Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

SKYLAR

M y phone pinged with a message that Rhylan Morgan's driver was here to take me to the airport. As fast as I'd opened my curtains to peek out, I snapped them back closed with a snort.

He actually did it. Rhylan Morgan sent a damn car for me. I had no doubt his fancy country star airplane at the end of the car ride, too.

Dammit.

The man was infuriating.

And arrogant. Conceited.

And sexy.

I hated admitting it, but I was a realist. Or at least I was after Nashville made me realize a lot of people had the same dreams I did. Talk about a wake up call.

When I realized it was useless trying to get out of going to Rhyland's Sunrise Beach estate, I asked my agent to at least give me the address is case my body went missing. He'd laughed but sent it yesterday. So, to remind the cocky singer two could play at this game, I sent a little package to myself.

Care of Rhylan Morgan.

Owned me?

I bit my lip, because the smile threatened to pop out as I headed downstairs with my bags, one with beachwear, because to hell with it. If the beach beckoned, I planned on listening. The other, filled with my notebooks, favorite pens, the candles I loved to burn while writing, my laptop, and my stuffed penguin.

Sometimes, a girl needed her favorite stuffed animal to help her work through writer's block.

Rhylan's driver smiled as he opened the door of the black SUV after putting my bags in the back. "Ready to go, Ms. Coulson?"

I typed out a text to Ains, buckled in, and gave him a tight smile. "Ready as I'll ever be."

"We'll be landing in just a few minutes. Is there anything else I can get you, Ms. Coulson?"

I popped out my AirPods and offered the flight attendant a smile. "No, thank you." I glanced out the window at the rapidly approaching land.

After a smooth flight above the clouds, seeing the earth below made my heart happy. Not that I had a fear of flying, but the one pocket of turbulence we hit wasn't fun. Feet on land sounded pretty good right about now. I tucked away my pen and notebook, the bullet point journaling exercise I did before a writing session soothing and helped keep my mind off the possibility of any more bumps and drops on the way to Sunrise Beach.

Not only did Rhylan have a private jet, it seemed the jerk had a whole fucking fleet of drivers in every city. Okay, to be fair, I'd only seen two. One in Nashville and one at the tiny airport waiting, no joke, with a sign that had my name written on it. Along with flowers.

Lilies. My favorite. My eyes narrowed as I approached the thirty something man who, no doubt, only worked for the bane of my existence to support his niece, who was a violin virtuoso and couldn't afford lessons with a master teacher. And he liked lilies in his car. Yep, sometimes I liked to make up stories about people. And then write songs about them.

My hopes faded when he grinned and handed me the flowers after I said, with a lame wave, "That's me. Skylar." As if the ‘me' wasn't enough to convince him who I was.

"I know who you are, Ms. Coulson. My daughter is obsessed with the performance you did last month at the Bluebird. Won't go to sleep unless she gets to watch you sing ‘I Have You' three times."

My heart leapt into my throat, because the night I sang at the Bluebird in one of the songwriting showcases was the first time I sang ‘I Have You', and the first time I sang in front of an audience in almost six months. The label had been putting off having me in the studio to record, and I jumped at the chance when Ainsley had told me the booking manager had asked her if I would like a slot.

‘I Have You' wrote itself, the words flowing endlessly after I cried in the shower following yet another failed attempt at begging to record my music from the record company.

The erratic staccato of my heart and the tears that threatened to fall must have made time stop. Because the next thing I knew, we were driving along the coast. A long driveway behind a black metal gate disappeared behind a grove of trees.

"Mr. Morgan doesn't keep a staff on the estate, but if you need anything, the center of town has the best shops you'll find outside of a Hallmark movie. And," he winked, "Target is one town over. Best of both worlds."

I laughed, and thanked him as he handed me my bag after I insisted I could carry them, along with my guitar case. No doubt Rhylan Morgan had a slew of Fenders and Taylors at his disposal. But I needed my baby with me. Especially if I was forced to write with the arrogant asshole. Bags slung over one shoulder and my instrument in the other hand, I trudged up the steps to the ridiculously gorgeous house that overlooked the ocean.

Just as I lifted the hand, the door swung open. And I came face to face with the man whose kiss haunted my dreams and the fantasy that fueled my strictly sex toy only orgasms since he left me breathless, horny as fuck, and pissed off as hell.

Rhylan fucking Morgan.

