Morning light filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows, spilling over Tucker as he bent over his guitar. Not an electric one, like he played on stage. This guitar was acoustic. Like one a cowboy would play. The cowboy he was.
The storm had started and stopped in the night, leaving another rich layer of snow outside. Kenzie snuggled deeper into the bed, embracing the comforter and the way the snow muffled even the inside sounds.
Except the ones Tucker made.
It was Christmas, and this was her favorite present of all. Time with Tucker, watching him work.
Kenzie didn’t dare say anything to ruin the moment. She was naked and in Tucker’s bed while he strummed a song she’d never heard before. Eyes shut, his head down, he hummed the melody while his fingertips had their way with the strings. He paused, wrote something on the pad of paper beside him, and went back to his guitar.
His hair brushed against his ears. His forehead was completely relaxed.
Tucker was in his zone.
Then he sang a few bars, faint and barely there. His voice wasn’t smooth. Not like the musicians who seemed to have taken over pop music. Tucker’s sounded scarred, low and husky. That sound that had captured audiences and sold millions of records.
She could listen to him like this forever and never get tired of it.
“What’s another word for different?” He lifted his head to her.
She jolted when his blue eyes met hers. The matter-of-fact way he asked the question implied he’d known she was totally awake for a while.
“Sorry. What?” she replied.
“I need another word for different.”
She let the question settle into her brain. “Distinct?”
“Thanks.” He nodded and scribbled on his notepad. Hummed a bit more. His fingers continued massaging the strings on the guitar. “What about little?”
Was she actually helping Tucker write a song? “Small?”
“Nah, that’s not it. Like little and fragile.” He set the guitar aside. Rubbed a hand over his face.
“Did you sleep?” She sat up, the comforter sliding to her waist.
She needed to find her luggage. Get dressed. Make French toast.
He stared at her, his nostrils flared. “No.”
“You’ve been at this all night?” Legs tossed over the side of the bed, she stood.
“Mmm hmm. Spent some time in the studio, but the lyrics come easier here.” He did look beat—the whites of his eyes were red from him being up all night.
Heading to the attached bathroom for a shower, she paused with her hand on the doorframe and turned back toward him.
“Delicate.” The word popped out of her mouth before she realized why she said it.
“Hmmm?” He rose his eyebrows.
“The word you’re looking for is ‘delicate.’ Like ‘little’ but breakable. That’s ‘delicate.’”
He grinned a lopsided smile. “You’re good at this. You should write songs. Half the battle is figuring out different words that mean the same thing.”
“I’m more of a screenplay girl. I wouldn’t know where to start with lyrics.”
“I’ve been thinking a lot about your screenplay. I read it. It’s exceptional.” He set his guitar aside, stood, and stretched. He’d tossed on a pair of jeans at some point, but his torso was uncovered. “And I think you should produce your story. Not someone else. You. You’ll do it justice.”
Wait. He liked it?
