No More Love Songs

By K.S. Thomas

SKYLAR THOMPSON is done with love. As country music's reigning queen of love songs, she's given her heart all her life and every time it's been returned in pieces. Now she wants out for good. No more romance. No more love songs.

 

Even if it means career suicide. 

 

She's done chasing after something that was clearly never meant for her.

 

KIT MORGAN never thought of it as giving up. He simply doesn't have time for romance. He's too busy raising his daughter and running his lodge. At least, that's what he's been telling himself.

 

When Sky and Kit cross paths, their mutual decision to ward off love indefinitely provides an easy common ground to bond on. However, what they begin to build there is something neither of them sees coming. 

 

Determined not to waste another second of her life searching for something she can't have, will Sky miss the moment when it finds her instead?

• Language: English
• Publisher: K.S. Thomas
• Release date: May 23, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215158517

K.S. Thomas

Originally born and raised in Bremen, Germany, I currently reside in sunny Florida with my teenage daughter, our coyote, a three-legged roo, and a tamed wolf (AKA, our dogs). I like to think we have a bit of a Gilmore Girls thing going, except my kid is obsessed with dance not books, and I’m (much to my increasing disappointment) appropriately aged to have a teenager.    I love coffee and yoga and the ocean and cooking and asking 'none of my business' questions whenever possible. While I spent my childhood certain I could be a Disney princess, sitting here, surrounded by my crystals, smudge sticks and tarot cards, eager to get out to my garden and walk on the earth in my bare feet and chat with the lizards about not eating my plants, I’m pretty sure I grew up to be the witch. The good sort. And, obviously, I write romance novels. That is, after all, what brought us together. Our love for...well, love. And who can blame us? Love has the power to bring out the best and the worst in us. It can make us strong or be our greatest weakness. It can make us move mountains or make us do some of the dumbest shit in the history of dumb shit. In short, love is entertaining as hell.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

SKYLAR

What is this?! Janelle demands, waiving a hot pink jump drive in my face just as I’m about to take a bite of the world’s greatest veggie burger. I briefly consider holding off on my lunch another second to answer her but decide against it when I realize questions will only snowball from here and my food will be cold by the time she stops talking.

So, I take my bite.

I chew it leisurely before I swallow.

And then, I answer.

It’s my new song. Obviously. Didn’t you listen to it?

She plops herself down onto the sofa across from me in a particularly dramatic fashion, more than is normal even by Janelle’s standards for flair. Of course, I listened to it. Why do you think I’m causing such a scene? To add a show to the lunch you brought? No! I listened to it. And now I need answers!

I made the mistake of taking another bite while she was talking. Kind of expected her to rant on for longer than she did. Now I’m left trying to choke down my food and respond at the same time. Did you not like it?

Like isn’t the issue, she explains, sitting up straighter, face getting tighter. It’s more that I didn’t understand it.

I roll my eyes sideways at Grayson, my producer, who has remained annoyingly silent since Janelle came bursting into her office, jump drive nearly flying from her flailing hands. What part didn’t you understand? Grayson got it, and he’s a dude.

The part where it wasn’t a love song, I guess, she says, eyes bugging out at me. "Please save me somehow, keep me from falling, escaping the now? She waves the jump drive yet again, this time with less flair and more frustration. What am I supposed to do with that?"

I shrug. Play it for the label as a preview for the coming album?

She shakes her head, lowering herself a little deeper into the cushions behind her with each shake back and forth until she’s nearly folded into them. You know I can’t do that.

Janelle, you’re top boss bitch of the industry. Of course, you can do that. I smirk, my attention turning back to my lunch as I add, "Plus, I’m your boss bitch and I’m telling you to."

I could have when Barry was alive. But if I go to the label with this now, if I play it for Chase, we’ll both go from boss bitch to fired bitch, and I don’t think either of us wants that, she huffs, leaning forward ever so slightly to examine the open boxes of take-out laid out on the coffee table. When Grayson and I agree to a lunch meeting, we don’t mess around. Is anyone going to finish those falafels?

Knock yourself out. Grayson reaches forward to push the box closer to her. Maybe a little food in your belly will curb your hanger-anger.

