“Better?” he asks.
He presses the inside of his thigh to the outside of mine, that one physical touch centering me and causing a thousand butterflies to take flight in my stomach at the same time.
“Much better.” I loop the guitar strap over my head and settle the instrument in my lap, hoping to settle my nerves by strumming a few chords to loosen my fingers. Raising my voice, I tell the guy, “I’m going to warm up with ‘Someone Like You’ by Adele.” Taking a steadying breath, my fingers tremble slightly asthey hover over the guitar strings. “Okay,” I breathe more than say.
I do a slow three-count in my head, then let my fingers find the first chords, strumming gently. The melody emerges, slowed to half its usual tempo, each note stretching into something real and aching. The sound hangs in the air like a ghost of a memory, and as the first words leave my lips, I find Fallon’s eyes. I sing as my heart breaks all over again, feeling every bit of the emotion the song evokes—a woman struggling years later after the breakup with her boyfriend. How it still hurts her. How she still grieves.
And in that moment, I am her, as I pour every ounce of myself into the lyrics. The heartbreak, the longing—it’s all mine, each verse carved into me.
I feel the warmth of Fallon’s touch when he reaches out, his thumb grazing my cheek, brushing away the silent evidence of my sorrow. The final note hums through the guitar strings and lingers in the hush that follows. My fingers still, and then, as if drawn by something beyond myself, I lean into him, tilting my face into his palm.
“That was absolutely beautiful,” Fallon says.
That damnable crackle of the speakers makes me jump again. “You have an incredible voice, Elizabeth. Want to do another take?” the guy asks.
I don’t think I can handle singing that song again. Being here reminds me of when Ryder took me to the music department at CU on the first day of classes. We snuck into one of the lesson rooms, and he played my song for me, the one I wrote for him and gave to him the night of our prom. I remember the deep sound of his voice crooning to me, calling to me when my memories had forgotten everything. But not him. Somehow, my connection with him was still strong. It drew me in. And when he finished singing, I begged him to kiss me. It was the first kiss ofour new beginning. That ‘what if’ we had talked about that night at his dad’s garage before…well, before Peter took everything from me.
Shaking those memories away, I sit up straighter, and Fallon drops his hand. I don’t know what he sees on my face, but he gets up and takes another one of the acoustic guitars from its stand and fishes out a pick from a glass jar on the side table. I’m struck stupid when he starts playing Maroon 5’s “Memories.”
He learned to play the guitar, too?
“Try and keep up, Kitten.”
Fallon sends me the sexiest grin, and my mouth gapes open, literally hitting the floor, when he sings to me.Oh. My. God. How did I not know he couldsing? And, Jesus, his voice. It’s like Adam Levine’s, where he can hit both the low and high notes.
I immediately join in with my guitar. No way am I missing this opportunity. We laugh more than we perform, but the joy I feel duetting with him is like catching fireflies on a summer night—wondrous and filled with a kind of magic that lingers long after the song fades. Fallon will never cease to amaze me.
We’re smiling at one another when we finish the song. He looks so boyish and carefree. I soak it up like pure sunshine.
Fallon used to be such a mysterious paradox. The boogeyman who lurked in the shadows. The bad boy with the loose temper and questionable morals. The rich party boy who cared about nothing more than having a good time. Then New Elizabeth was able to push past the false façade that he had erected to keep everyone from seeing the real Fallon Montgomery. And that person was…is…absolutely amazing.
“Can you learn by rote?” I ask him.
He taps his temple with a finger. “Eidetic memory.”
Just another facet of him that I’m now learning about. Fallon is the quintessential riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma.
Feeling cheeky, I reply, “Then let’s see ifyoucan keep up, Mr. Montgomery.”
I riff the intro chords to a song Dad wrote for Mom, “Come Closer.” It was the last song we ever played together. Me, him, and Ryder. Jayson recorded us on his phone. Every once in a while, when the sadness gets too much, I’ll watch it.
Fallon intently studies my hands, joining in in bursts when I repeat the melody. I play the song a couple of times before he says, “I think I got it.”
And he does. He doesn’t miss a note as we play the song through its entirety.
I’m smiling so hard, my cheeks hurt. Slipping the guitar strap off my shoulder, I set it down and rise on my tiptoes to press a kiss to his Cupid’s bow mouth. “Not too shabby.”
It’s adorable to watch him blush.
He leans his guitar against the stool and takes me in his arms. “Trent, play that back.”
So that’s his name.
“You got it,” Trent says over the speaker.
“What are you up to?” I ask when Fallon drapes my arms around his neck and takes me by the hips.
“Dancing with my woman.”
