“Just a taste,” I say, my voice breathy as heat unfurls low in my stomach.
It turns out to be a good distraction as we drive—laughing with Brandon, teasing him about his terrible playlist, letting flirtation fill the spaces where my nerves would otherwise live. But beneath every joke, the question thrums:Can my guitar be saved?
***
When we meet the luthier in his workshop, he examines my Cole Clark insilence, thumb tracing the fractured body like he’s reading a secret map.
“Can you fix it?” I ask at last, terrified of the answer.
“Structurally…maybe. But I’d need to get inside it first. Aesthetically…” He pauses, brow creasing. “I honestly can’t promise anything. It might not blend well.”
He looks dubious when I show him the sea glass, and it feels pointless to even be asking about decorative elements for a guitar that might be broken beyond repair.
Then he glances at Brandon—something unspoken passing between them—before saying only, “Leave it with me.”
So I do, trusting it with a stranger.
“A good luthier won’t make promises,” Brandon says to me softly as we return to the car. “But I’m sure he can fix it.”
I open the car door but don’t get in, casting him a wary look. “I thought you didn’t want to raise my hopes?”
“I think you could afford to hope a little.”
I swallow and nod.
He’s right. But sometimes, hoping hurts.
47
Restoration
Brandon
The days roll by, work a distraction at best—no longer the solace it once was. Not when she’s driving me insane.
At night, our hands wander, brushing, seeking, testing lines we haven’t quite crossed. Even when we bring each other to release, it never feels like enough. I want more.
I want to roll her onto her back and show her exactly what she does to me.
This morning nearly finished me.
I woke to find her wearing new satin sleepwear, glossy black fabric edged in red lace—utterly lethal. Leaving her for work felt like a punishment.
By the time I pull back into the drive eight hours later, I’ve thought of little else. Work kept my body moving, but my mind…every memory was an ambush.
The press of her mouth against mine.
Her body beneath me on the beach.
Her fingers twisted in my shirt like she never wants to let go.
Red lace.
It all feels unreal now, like a dream I never want to wake from.
But then I remember waking with her curled against me this morning—warm, trusting, impossibly precious—and it undoes me all over again.
Everything feels different, brighter and livelier. Even the air is crisp, full of possibility as I walk up the front path, whistling a low tune. That earns me a knowing smile from Barbara as she waters the roses out front.