That’s not what this is. Bold claim from someone shoving an entire falafel into her mouth as she’s saying it. She takes half a second to gulp it down before she starts in on me again. Sky, you are the queen of love songs. Your entire career has been built on the epic romances you belt out one note at a time. And now, out of nowhere, you want to sing about some self-discovery shit? What the hell is going on?

Did you even chew?

Did you even listen?

More than you chewed, I mutter, placing half of my burger back in its box. I’m starting to lose my appetite. I’ll tell you what the hell is going on. I pause. The sentence I’m about to say deserves to be delivered as a standalone statement, not some run-on response to her question. I’m done with love songs.

She stares at me dumbfounded, third falafel stuck in midair halfway between the box and her open mouth, which went from welcoming her food to gaping at me. What does that even mean?

See, I told you it wasn’t as self-explanatory as you thought, Grayson says, picking the cucumbers out of his wrap and dropping them into the takeout box beside my half-eaten burger. He hates cucumbers. I love them. Fifteen years of working together day in and day out has left us with very little personal space and no boundaries to speak of. The fact he married my brother only supports what I’m saying.

"It is self-explanatory. You two are just overthinking it, insisting there’s more to the words than what they are. It’s a simple sentence. It’s complete. And very straightforward in its meaning."

You can’t be done with love songs, she insists. "You love love songs."

I do. Or I did. I close the box on my burger. I’m definitely done with it. Now I think I hate them.

What are you talking about? Janelle’s confusion only seems to grow the longer this conversation goes on.

Janelle. I sigh. I’m thirty-nine years old. You and I, we’ve been doing this how long now? Seventeen years? In that entire time, how often have you seen me in love?

She frowns. You’ve been in love. She hardly sounds convincing. Andrew. You were in love with him.

Grayson clears his throat loudly like he’s trying not to choke on his last bite.

Really? Andrew is the example you’re going with to represent my love life? If Andrew is the extent of her argument, I think we’re done here. That wasn’t love. That was a twisted game of control and mental destruction. And when he was done screwing with my head, he went out and started screwing other women.

I’m not denying he’s a piece of shit of astronomical proportions, she agrees. But you wrote ‘Love Me Still’ when you were with him. That album had seven number one hits and went double platinum its first year out.

That album is a crock of shit and the number one reason I need to stop writing such detrimental crap, I scoff. That wasn’t love. That was the delusional infatuation of a naïve girl too desperate to find a fairy tale to realize she was living in a nightmare.

Janelle seems to accept her setback for a moment, but one falafel later and she’s coming at me again. ‘Secret Heart of Hearts’. You and Benson. That was love!

That was a game. And Benson and I were never actually together, I remind her. He was the guy I loved from a safe distance when Andrew messed me up too much to love someone for real.

What about Jackson? What you two had was definitely real.

Really? Jackson is the healthy love story you want me to refer to moving forward? Maybe it was real. I certainly thought it was, but the truth is we were both too broken at the time to know one way or the other. And only one of us ever wanted to heal enough to find out for sure.

Janelle gets silent after that, and I know it’s because she only has one example left and she won’t dare use it.

Face it, Janelle. I’m a fraud. I sigh. I weave the shit out of some tales depicting troubled men and wounded women destined to find each other even when it seems least likely. I start them broken and mend them as they go, leaving them whole by the end. I sell love, and I do it damn well. But...while I have poured my heart into my music, found love a thousand times over in these songs, I’ve never once found it for real.

But you’re such a believable fraud, she half-whines, half-pleads. Can’t we just keep lying to people?

They won’t believe me anymore, I tell her flatly, leaning forward to reach my water bottle sitting at the center of the table.

Of course, they will. They’ve believed you all this time, why would they stop now?

I twist the cap off but stop short of having a sip. Instead, I look straight at Janelle. Because I stopped believing me.

You don’t mean that. But even as she says it, I can hear her conviction fading.

I do mean it. It was the most heartbreaking realization I think I’ve ever come to, but it’s true. And now that I’ve had some time to get comfortable with it, I’m numb to it. I’m not saying love isn’t real, and that it isn’t a beautiful thing, I add. I’m just saying, I don’t believe it’s out there for me anymore. And that’s okay. I’m okay. But I can’t keep throwing myself into these fantasies with every passionate piece of my soul when it only leaves me feeling hollow at the end of it. Whatever my ideals on love and romance amount to, they’re not based in reality. And I don’t want to keep setting the rest of the world up for the same disappointment I’ve felt every time I let myself believe the crap I sing about is real, that the fantasy could actually come true.

