Page 43 of Heartbreaker
“I’ve got a chef coming to cook every night.”
“Yes, I saw the menu you sent. Everything sounds delicious.” I open the fridge, anxious for something to keep my hands busy.
Grapes.
Easy. Fast. I can just pop some in my mouth, which gives me something to do other than worry about how much I want him to touch me.
“So, do you have thoughts on what you want to work on?”
“I do,” I admit, releasing an internalized breath I’ve been holding.
Music is safe territory.
“I’ve got some things I’ve been playing with that the record company wouldn’t let me pursue, but now that I hold more power, I’m going to go with it. Do you, uh, want to hear?” I’m suddenly nervous.
This isRoyal Ewing.
Yes, I’m a star, but I’m known for my voice, not my songwriting.
He was at least a co-writer for every single one of Midnight Sun’s hits, so that’s a little intimidating.
“Of course. That’s why we’re here.” He plucks a grape off the bunch and pops it in his mouth, leaning a hip against the island. Why is he infuriatingly sexy? So much so that I’m having trouble concentrating on anything but the body I know is hidden beneath his jeans and long-sleeve Henley.
“Hang on.” I hurry into the bedroom and grab my acoustic guitar.
How the hell am I going to play it in front of one of the premier guitar virtuoso’s of our generation? He may not be able to play anymore but that doesn’t negate who he is—was?—or his skill and musical IQ.
But I’m no slouch.
I’m a star too.
I remind myself of that as I walk back into the room where Royal is waiting on the couch, the bowl of grapes on the coffee table in front of him.
I lean on the edge of a nearby armchair and rest the guitar in my lap. “I call this one ‘Remembering Never.’ I don’t have a chorus yet, just the first stanza, but the opening melody makes me happy.”
I move my hands into position and slowly strum the opening bars. The strings are worn and comfortable against the pads of my fingers, like an old friend. I’ve had it since I was thirteen. It’s the first guitar I ever owned and it’s the only one I use when I’m writing. It’s like working with an old friend.
You were never gonna love me
We were never gonna steal
Kisses in the night and the things that lovers feel.
You were never gonna take me
Or make me someone’s wife
We were never gonna make it in this thing we call life.
I stop abruptly, since I haven’t gotten much further. “I know, it’s rough.”
“It’s not.” He gives a small shake of his head. “Play the first part again.”
I start over but before I start to sing, he stops me.
“A minor seventh there,” he instructs. “And maybe this.” He comes to stand behind me, covering my left hand with his, showing me the chords he has in mind.
And of course, it’s brilliant.
