He’s too close, and he’s only getting closer. But the guitar hovers between us, beckoning me to take it. On a deep inhale, I do.
I place it on my lap, fingers curling around the neck. “I don’t—”
“Scoot forward.”
My body stiffens, pulse jolting. Gulping, I inch toward the edge of the cushion. Chase leans back, just enough to give me space. Just enough to make me aware of how little of it there is.
Then he moves around the couch, behind me.
His denim-clad thigh brushes mine as he gets into position, knees bracketing my hips, chest grazing my spine. The heat from his body sears me, and I feel it all, every breath, every heartbeat, every whisper of his fingers as they reach around to guide mine on the strings.
“Relax,” he murmurs near my ear, and I’m pretty sure the wordrelaxhas never done the opposite so effectively. “Let your hands follow mine.”
He adjusts my grip, slow and steady, his calloused fingers grazing my softer ones like they belong there.
Sinking back, I release a breath, a shiver, a prayer.
“Right there,” he says.
I feel the words more than I hear them, reverberating through my marrow.
I try to focus; I really do.
But the scent of him, warm and familiar, a hint of smoky cedar and something darker, settles into my lungs, and the room around me blurs like arain-beaten window. Water echoes off the shingled roof in streams of pitter-patters, pounding in time with my pulse.
Chase hums a chord to demonstrate, then guides my fingers to mimic it.
My strum is clumsy, and I wince. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be.” He smiles against my cheek. “You’ll get it.”
I won’t.
I can’t concentrate.
My heart is beating too loud, overpowering every chord.
We try again, and a few more off-key notes breach the air.
“Not bad. Try pressing down a little harder on theAstring. Like this.” His hand wraps around mine, firm fingers guiding my graceless ones.
The contact sends a shock up my arm. My breath catches, nerves curdling in my throat. “I’m really bad at this.”
“You’re not. You just don’t trust yourself yet.” His voice drops a little. “Trust me instead.”
I nod, barely.
We strum again, better this time. Still not perfect, but enough to take the shape of a melody.
“There it is,” he says, voice low and damn near haunting.
I laugh under my breath and risk a glance back. His eyes lock on mine.
Our faces are inches apart. As he swallows, his gaze drops to my lips, then flicks up again, unreadable but charged. The smile is gone. Mine was never there.
I’m fucking petrified.
His hand stills, but he doesn’t move away. Just stares at me, breath hot and heavier, focus fixed like he’s memorizing the color of my eyes, every swirling, frightened pigment.
