Page 79 of Hot Girl Summer

“Can’t you just teach me Wonderwall, or something?”

“No, Wonderwall is overrated. Plus, it doesn’t work like that.”

I pout.

“There are better Oasis songs.”

“Like what?”

“Live Forever. Slide Away. Focus.”

“I haven’t heard that one.”

“No, I’m telling you to focus. I’m a leftie, so essentially you can mirror me. Index finger on the third string, first fret. Second on the fifth string, second fret. Third finger on the fourth string, second fret. Relax your fingers a little.” Pausing, he leans forward to readjust my placement. “Now, press down and strum.”

The sound that leaves my fingertips sounds passable, but I’m no expert.

“Again.”

The second time sounds slightly worse, but I don’t know why. As far as I’m aware, my fingers haven’t moved. He props his guitar against the couch and kneels behind me.

“Relax your wrists.”

I do as he says. The heat from his breath sends a sheet of goosebumps down my spine, and warmth floods every inch of my body. Gently, he guides my elbow away from my body, into a loose right angle by my side, then cupping my hand in his, he eases the neck towards me, so that it sits straight across my body.

“Now try. Press your second finger down a little more, and try not to touch the first or second strings.”

Slowly, I strum the chord again, and the sound it makes is infinitely better, almost perfect.

“Good,” he says. “Keep going.”

He’s the perfect distraction, but I try not to let intrusive thoughts of our close proximity lead me astray. I continue to play, finding a rhythm, finding calm in the chaos of my racing heart, experimenting with different levels of volume, and finding that I prefer the sound when it’s soft, slow and controlled.

“How do your fingers feel?” he asks.

“Not as good as yours.”

Oops, did I say that out loud?

“Is that an invitation, Miss DeLuca?”

“It’s whatever you want it to be.”

From behind, Danny feels his way to the apex of my dress, his fingertips lightly aligning with my sternum, while his other hand dips below the cotton-clad curve of my hip. Fire ignites throughout my body when his touch settles an inch above the waistband of my underwear.

It’s difficult to concentrate on anything else, and I try everything in my power not to grab his hand and guide it underneath my dress.

“Thisis E major,” he says softly, as he adjusts his index finger to slightly offset the other two. “Would you like me to keep going?”

“Please,” I breathe.

My injury objects to the declaration hanging in the air, and instinctively, my hand moves to my shoulder. In an attempt to ease the ache, I tilt my head away from the pain.

“You’re hurting,” Danny says, his voice barely a whisper as his words brush against the exposed part of my neck, sending more goosebumps across my skin.

“I’m fine, it’s this angle.”

Placing the guitar on the floor beside me, I close my eyes, and uncross my legs. Sinking my hips back onto my heels in a Vajrasana pose, my hands softly graze my knees, and I breathe deep into my injury.

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