A full week of Eric underfoot watching her every move was starting to wear thin. He was hell bent on her singing with him on his album.
“Hadlee, what’s your cell number?” he asked one afternoon. “Dante and I have some lyrics I want to send you.”
“Not interested.”
“Just read the lyrics, please?” she rattled off the number and he plugged it into his phone. Within seconds the lyrics were there, and she was wishing she wasn’t trying so hard to stay away from him. They were good. Really good but not anything Eric would normally sing. It was too sweet and not heartbreak-y like the ballads he usually did, when he did them. If this was anyone else, she’d be flattered he’d changed up his style. However, this was nothing more than a ploy, a tactic, to keep her from wallowing in her despair about
