Mister Dick

Boyd progressed from the verse to the pre-chorus and then chorus. Then back to the verse. He played the same progression a few times before launching into the bridge. Here he stopped and began playing different chords, as if unsure where to go.

I coughed. A full-on frog-in-the-throat kind of thing that left me shaking and mortified. Boyd’s eyes flew open, and he glanced my way, fingers frozen, surprise in his eyes. I cleared my throat and wished I could melt into the floor, because the only thing worse than Boyd catching me drooling over him like a dumb-ass teenager was the slow smile that slid across his face.

“What are you doing there?” His voice was low and more intimate than I’d like. It sent goose bumps skittering across my skin, and I shivered, replying with the first thing that popped into my head.

“You should go to a minor chord there. Like a D…” I cleared my throat and mumbled, “Or something.”

Boyd held my gaze for a long time and then, without breaking eye contact, played the section again, this time sliding to a D minor when he reached the end. He played it again and then nodded, setting his guitar down. It was an acoustic, a Gibson Hummingbird. I had one just like it.

“I didn’t know you played.” He got to his feet, and I wanted to disappear. Why did he still have such power over me?

“I play a little.” That was a lie, but it was a secret I held close to my chest. I tried to smile, but it faded as he came closer. Boyd stopped less than a whisper away from me. He smelled like soap and shampoo, and I knew if I looked close enough, I could count the thick lashes that, as a guy, he had no right to. Before I knew what he was doing, he reached for my hands and turned them over in his palms. He ran his thumb along the tips of my fingers, along the calluses from the strings and fretboard, and his eyebrows rose.

“Seems to me you play a lot.”

For a few seconds, we didn’t say anything, and when I finally got my shit together enough to speak, I sounded like Marilyn Monroe—with a frog in her throat. Which, I gotta say, was about as far away from sounding badass as you could get.

“Can I have my hands back?” I couldn’t look at him and gently tugged them from his grip. I took a step back, but the chair was in the way, and I couldn’t escape.

“How long you been playing?

I shrugged. “Awhile.”

“You write?” I couldn’t read his expression, and Lord knows I didn’t want to share anything with him, but I knew he wouldn’t give up until he was satisfied.

“Not really.”

He kind of smiled. “What does not really mean?”

“It means I don’t write for anyone other than myself.” Chin thrust forward, I pushed past him and walked into the kitchen. I wasn’t hungry, but I sure as hell needed something to do. I cranked open the fridge and stared at a bunch of stuff I’d never eat and pretended that it was the most fascinating thing ever. Who knew cheese and milk could be so damn exciting?

“You’ve been holding out.”

I jumped. He was so cl

ose, I felt the heat from his body and smelled that clean, fresh man scent that would make any girl’s lady parts sing. I glanced down. Shit. My nipples were as hard as rocks, and it sure as hell wasn’t because I was cold.

I inhaled a deep cleansing breath and realized I could do one of two things. I could grab that hunk of cheese I’d never eat and head back to the bedroom and solitary confinement.

Or, I could turn the hell around and own this moment.

A spark of something lit inside me—a feeling I hadn’t had in a long, long time. Slowly, I closed the fridge and turned around. That half smile still clung to his face, though it faltered a bit when he took a nice long turn and let his eyes move down my body. The white T-shirt didn’t hide much, and his gaze scorched across my breasts before landing back up where they belonged.

“Here,” he said, and handed me the Hummingbird.

Boyd didn’t say another word. He headed back to the living room and scooped another acoustic from its case on the floor.

He started playing the song, and after a few seconds, I joined him. This, I thought, is what owning a moment looks like. And not just any moment. This wasn’t the perfect Instagram post or red-carpet appearance. This wasn’t me changing my hair color and inspiring millions to do the same. This wasn’t me promoting some expensive new product I was paid millions to do—something I’d been damn proud of in the past. This right here could be a moment that mattered, and I didn’t realize how much I wanted it until I started playing.

I sat down across from Boyd Appleton, took a deep breath, and made the Hummingbird sing.

8

Boyd

The girl could play. Like really play. And react. And improvise. And create.

No one had ever shocked the hell out of me the way Echo Mansfield had just done. I played it cool, but inside? Inside, I was mesmerized. I was under a spell I didn’t see coming. Her hands, so delicate, her fingers nimble and quick, the fall of her hair across her shoulders, and the way she bit her bottom lip when she was concentrating. All of it pulled me in and made me wonder why the hell she’d been hiding.