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Grayson start to open his mouth, but he thinks better of saying his thoughts out loud this time. We’ve been going round and round with this for weeks. He knows better than anyone how hard it was for me to get here, but that doesn’t mean he’s any more willing to accept it. Not yet.

So that’s it. Janelle drops into the cushions again, this time the movement screams of surrender. No more love songs.

No more love songs, I repeat the words I’ve made my mantra.

What about lust songs? She makes a half-assed effort to keep me skating on the edge of my genre.

Please, I laugh at the suggestion. Unless you want to see me walk on stage naked, you’re not getting any sexy out of me. Sexy’s never been part of my skill set. Mostly because I don’t believe being sexy qualifies as any sort of skill or talent, it’s a natural way of being we all stumble upon at one point or another, some more frequently than others.

You laugh, but the label might have more faith in selling your naked body than the feminist power ballad you’re asking me to sell them. She makes a face, and I can’t help but appreciate the irony of using the words feminist and power in the same statement as selling your naked body.

I opt not to respond and instead meet her gawking with a poignant stare.

She scoffs, rolling her eyes. Yeah, I heard it.

Can I say something? Grayson cuts in and I’m sure he knows I was about to take this way off-topic.

Is it going to support my stand on this? I ask.

Or are you siding with me and reality? Janelle throws in right after me.

Neither, he says, shooting me a look before he glares at Janelle. I know he hates getting stuck in the middle and yet it seems to happen more often than not. Either at work with me and Janelle or at home between me and Brice, my brother and his husband. I get that being my best friend sucks sometimes, but no one forced him to be my producer or marry into my family. Though I’m hardly sorry he did either.

If you’re not picking sides, I’m not sure I’m interested, I grumble before I sip my water. All this arguing is giving me a dry throat.

Yeah, might be better to keep a third perspective to yourself. We’re not doing so great with the two we already have, Janelle agrees, and I can’t help thinking maybe this is the real reason he bothered to open his mouth, to put us back on the same side for something.

Tough shit. You’re both going to hear it.

Maybe not.

Then he goes on before we can offer any more objections. I say we skip giving the label a preview this time. It’s a courtesy anyway. According to our contract, we’re not required to give them anything until the project is complete.

How is that helpful? Janelle frowns. So, we wait and deliver an entire album that they’ll hate? What does that accomplish?

It buys us time, he points out calmly. The album isn’t due for another sixty-five days.

We don’t need more time, I interject even if it does garner me another glare from Grayson. I’m on a roll. At the rate we’re going, we could knock this thing out in ten days.

Which we will, he says, surprising both me and Janelle. But then you have to agree to give us thirty days to try and remind you why you fell in love with love in the first place. If we succeed, you have time to put together another record. God knows, you have enough songs in your backlist to throw something together if you have to. Hell, we could make an entire album out of the tracks you’ve only ever performed on tour but never recorded. He stops for a second, giving us a chance to disagree. We don’t. So far. Then he finishes his proposal, If we fail and you still choose to be done with love, we move forward with the album we record now.

His gaze moves back and forth between us, going back and forth repeatedly until one of us finally breaks.

It’s Janelle. Deal.

I’m not so ready to commit. What exactly does reminding me entail?

Depends, Grayson says with a non-committal shrug.

On what?

On how much you’ve forgotten.

What if I haven’t forgotten? What if I just know more now than I did before? I counter.

Then you get your way. No more love songs. Grayson turns to Janelle, as if to remind me she already agreed to the terms on her end.

Fine. I sigh. I’ll play your stupid game, but only because I know I’ll win.

Grayson winks. That’s kind of what I’m hoping.

And I get the feeling he doesn’t mean that at all the way I want him to.

KIT

Ari!’ I call her name for the third time. Dinner! I take the last step and reach the landing. Two more steps down the hall and I’ll be at her door. Ari." I grin at the sight of her. As expected, she’s sitting on her bed, face in a book, both ears covered by her giant headphones, bobbing her head to what I’m assuming is some tune or another from Hamilton, her current go-to playlist.

Whether she actually hears me or just senses me staring at her, I don’t know, but she suddenly lifts her gaze and tugs her headphones off with a start. Dad! Did you say something?

