“Bass for sure, and why not give the drums a go? How hard can it be?”
“Extremely hard.”
“I have a pretty good sense of rhythm, and we’re just having fun.”
It’s not like I can say that seeing Wilder pick up any instrument and just play it like it’s easy for him in a freaking talent overload will probably put my ovaries straight into an overload of their own. I do want to see him play. I want to see him absorbed in here and lost in his element so the world and all the bullshit of the past two weeks doesn’t exist. He booked this for me, but I want this to be his time. Our time. Something we create together.
I swallow thickly. “I know you’re amazing at anything and everything you try.”
“That’s not true. I’m terrible at making gourmet desserts.”
“Who isn’t?” My heart thumps ridiculously hard at his teasing smile. He probably makes the best dang desserts.
He motions to the room of pure freaking magical awesomeness right in front of us. “Shall we?”
Oh, we shall.
And we do.
My journal of songs is waiting for us on a stand right next to the guitars. “What?” I gape at him. “How?”
“I couriered it a few days ago. I couldn’t think about how to incorporate it into my old man disguise, and I wanted it to be perfectly safe. Don’t worry. I had a tracking number the whole time. I always knew where it was.”
“I’m not worried. Just surprised at the lengths you went to in order to get it here.”
“You’re not worried I would have lost it without making copies?”
“Did you make copies?” I ask.
“Making copies felt wrong. I did jot down some notes in the back about certain songs and chords, but most of it is up here.” He taps his brain. “Where all my other songs dwell.”
If I were one of those wise, sage people, I’d probably do the corny thing and tell him that the music should reside here, and thump my chest. But I’m a nurse and too practical for that. He’s right. They’re in his brain. When people talk about the heart, they’re talking about the brain. All feeling comes from the brain. The heart just pumps blood. The whole body might feel something, but yup, that’s the brain too. That might not be romantic, but it’s true. I’m sorry.
The brain can do fabulous things, like translate a total love of good cheese, so don’t hate me. I’m not bursting any bubbles, and I’m not the one who invented science. Don’t talk to me about the mystical or metaphysical either, as I haven’t quite decided what I think about that. There are lines that can be transcended. Sometimes, miraculous and unexplained things happen. I get it.
But songs are in the brain, and Wilder has a great big, incredible, beyond amazing one.
I gasp. “Have you memorized them all?”
He flashes me a sheepish tilt of his lips. He’s trying not to smile yet failing so adorably. This man is evenbetterthan cheese. My brain knows it, and it’s not going to change its mind.
“I might have, but it’s a habit. I couldn’t help it.”
He can’t. To the best of my knowledge, he has never forgotten a lyric, and not because he has one of those fancy teleprompter screens on stage at his feet either.
“I can’t think of a single word or statement that would do my excitement justice to hear you bring them to life as you experience them.”
He picks up a guitar that looks like it probably cost thousands and thousands of dollars. It’s immaculate, with fancy inlaid flowers trailing all over the body and little pearl flowers inlaid into every other fret. A gorgeous starburst of wildflowers stands out against the name on the headstock, blooming between the tuning pegs.
“Would you like to play as well?” he asks.
“I’d rather watch you first. And listen.” Maybe that’s not fair, but it’s the truth. Who wouldn’t rather soak in this man’s gifts? His rich, gravelly voice can transport a person straight to other places. And not just fantasy ones, but ones beyond the physical.
I know, I know. Music is in the brain, and the brain gives the signals, but I did say don’t start talking to me about the mystical or metaphysical. There are times when Wilder’s voice has been another dimension all on its own. A portal to other lands and things that shouldn’t be possible.
“I want to hear them as you hear them, and then I’ll join you. Maybe. If I can,” I add.
“You can. You can play, and you can sing.”
