“Besides,” I teased, “a true artist could write songs just as easily out here as in the sunroom, especially with all this gorgeous scenery to get your imagination going.” This was patently untrue since Zane had no guitar or notebook, and his hands were occupied with his poles, but I wasn’t worried about accuracy when my teasing tone had the desired effect of making him sputter with outraged laughter. “You know, you’re right,” Zane shot back breathlessly. “In fact, I’m writing a song in my head right now. I’m just trying to get the lyrics down. What rhymes with my fingers are frozen stiff? Ooh,
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