He gave a small, nervous smile. “I know.”
“What if I don’t even use this after our performance?” I went on. “I can’t accept it. It’s—” I gestured helplessly. “It’s too expensive.”
He didn’t argue. He just stepped closer and lifted the guitar from the case, letting me take it into my hands.
And damn it. I told myself I was just going to look. That I’d hand it right back. Instead, I brushed my fingers along the body.
The finish was smooth, warm under my palm. When I wrapped my hand around the neck, the fit was instinctive, like my fingers already knew where to go. The weight sat just right against my torso, balanced in a way that made my shoulders relax without me meaning to.
“It’s beautiful,” I murmured.
I shook myself and set the guitar back into its case. “But I really can’t,” I said. “Or at least let me pay you.”
Mark reached out and caught my hand before I could close the latches.
“Do you forgive me?” he asked quietly.
That did it. I stepped into him, hands sliding up to curl around the back of his neck. “I told you, there’s nothing to forgive,” I said, and kissed him.
His hands settled at my waist, pulling me closer. I nipped his lower lip, tugging just enough to make him hiss.
My fingers slid into his hair then, pulling him back harder than I meant to.
Mark tried to lean in, but I held him there. “How much was it?”
He hummed, lips curving, and tipped forward again. I caught his jaw, thumb brushing over his mouth.
His lips met it instantly. I tightened my grip, fingers firm along his jawline.
“Mark,” I said, low. “How much.”
He sighed and stepped back, now out of reach. “I really don’t mind paying.”
“I do,” I said immediately. “I can’t accept it otherwise.”
His hands slid to my hips anyway, resting there like he couldn’t help himself. His thumbs traced small, absent circles that made it very hard to stay focused.
I missed the heat of him already. Missed the way he’d felt pressed against me. I wanted out of the shop.
So I exhaled and said, “You pay for my dad’s guitar repairs. I’ll pay you back for this one.”
He opened his mouth to argue. I gave him a look.
He groaned, tipping his head back. “Fine. Deal.”
I leaned in and kissed him once more, quick and decisive. “Okay,” I said, smiling. “Now let’s get out of here.”
13
MARK
Zack and I stood on the small raised platform at Griffin’s bar. We had hooked up our instruments to Griffin’s old sound system. The acoustics weren’t perfect, but the vibe was right.
We’d been playing for an hour, fine-tuning the set for the New Year’s Eve performance.
Zack strummed a few chords, head bent, that look of quiet focus I’d grown to love etched across his face. His lips moved as he counted under his breath, keeping time.
I played along, following his rhythm. Every now and then our gazes met, and every time, that same spark hit me square in the chest.
