Say You'll Marry Me

She set aside her determination for now and went with his subject change. “No. What’s it about?”

“I was doing some research the other day when I came across a story about a social worker experimenting with dementia patients and music. I didn’t watch the whole video, but from the little I saw, and the comments posted, his efforts have had an amazing effect on a lot of people. I thought you might want to check it out.”

Joy pushed up to fold her hands atop his chest and rest her chin. “You were researching dementia?”

His shrug held a hint of self-consciousness. “I don’t know anything about it, so I wanted to see what it was, what to expect.” His gaze met hers in the dim light shining up from the lights below, one hundred percent serious. “It’s a terrible disease.”

“It is.” She swallowed hard past the emotion clogging her throat. “Thank you for letting me know about the documentary.”

“June is a wonderful woman. Anything that keeps her with us longer is worth a try.”

Us. Did he have any idea what that one word did to her?

She ducked her head to blink away tears.

“Hey, I didn’t mean to make you sad.” His hand rose to cup her jaw, lifting her face to his as his thumb brushed over her cheekbone.

“You’ve made me happy,” she corrected. “Amazing the difference of a couple weeks, isn’t it? I never expected…this.”

“Me neither. But I like it.”

“Me, too.”

He urged her up for a kiss that was more emotional than sexual—until he rolled her over on the blanket and slid one knee between hers. His hand slipped under her shirt to knead her breast. As he kissed his way down her neck, she arched her head to the side to give him plenty of access, and her gaze lit on the faint outline of his guitar propped in the corner near the loft ladder.

“Logan? Can I ask you something else?”

“Sure.”

“Would you play something for me?”

He paused before making a hmm-ing noise against her throat. “Like a game?”

Her pulse skipped a beat. “Like a song.”

He stilled, then lifted his head and followed her gaze toward the instrument. She turned her attention to his face as he stared, his brow furrowed. With a shake of his head, he pulled his hand from beneath her shirt and pushed away from her to sit back on his heels.

“I don’t think—”

“Please?” she said softly as she sat up.

He shifted to sit with his arms looped around his drawn up knees. “You know how I feel about this.”

“It doesn’t have to be one of yours.”

Now his gaze met hers, guarded, but not completely shut off

. She got up and crossed the loft barefoot to get the guitar, heart pounding up near her throat the whole way. His gaze travelled down her bare legs and back up on her return to the blanket. He took the guitar when she handed it over, and she dropped to her knees next to him.

“You know other songs, don’t you?”

“I do. But I’ve never played for anyone before.”

“See, now that’s where you screwed up. A guy and a guitar is one of the hottest things around. Total chick magnet.”

A brief smile touched his lips, but it faded fast. He hesitated, then shifted to position the instrument on his thighs. As he plucked a few times at the strings, he ducked his head, then his fingers started picking out chords, though not to any melody she recognized.

Realizing staring at him probably wasn’t helping, she repositioned herself onto her side behind him and ran her hand over his hunched shoulders.