I laugh quietly. Yeah, I said ‘dinner’.

She perks up at the word. Oh! She sets her book down on her pillow, open and face down, always ready and waiting for her return. What are we having?

Some pasta thing I threw together. I wave for her to get moving. Come on. It won’t taste right cold.

She makes a face. I like that you think temperature makes a difference.

Have I mentioned how much funnier you are now that you’re a teenager? I say dryly, letting her pass me and lead the way down the stairs.

Pretty sure you said it this morning. She turns over her shoulder to smirk at me. But you know I never get tired of hearing it.

I tug at a strand of her long dirty blond hair and give it a soft yank. Shut it.

She giggles the way she always does when she’s mildly amused by me and skips the last three steps, leaping gracefully to the bottom. Seven years of dance classes show themselves regularly around here.

Did you already put cheese on mine? she asks when she spots both our plates on the breakfast bar in the kitchen.

Am I new here? I shake my head answering my own question. Of course, I put cheese on yours.

She bobs her head happily, a sign she’s satisfied with her plate now that she’s close enough to see what’s on it.

Wanna sit outside? I point toward the glass doors leading out to the back porch.

She shrugs. Sure.

Lead the way. I’ll bring the drinks.

She nods and starts for the door. As soon as she heads that way, all three of our dogs get to their feet, giving up their nap spots in the kitchen to head outside with us.

I bring up the rear with my own plate and two bottles of old-school cream soda. I’m not big on sodas and sweets in this house, but it’s a Friday night tradition around here.

Only takes a few seconds before we’re both seated on the swinging bench, one of our favorite spots, even for meals. I know it’s not the most obvious choice, but it’s been the two of us for so long, we’ve got our own rhythm and neither of us minds that it doesn’t beat to the same drum the rest of the world likes to play.

Think you can take me over to Emma’s tomorrow? she asks after a good two or three bites in silence.

Don’t see why that’d be a problem. I swirl my fork in my noodles. I thought I included too much zucchini trying to use up what was left before it spoiled, but it worked out alright after all. What time are you thinking?

Maybe around three? She’s gotta ask her parents, but if they say yes, can I sleep over?

Fine by me. I set down my fork to pick up my bottle and have a drink. But I’ll have to pick you up late on Sunday. I’ve got a gig in the morning.

I remember. She smiles but it’s only half directed at me. Mostly, she’s amused by the face Leela, her fuzzy pit mix, is making trying to con her out of some of her dinner. Can I pick the game tonight?

Another Friday night tradition. Game night. I know my time on this one is running short, but for now, Aria seems happy to continue to show up for them. You picked the game last week, I remind her.

I know. But I won.

So?

So, winner gets to choose.

I snort. That’s never been a thing.

She tilts her head to the left, grinning slyly. Can we make it a thing?

Depends. I toss a carrot slice at Halle, our three-legged sheepdog and the only one out of the pack who enjoys vegetables. What game did you have in mind?

Chutes and ladders.

Then no. Absolutely not. I hate that game. Always have.

I’m kidding. I’m not four. She rolls her eyes. Apparently, I shouldn’t have fallen for that. Backgammon?

I nod. That works.

With ice cream.

Who said we have ice cream?

She smirks. And it’s all the answer I need to know she checked the freezer already.

CHAPTER TWO

SKYLAR

Who did you get for the piano? I ask, following Grayson inside like I live here. Which I don’t. Officially.

Kit Morgan. He places his load of bags filled with takeout boxes on the kitchen counter and steps aside for me to unload mine next. You’ll dig him. He’s been my first choice of pianist for the last ten years.

I make a face. If he’s your favorite, how come he’s never worked on any of my stuff before? Because I kind of thought I was Grayson’s favorite too.

He laughs at me. Something he does a lot more of when we’re standing in his house and not in an official work setting. You can drag the crazy back a little. I’ve tried to get him in on your projects plenty. Timing just never worked in the past. He turns and walks toward the swinging door connecting the kitchen to the main living space of the house. Food’s here, he calls out into the great beyond. Shortly after, footsteps can be heard shuffling their way toward us and the door swings back and forth several times while my brother and their three kids hustle into the kitchen.

What did you get? Brice asks, going straight for the first bag to unpack it.

Hello to you to you. Grayson has time