Shadows of Hope

Chapter 11

Zade's POV

Faith resides in an older apartment on the North side of Nashville. Faded peach and white paint coat the vinyl siding while plain wood planks serve as steps leading up to the second floor. A gold 3F is painted on the top panel of the doorframe. I walk past the door and over to the balcony which overlooks a small pond. There are a few ducks swimming around while a man sits back, a fishing rod in one hand and a cold drink in the other.

A butterfly flits past my left shoulder and I am instantly transplanted to the day my world collided with Faith's, literally. It wasn't one of my prouder moments, snapping like a starved turtle and teasing her mercilessly. Yet, she still lets me call.

I stride back and forth in front of the neighboring apartment as Kason regards me with unrestrained amusement. Dressed in dark fitted jeans and a white button-up, his silver belt buckle and mahogany cowboy boots accent his country roots.

"You gonna knock or pay for this ugly carpet you're burnin'a hole in?"

Abruptly I cease pacing and toss him a searing scowl which would intimidate anyone else. "I'm just, you know, waiting. We don't want to arrive too early." I drag my feet over in front of the door, pretending preoccupation with the sunflower-and-violet monstrosity hanging front and center.

Kason doesn't even try to hide his scoff accompanied by an exaggerated eye roll. "Yeah, 'cause seven minutes early is so rude."

I cradle a tray of my famous 7-layer nachos in one arm as I pat my right jeans' pocket, searching for my cell to check the time. Coming up empty I growl in dismay, vividly picturing the device lying underneath the couch where I flung it in an attempt to ignore my co-star Dannelle's incessant calls this morning.

Zade hunny, Dannelle here. Call me hot stuff.

Zade hunny, we need to talk. Call me back.

Zade, my publicist and I have a fabulous idea we need to run by you ASAP.

Dude you need to talk to Dannelle so she stops calling me

I assume there is some tragedy in your family and that's why you aren't answering. Anyway, get it sorted out so we can talk about us.

Zade hunny, we must get together. Hollywood needs a new IT couple. People want to see me settled down and you could use some attention. Your fresh-cut country crooner persona will fade fast, trust me. So when can I tell my publicist we started dating? Make sure you take me somewhere classy for our public debut.

Seven hours later and my stomach continues to retch in protest. Consuming a glass of curdled milk would constitute far less torture than listening to her whine, moan and drive me absolutely nuts begging for some farcical relationship. I don't do serious relationships anymore. Been there, burned to a crisp; I'm not playing the part of the marshmallow again. Nor do I make lying for social media fandom a commonplace occurrence either. Home-town boy, real cowboy suits me just fine and anyone who disagrees can take a flying leap.

My fingers tighten their grip on the fancy red serving tray, a gift from my granny when I bought my first condo. 'Every home needs proper serving-ware to impress the guests.' I love the 80-year old spitfire, but the daisy pattern etched into the edges is a bit feminine for my taste. My grand plan is to "accidentally" leave the tray for Natasha and Faith and never take it back. Women love flowers-even the ceramic kind, right?

My furrowed brow and lack of smile is so unusual that Kason notices right away. Gesturing in front of my face with one large hand, he mutters a low 'Hey, what's going on Z?' His light blue gaze bores into me, refusing to accept any bull I consider flinging in his direction.