Off the Record: A Sweet Office Romantic Comedy (The Nashville Romantics Book 1)
Off the Record: Chapter 3

My tire held up long enough to get me to the tire shop. To the detriment of my wallet, a screw was firmly lodged in the non-fixable zone and the whole thing had to be replaced. I took a late lunch to address the issue, then made my way home to get ready to meet Simone at the bar.

Which is where I am now, sitting at the counter two stools down from Simone while she twirls her glass and tries to decide if her date’s black cowboy hat is sardonic or genuine. The fringe on his jacket makes me think it’s not sardonic, but she might not have noticed that yet. Simone won’t take men in Western wear seriously, which cuts down a large majority of the population here in Tennessee. Personally, I think he has a sweet smile, and he pulls it off well.

We’ve been here for forty minutes and they’re still chatting, so he must’ve said something to give her a reason to stay. I have my phone out, notes pulled open to jot down any ideas that might pop up. The smell of lemon furniture polish and alcohol scent the air, and despite needing a coat to reach the car, it’s pleasantly warm inside the Whiskey Sage. The live band isn’t too shabby and the supple leather barstools are comfortable. If I’m not careful, I might not get any work done while I wait for Simone to flash her distress signal.

Which would be par for the course today. I’ve spent hours brainstorming, doing historical research, and pleading with Google to provide the answers I don’t exactly know how to search for, and I’m still at square zero with the articles.

“You want another?” the bartender asks, lifting her eyebrows and gesturing to my glass of Coke dregs and ice cubes.

“Soda water this time,” I tell her. I have a strict caffeine cut off time and we’ve passed it. “With lemon?”

“You got it.”

Someone takes the seat next to me, smothering me with his overbearing cologne. I turn my nose away, but it doesn’t help.

The easy answer on these articles would be to write the other two civil war properties connected to Carnton, see if I can identify what about the concept is catching reader interest, but Hudson didn’t seem on board with the idea. There is the Country Music Hall of Fame. I could replace a docent to walk through with me, see if I can weasel an interesting story out of them.

The bartender slides a cold glass in front of me. Three lemon wedges float on top, bobbing among the ice in the sparkling soda.

“Thanks,” I tell her, reaching for a sip.

“C’mon now,” the man beside me says. “That doesn’t look fun enough.”

Wow. I choose to ignore him, staring at my empty list instead.

“I can order you something better if you’d like to try⁠—”

“I’m happy with what I ordered, thanks,” I say without looking at him.

He put his hand up. “Alright, alright. You wanna dance, lil lady?”

Good grief. No, I don’t want to dance. What I want is a fully written article to fall in my lap. Or even just an idea for one. I’ll happily do the work if I can just get inspired.

Besides, his smell will probably rub off on me.

He clears his throat.

“Not tonight,” I tell him without looking, taking a sip of my extra lemony soda water.

The guy huffs in irritation and leaves.

“Good riddance,” the bartender says.

I shake my head, giving her a commiserating smile. “What happened to that man to make him think any of that was a good idea? Yes, great job. I’m definitely going to fall into your arms now that you called my drink boring.”

The bartender leans against the counter, her long dark hair falling over her shoulders. “Once I had a guy tell me he could fix my tattoo if I ever wanted to stop by his shop, like he was doing me a massive favor.” She holds out her wrist to show me a vine snaking around it like a bracelet. “Not sure when insulting my skin became a pickup line.”

I cringe. “I bet you see all sorts in here.”

“I could write a book.” She grins, showing me a set of straight teeth.

My brain snags there. She could probably write an article, too. “I’m Paisley,” I tell her, reaching over the bar to shake her hand.

She returns it with a firm grip. “Tina.”

I nod toward Simone. “I’m waiting here in case I need to step in and save my friend from a terrible Tinder date. I’m supposed to be writing an article about an interesting historical figure in Nashville, but I’d rather write about this place.”

“Start your recorder,” Tina jokes. “I can fill your article with horror stories.”

My spine straightens. This isn’t what Hudson had in mind, but it would be far more engaging than a museum every local has been to on a fourth-grade field trip. My mom has always been the type to get lost in conversations with complete strangers, and I think I inherited that trait from her. Everyone has a story, she would say by way of excuse when my siblings or I would complain about having to wait for her to finish chatting with the supermarket checkout attendant or the man pumping gas beside us. If we sit and listen, we’ll learn something new. She was right, as always, but I’d never understood that when I was younger.

My phone buzzes, so I swipe it open to replace a message from an unknown number.

On what, exactly? I exit the message and return to my notes. “Have you had any notable figures play here?” I ask, gesturing to the stage and the band currently playing a song that a third of the room is line dancing to.

“Oh, loads,” she says, wiping wet rings from the counter with a rag. “A few years ago, Carolina Blue was one of our regulars before they got signed. They actually—” Someone down the way gestures for her attention, and Tina shoots me an apologetic look. “Be right back.”

The next hour follows the same pattern. Tina starts telling me something interesting, we get interrupted, she fills glasses for other people, then returns to finish her story. Over the course of the hour, despite the constant disruptions, I have enough notes about different bands and patrons to fill a column for the rest of the year.

Simone’s date convinced her to dance with him, so they’re long gone. My phone has buzzed twice more with texts from the unknown number that I haven’t bothered to check, but my mind is swirling with ways to make this bar into my next human interest piece.

