I stifle my laugh at his petulant words. “It’s their wedding day, Angelo.”
“So? People have terrible weddings all the time.”
My eyes slip to the clock as I start cleaning up. Jared and I have plans for our lunch break. The perks of having him working on the floor above me. “When are they collecting?”
“Soon. Go for your lunch. I’ll wait.”
“You want anything?”
He shakes his head, watching as I dart to the door. “Nothing for me. Take your time. We’re quiet this afternoon.”
Unusual. Maybe he topped up the secret croissant stash that we both pretend I don’t know about.
Exiting the main front door, I turn to the side. Jared’s studio has its own entrance, and I listen to the sound of plucked guitar notes trailing down the stairs as I walk up.
I lean against the doorway, not wanting to interrupt. The room is bright and airy, windows providing a stream of daylight that opens up the space. Quirky posters line the walls, my studio-warming gift.
I’m just in time. Jared puts his own guitar down, his back to me. “That was great. Same time next week, and don’t forget the chord practice so we can move on.”
The group of four, three men and a woman, slip past me with their instruments, offering nods.
Leaving me with Jared. He hasn’t noticed I’m here as he gets to his feet, collecting up the stands and stacking them neatly in the corner. “How much for a private lesson?”
Smiling, he turns. “I lost track of time.”
Tilting my head, I nod at his guitar. “How come you never play for me?”
I’ve heard him play before, of course. I watched him nearly every night. But not for a while. He shrugs. “I’m always conscious that you have neighbors. I get to play here.”
His eyebrows raise when I slip into a chair. “Play for me now.”
A light flush curls over his cheekbones. “Now?”
Nodding, I prop my chin on my hands. “If we have time. Whatever you want. I’m not fussy.”
I don’t want to be late.
“I know. I’ve seen your playlists.” His words are teasing, even as I feign outrage.
“You love my nineties pop.”
He won’t admit it. But I’ve heard him humming them when he thinks I’m not paying attention.
“I loveyou.” He’s not looking at me as he reaches for his guitar. “I can cope with the music.”
The casual words still threaten to take my breath away. I keep my voice light. “If you play me a love song, I could run up and kiss you afterwards. It’d be like a movie.”
A dimple flashes as he pulls the strap over his head. “Sorry. Hard rock only today.”
Damn it.
I settle back to watch him. Watching Jared play is like watching art. Every movement is effortless as his fingers flick over the strings.
It’s not hard rock. Softer, slower, but still with a rough edge to it that Jared takes and owns, his voice low and husky.
My breath catches in my chest and holds. He doesn’t look away, his cheeks dusted with red until he comes to a stop, his voice trailing away.
“There,” he says quietly. “You fixed me, Emmy Marsters. It seemed like a good choice.”
