value, not as a way to get on her good side.

  Out in the kitchen, she washed her hands.

  “Nice show.” Will, who was doing a stellar job filling in for Bethany when she couldn’t be here during dinner, pulled out the whipped cream from a commercial refrigerator. “The desserts for table three will be ready in three minutes.”

  Performer Ivy’s time in the spotlight was over. Server Ivy was up. She didn’t mind. Not really.

  This was her life. The one she’d chosen. Wanting more would only lead to heartbreak and disappointment because dreams didn’t come true.

  At least not hers.

  She dried her hands. “I’ll get drink refills and be right back.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Nash couldn’t stop thinking about Ivy. Her soulful voice, the memorable lyrics, and her pretty face were branded on his brain. Something about her seemed familiar, but he had no idea what given she was a stranger.

  He went to sleep with her on his mind and woke up that way, too. The big question—why couldn’t he shake her from his thoughts? The last thing he needed was a woman in his life, and she hadn’t been the slightest bit interested in him.

  No, thanks. I can’t. I’m busy.

  He sucked in a breath. Her rejection had hit hard and fast. So much so he’d left without a glance back. Even though he’d wanted a last look at her for some weird reason.

  Maybe because Ivy was the first woman to turn him down in… Nash couldn’t remember the last time. Sure, she’d been polite, but being rejected sucked. Best to forget about her and that pub. He would ask Bob and Travis for other places to go in town.

  Nash’s cell phone buzzed. A glance at the screen showed it was a text from his former foster mom.

  Mama Aimee: You’d better be dead or your sorry butt is grounded for not checking in.

  Nash laughed. Even though he was thirty-three, she still threatened to ground him. He loved that woman.

  Nash: Not dead.

  Mama Aimee: I’ll tell the funeral home never mind.

  Nash: I hope you picked out a nice casket.

  Mama Aimee: Only the finest since you’d be paying, sugar. Call me tomorrow.

  Nash: Will do.

  A long soak in the hot springs relaxed him and cleared his head. He returned to his hotel room, muscles loose and ready for a nap. He showered and dressed.

  A glance out the window showed a clear blue sky. A gorgeous summer day. An image of Ivy strumming her guitar and singing into the microphone appeared.

  Nash groaned. Not again.

  He hadn’t thought about her since he went down to the hot springs.

  This had to stop. He wanted to forget about her.

  But how?

  He surveyed the Presidential Suite. The king-sized bed beckoned, but not with Ivy on his mind, or he would toss and turn as he had last night. He could finish reading the thriller novel Shea had given him. Or work on the jigsaw puzzle she’d packed in his suitcase.

  His gaze zeroed in on his guitar case.

  Playing music might help him. He removed the instrument, not the custom guitar branded with his name that sold for way too much money, but his favorite—the one he’d bought when he was on the cusp of getting his first record contract. He sat on the couch.

  Strumming his guitar, he played a few chords. The sound caught his attention. He messed around with the notes until a melody developed. Interesting. Liking what he heard, he kept going. The music resonated with him on a deep level.

  Once he had more parts, he hit the recording app on his phone. After listening to it, he picked up his composition book—as worn and stained as a dive bar coaster—and a pen. As he wrote notes, words came to mind.

  A slow dance with a beautiful woman. Hot kisses under a full moon. The smoky scent of a bonfire in the air.

  Longing and love.

  Different from his last hit song which was more an ode to a bottle of whiskey, but the lyrics kept coming so he kept writing, scribbling lines as fast as he could.

  Nash reread the words.

  Froze.

  What the…?

  Forever together, him and Ivy, when two become one.

  His blood ran cold.

  What was he doing writing about her? And like this?

  He hadn’t realized he’d written her name.

  The temptation to rip the page out of the journal was strong, but the artist in him wouldn’t let that happen. The song was good. Maybe great. Only time would tell, but he couldn’t destroy it. Not yet.

  Maybe she was a muse.

  Given how easily the music and lyrics poured out, he could accept that.

  Nash reread the words. He liked the way “Ivy” sounded, but he didn’t want to leave it in the song. He rationalized scratching out the name and replacing it with “her” because the song needed to be generic to appeal to the masses. This would also avoid questions about who “Ivy” might be if he ever recorded the song.

  He threw his pen on the carpet.

  Obsessing much?

  Nash didn’t want to know the answer.

  Instead, he played the song through before fiddling with the notes and lyrics. He lost track of the number of times he did that, but soon he was happy with it.

  Not bad for—he glanced at his phone—three hours. Man, time had flown. He’d enjoyed himself in a way he hadn’t since being banished to Quinn Valley. His female fans should love it. But he was surprised since this was the first he’d written in weeks. The first time he’d wanted to write. And this wasn’t just any song. The gushy love song was what R.J. and the record company had been pushing him to release.

  He owed it to Ivy.

  Not that she had anything to do with the unexpected burst of creativity.

  Not really.

  He had barely spoken to her—didn’t know her.

  But she’d had him thinking about things he’d pushed off for a long time—romance, relationships, love. Silly and stupid, but add in cabin fever and the result might be a hit record.

  As for Ivy…

  Solitude led to him building her up in his mind. She was the
first woman he’d spoken to other than saying “excuse me” or “thank you” to those in the hotel, the hot springs, or the physical therapist’s office. She’d also rejected him, and he didn’t like that. He never chased a woman, but he enjoyed challenges, which meant he needed to ask her out again.

  Not for a drink—which was kind of cheesy in hindsight—but for dinner.

  A date.

  He would crank up the charm and woo her. Hear her say yes instead of no. Except for one problem—how could he take her out without revealing his true identity?

  Pretending to be someone else would be the definition of creepy. He was under strict orders not to declare his identity in public—or to date, but it would just be one time. If he removed his sunglasses, she might recognize him. Then he wouldn’t have to say anything.

  But could he trust her to keep his identity a secret?

  He had extra copies of the NDA in case he came into contact with others, but asking her to sign a nondisclosure agreement would take the romance right out of a date.

  Not that he was looking for romance.

  This was a dinner.

  Maybe if he offered to help her.

  Quid pro quo.

  That was the phrase his foster dad, who was a science teacher at the local high school, used all the time, including last week when they’d spoken.

  No. Nash couldn’t trust a stranger. So-called friends had betrayed him to the gossip sites for a payout. Trusting Ivy would be stupid. Asking her to sign the NDA would be smart. His manager and lawyer would agree.

  Now, all Nash needed was to see Ivy again.

  That meant returning to the pub. He would listen to her sing and wait for an opportunity to approach her.

  * * *

  Later that night, Nash put on a beanie and picked out another graphic T-shirt. He probably didn’t need to go full-on hipster because his beard and sunglasses made him unrecognizable, but he wanted to do his part not to sully his reputation more.

  As if that could happen going out to hear someone sing.