“Can I get your number?” I ask Tina after she returns from filling a tray of shot glasses. “Just in case I have any follow up questions.”

“Sure.” She rattles it off, and I pull up my messages to send her a quick text in case she thinks of anything she wants to add later. When I swipe out of her message thread, the unknown number catches my eye.

My stomach swoops clear to the floor and back. When he mentioned being willing to workshop ideas with me, I thought he meant his door is always open in that way people had of offering things they don’t expect you to take them up on. This active checking in with me is so unexpected I just stare at my screen.

“I’m ready,” Simone says, throwing an arm around my shoulders. Her cheeks are flushed.

“Finally saw the fringe?” I ask.

“What?” She tips her head to the side.

“Never mind.” I hop down from my stool, sending Tina a wave that I’m not sure she sees, and slide my phone into my pocket.

We walk outside, the cool October air biting my cheeks and nipping at my nose. Simone calls an Uber to take us back to her house, where my car is waiting. “Want to come in for a while?” she asks.

“I actually think I’ll go home and work.”

Her nose wrinkles.

“I got an idea, and I want to get the outline finished before it completely disappears.”

She’s a writer, too. She understands. “Fine. Get all your work done tonight, because Thursday we’re going out again.”

“You have another date lined up?”

“Second date,” she says, trying not to smile too widely. “You don’t get out enough, so you should come.”

“Simone Blake,” I say, dragging her name out and ignoring the comment on my personal life. I hadn’t dated anyone since Leo revealed himself to be the lowest form of human, but not because I couldn’t move on. I just haven’t met anyone yet. “You’re repeat-dating a cowboy hat.”

“Don’t tell my sisters,” she mutters, but her grin isn’t dimming. The Uber pulls up and we slide into the back seat together. “It’s still early days. I can probably convince him to ditch the hat if things progress, right?”

Starting a relationship with the intent to change the other person isn’t promising, but I hold my tongue. My brain is struggling to focus on anything while I have my boss’s texts waiting unanswered.

Simone eyes me. “You seem distracted.”

That’s an understatement. I flip my phone screen-down on my knee and settle into the seat. “Okay, tell me what he’s like.”

By the time I reach my car, drive home, and hammer out a basic rough draft of my article on the Whiskey Sage Bar, highlighting the band Tina talked about, it’s nearly midnight. I feel emboldened by this turn of events—having a full outline ready to go. I’m not a total failure, which I feel is important for Hudson to know. I push my laptop onto the cushion beside me and open my message app to Hudson’s name, which I have since added to my contact list.

The ellipses bubble pops up immediately. I hold my breath, waiting for his response. This isn’t even a high stakes conversation, yet I can’t breathe regularly.

It’s not a true rough draft. He’ll never be able to make sense of it.

I check the time. Yep, still almost midnight.

I stare at the phone. Ben was never this interested in what I was going to write. He’d take my articles before the deadline with a nod and leave me alone until our planning meeting for the next quarter. Maybe that’s part of the reason he doesn’t work at The Nashville Rhythm anymore.

Or maybe Hudson doesn’t know how to be anything but an editor now that he’s back in a regular office and away from the executive floor. He’s probably treating all the columnists like this.

Great. I’m not even moving in the right direction.

My mouth flops open. How does he have any faith at all? He hardly knows me.

“Honey, I’m home,” my sister Carrie sings, slamming the door and tossing her keys on the counter. She kicks off her orthopedic sneakers and shakes out her long brown hair. Our small townhouse has two miniscule bedrooms on the top floor, a living room and kitchen on the ground floor, and a set of stairs connecting them. It’s compact, but it suits us well. “Why are you still up?”

“Writing,” I tell her, closing my laptop. “How was work?”

She groans, flopping on the couch and narrowly missing my computer, which I pull out of the way just in time. Her scrubs are covered in little rubber duckies, which she can get away with since she works in a pediatric ward at the hospital. “Nothing too exciting, which is always a good thing in my line of work. You?”

“My new boss has been texting me for updates on my articles.” I pass her the phone.

Carrie slowly sits up while she reads our conversation, brushing hair out of her eyes. “Oh my gosh, Paise. He’s so into you.”

I snatch it back. “He’s into anything with two legs and a monthly cycle. I just want to keep my job.”

She waggles her eyebrows. “Sounds like he wants you to keep it, too.”

“I’m going to bed.” Which is only partially true, because I still need to text him back. I wait until I’ve brushed my teeth and have the privacy of my bedroom to do it.

That isn’t promising. I put my phone away and roll over when a notification comes in, throwing blue light over my wall. I pick it up, disappointment snaking through me when I see the name.

There’s a half-percent chance he’s asking me this because he cares about my feelings, but even as I think that, I shove the thought away. If he cared at all about my feelings, he wouldn’t have hooked up with one of our coworkers. At work. I block his number and put my phone away.

Boundaries. Healthy, enforceable boundaries.

My phone lights up again. I pick it up so quickly you wouldn’t know I was just patting myself on the back for ignoring it.

Hm. That’s an interesting way of looking at it. I toy with the mental image it evokes, Tina in the center with her anecdotes floating around us. Even as I think it, I realize it’ll never fly. He wants engaging human interest pieces, not stories about a bartender. Tina might fascinate me, but Hudson wants more. I could always focus on one of the bands she talked about. Maybe drill her for more information about them until I settle on the right one. Tina seemed interested in helping me out.

I sigh. Hopefully I can pull it off.