"Sparrow." The way he said the nickname spoke of the kind of secrets only whispered in the dark when no one else was around. Dark, dripping with promise and sex.

Fuck that. I own you. His words came back, stinging and far too cocky. Like I would fall at his feet if he snapped his fingers.

"Asshole."

The glare in his eyes made every second of that damn turbulence worth it. I pushed past him and made my way into the huge foyer with a grin as he growled at me.

Oh, this was going to be so much fun. Game on, Mr. Morgan. Let's see how you like ‘owning' a bird you can't cage.

Thank God the man at least didn't make me stay in a bedroom with an adjacent door to his. I stood in the foyer, refusing to speak another word to him. The standoff continued for at least five minutes, neither willing to break. He finally gestured for me to follow him and turned away. Not up the grand staircase, but through the living area to an enormous wall of windows that overlooked the beach below. He stopped, slid open a sliding glass door that seamlessly blended into the rest, and led the way down a path past the pool, and through a treed area that opened to a smaller version of the main house.

Without turning to face me, he gestured at the front door. "Guest house is all yours. The kitchen isn't stocked with more than coffee, water, and a few things to tide you over. If you need anything, shoot me a text."

I cocked a brow. My damn phone pinged.

UNKNOWN: It's your favorite sexy country singer.

My death glare met his cocky stare, and again, the standoff began. A soundless conversation, a dare to speak first. The air crackled with electricity, neither willing to give or take.

Fine. He wanted to play? I'll play. I wetted my lips, then bit down ever so slightly on my lower lip, and lifted my chin. A reminder of how he held me in place in that darkened hallway. Then. I shifted, canted my head, and released it. A challenge. The memory of it burning between us. But I didn't advance any closer to him. Held my ground, defiant.

His tongue worked the inside of his cheek, and though amusement danced in his eyes.

The asshole was enjoying this!

Just wait until you get my special delivery, I thought.

I lifted my chin and spun so that my back was to him. Bags and guitar in hand, I went to what I assumed was the bedroom. Slammed the door behind me. His dark, husky chuckled carried through the closed door.

Damn this man. I would not fall. Even if my heart beat faster at the thought of writing with him. Alone. In a room with no distractions or expectations.

As soon as I was sure he left, I walked back out into the living area. I hated to admit it, but being here already affected me. My shoulders and the ever present tension in my jaw melted away. Between the sound of the ocean crashing on the sand and the serene scene outside my window, I didn't want to leave. But, Rhylan Morgan? He held my life, my dreams, in his hands. The music and any future songs, at least until I fulfilled my ‘contract' with him. None of it was mine. I moved from one miserable existence to another.

Except this one made me tingly in places he shouldn't.

AINSLEY: Safe flight, enjoy the luxury and that hot, sexy, overbearing man. Make me proud!!

SKYLAR: Landed. Turbulence, not fun. Beach, GORGEOUS. Man? INFURIATING.

AINSLEY: Girl, don't lie. I know you liked that kiss. But so did he. Use it. Write, and get your dream back. Love!!

I drummed my fingers on the counter as I stared out the window. Use it .

Oh, hell yes, I'll use it. He wanted to kiss me like he was going to make my toes curl then walk away? I think it's time he realized I give just as good as I get. If not better.

Half an hour and a quick shower later, I closed the door behind me, and whipped the beach towel I found in a linen closet over my shoulder. Clad only in a neon yellow/green barely there bikini I bought on a whim two days ago. In Target. More than string than triangle, but an entirely necessary thing when you're battling for the thing you love most in the world.

Heat radiated off the concrete around the cerulean blue pool, but the warmth didn't sting or burn. It caressed and cared. As if knowing my soul needed the balm and comfort of the summer sun. Even in the late afternoon/early evening sun, the outside world fading away continued.

I flung the towel onto one of the lounge chairs strategically placed around the deck.

Did I choose it because it faced the wall of windows, and knew from the tickle at the back of neck that he was watching?

Hell yes.

Did I also stretch like a damn cat in heat, pushing my breasts out?

Again, hell yes.

I lathered in the SPF I found in a basket aside the towels, and then laid down, slipped on my sunglasses as a smile tilted my lips upward.

A nap in the summer sun, AirPods playing my favorite playlist, and a smile on my lips. My mama always said I had more tenacity than anyone she met. Which helped me not give up even though the label kept gatekeeping my songs. I shut my eyes, let myself drift off. To dream again and maybe win the battle Rhylan Morgan started.