Bear Treble (Highland Brothers 4) by Meredith Clarke, Ally Summers

1
    Dylan
    D ylan kicked one foot over the other and leaned back in his chair. The porch was usually his go-to spot for writing. He looked into the forest surrounding Highland House. It was beautiful here. Peaceful and still—just what he needed to write another song. Only, nothing was coming to him. Nothing had for weeks. He hoped the solitude and quiet would solve that.
    The pen was poised against his knee. His guitar was slung over his shoulder, but he didn’t even want to strum a G chord. He had tried all morning to string enough lyrics together to make sense, but so far he had failed. The page was blank.
    He watched the leaves flutter to the ground, gathering in soft piles around the trees. All the elements were perfect. Everything he needed was here. Except the music.
    He groaned, placing the guitar against the railing and threw his notepad on the wide deck boards.
    He raked one hand through his shaggy brown hair, and paced toward the edge of the wraparound porch. He needed this song. He needed six of them to be exact, but he had nothing to show for his refuge at the family home. He curled his hands into fists and marched into the house.
    His head jerked in the direction of his phone. Dylan reached for it on the kitchen counter. Shit. It was the record label.
    “Hello?”
    “Dylan, how’s it going? Do you have something to send us?” It was Billy.
    Dylan sighed. He needed more time. “I’ve got a few things. I just want them to be right.”
    “How much longer?”
    He tried to think how much time it would take for him to unleash the creativity that was blocked behind a massive wall. “Can you give me until the end of the weekend?”
    He heard a groan on the other end of the call. “Layla needs to get this album finished. She’s laid down half the tracks. You are holding us up, and we haven’t even heard the damn songs yet. We don’t know what they are, man.”
    “I know. I know, Billy.”
    “You might be the best songwriter out there, but…”
    Dylan didn’t want to hear the rest of the producer’s statement. “I’ll get the songs to you. You’ll love them. It will be her best album yet.”
    “I’m counting on that, Dylan. In the meantime, I’m dealing with holding Layla off on another writer.”
    “She can’t do that. We have a contract.”
    “But you haven’t produced any songs.”
    “Just tell her they’re coming. I’ll have them for you on Sunday.”
    “You don’t have any idea what I’m dealing with here. She doesn’t like to hear ‘no’. I’ve really stuck my neck out for you.”
    “I know you have.” He didn’t want to get into who was doing the favor for whom.
    Billy had called two months begging for fresh material for the singer. She wasn’t happy with anything he had pitched to her. She wanted something undeniably amazing.
    When he agreed to write for Layla Love the songs had been flowing freely. He had lost count of how many top ten hits he had. He could cross genres. He was in demand. He never thought writing for the rock and soul queen would drain him of the wave he was riding.
    He could feel it. The lyrics were there beneath the surface, but they wouldn’t come forward. He wasn’t going to explain his creative obstacles to Billy.
    “Tell her she’ll have her album Sunday. Ok?”
    Billy laughed. “Maybe I can convince her to go to a spa or something. She had a few days off between events.”
    “Sounds like a plan.”
    Dylan ended the call and shoved the phone in his pocket.
    A slight growl rumbled through his chest. He closed his eyes, clenching his fists. No. He wouldn’t give into his bear. He wouldn’t let him roam the woods like an animal. He was an artist. He was a man. He didn’t give a shit what the shifter in him wanted.
    He pushed open the front door and settled on the porch again, leaning over to pick up the blank notepad. He had to write something no matter how terrible it was.

2
    Layla
    “ W hat do you mean he doesn’t have the songs?” Layla