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“You play the guitar?”
Shit. “Why did you come up here?”
She flinches and takes a step back. I hate that step back with every fiber of my being. “You were gone a long time. I thought I’d help you look. I didn’t mean to… I mean, I didn’t think… This is your private space.” She turns to leave. I’m surprised at how upset she seems. It doesn’t fit with the woman I’m getting to know.
“Honey. It’s okay. I overreacted. You just surprised me.” And I hate that I’m going to have to bury myself under more lies to make this right.
She turns. “No. You’re right to be upset. This is your home. I have a complete respect for privacy and I guess…” She looks away, chewing on her lip. “I guess I just felt comfortable here, and I forgot we aren’t friends.”
Damn, I’m a bastard. “We are friends. I’m sorry. Come on in.”
She takes another step back. If she’s not careful, she’s going to tumble down the stairs.
I lunge and grab her hand, pulling her into the room. I’m not prepared for how her hand feels in mine, so small and warm and right. “Get in here. You can look around.”
She looks down at the map in my hand. “You found it. We should just go back downstairs.”
Letting go of her hand, I grab one of the three guitars in the room. “I do play the guitar. I’ve been playing since I was six.”
“Me, too.” Her gaze roams over my favorite guitar, the wood worn smooth by use over the years.
“You play?”
She looks up at me, meeting my gaze with such intensity I feel dizzy. “I’ve been playing since before I could read.”
“Show me.” I hand her the guitar.
The look in her eyes as she considers my command is wistful. The love she has for the instrument is clear and speaks to the love I feel for music.
“We should make our plan for tomorrow.”
I should let it go, let her walk out of here and keep that space between us. Unfortunately, I’m a spoiled rock star used to getting my way. “You got anywhere to be tonight?”
She hesitates only a moment before she takes the guitar. I start to offer her a seat in my desk chair, but a glance that way reminds me of the lyrics covering my desk. I don’t want to answer the questions those would evoke.
“Let’s go downstairs,” I say instead.
She looks around the office one more time and nods. “Sure. There’s more room to sit down there.”
“What kind of music do you like to play?” I ask as I follow her down the stairs.
“I play Bluegrass mostly. I listen to metal and would love to learn how to play an electric guitar some day.” That would explain why she doesn’t recognize me. If she doesn’t listen to pop music and doesn’t pay attention to celebrity gossip, she’s probably never seen me before I ran naked into my backyard.
“An electric guitar’s not so different.”
She pauses at the bottom of the stairs and looks back at me. “You’ve played one?”
I’ve played just about every kind of guitar there is, plus piano and drums. I’m best on the guitar, but my piano is probably what I miss most about LA.
“A bit.”
“Do you have one here?”
“I don’t. Do you want anything to drink? Are you hungry?”
She stops in the living room and plops on the couch without a mention of the maps we need to go over. Eagerly, she pulls the guitar to her chest and strums. “I’m good.”
She puts her fingers to the fretboard and plays in earnest. Two things become immediately clear. One, she is definitely playing bluegrass and two, she’s really talented. She has a natural, comfortable attitude around the instrument, just like someone who’s been playing since childhood. Just like me.
