“You mocking my repertoire?”
“Maybe a little.”
I lift the guitar and lay it on my lap. “Name your genre.”
“Hmm . . . how about something moody? Lewis Capaldi?”
I strum a few over-dramatic, heartbreaky chords, letting my head fall back as I half sing, half groan a handful of lines from “Someone You Loved”.
She laughs, the sound bright and unexpected. It does something to my chest that I try not to examine too closely.
“Okay, now how about Paolo Nutini?”
I slide into the bouncy “New Shoes” chords, singing the chorus in my best impression of him.
She claps. “Not bad! All right, now surprise me.”
I switch to a lighter, poppier rhythm and do a bit of Sabrina Carpenter’s “Espresso”.
“Wow! Didn’t see that one coming. I take it back. You’ve got range, Struan.”
“Aye, well, that’s my whole set list,” I say with a wink at her.
She smiles and hugs her knees to her chest. The tension that usually tightens her shoulders has melted away, and in the soft light from the kitchen window, she looks younger. Softer. “I never learned to play. Always wanted to.”
“It’s never too late. I’ll teach you a chord.”
“Really?”
“Why not?”
I pass her the guitar, and she settles it awkwardly across her lap. “I have no idea what I’m doing.”
“That’s the spirit.” I nudge her playfully. “Right, we’ll start with G. It’s an easy one. Handy too.”
I reach over and guide her fingers to the right strings, my thigh brushing hers. Her hands are so much smaller and softer than mine.
“Try that.”
She attempts a strum but produces only a muffled thunk. “God. That sounded terrible.”
I press her fingers down a wee bit firmer. “Try again.”
This time the chord rings out—wobbly, but recognisable.
“I did it!” She grins triumphantly.
“Natural talent.”
I don’t move my hand. Neither does she.
Christ, we’re close. I can feel the warmth of her, hear the quick catch of her breath. One shift, one wrong move, and the spell will break.
Our eyes meet. Her gaze flicks to my mouth—just for a heartbeat, but I see it. And then? Then she leans in and kisses me.
It’s soft at first—tentative, testing—and for a split second I’m too stunned to react. Then her lips move over mine, and the shock turns into pure instinct.
I kiss her back.
