Page 84 of Axe-ing for Trouble
My brain told me to play it cool. But I was in no emotional state to pretend.
“Yes.” I strode across the room and planted a big kiss right on his lips. “I missed you a lot.”
He smiled down at me, his expression a perfect mix of surprise and delight. “I missed you too. I felt guilty about going out to play without you, so I thought I might put on a little show for you here. How does that sound?”
Stunned, I stumbled back a step, nodding a little too vigorously.
“Gimme a minute.”
He came back a few minutes later with a stool and one of the acoustic guitars he kept on a stand in the spare bedroom. As he settled in front of the fireplace, he gave me a shy smile.
“Sit down,” he said, lowering his head and plucking a string, tuning the instrument.
The sight of him, perched on his stool, one of his long legs extended while he bit his lip and adjusted the frets, made it impossible not to swoon.
Or maybe it was the jeans, light-washed and broken in, hugging the curves of his muscular thighs. Or the maroon T-shirt that hid nothing. Whatever it was, it made me lightheaded despite the ungodly number of almonds I’d consumed earlier.
“Any requests?” His eyes sparkled, reminiscent of the way he’d looked that night on stage when I’d come home with him. The easy posture, the quiet confidence.
“Your favorites.”
With a nod, he tapped one foot, then played the opening chords to “Blackbird” by the Beatles. And when he opened his mouth and the lyrics came out? A host of tingles swept through me. Holy shit. He could sing.
His voice was dark and smoky, with a hint of a rasp. Johnny Cash without the cigarettes. I couldn’t tear my attention from him when he closed his eyes and the music took over, his strong fingers on the guitar, the beautiful lyrics drifting on the air.
We were alone in the living room of a small house in Northern Maine. It didn’t matter. He could be singing to a sold-out crowd at Madison Square Garden and it wouldn’t have been any more moving than this moment. Because he was singing to me.
He transitioned straight into Simon & Garfunkel and then some Neil Young. Just when I thought I’d melt into a puddle of goo and make a mess of his couch, he broke into “Your Body is a Wonderland” by John Mayer that then turned into an acoustic arrangement of “Baby Got Back.”
An embarrassing fit of girlish giggles overtook me. He was talented and funny. He kept looking up at me and winking.
He took a break, setting his guitar on the couch. “Just need some water.”
I jumped up, my heart pattering ridiculously. “I’ll get it. I’m sorry I kept you playing for so long.”
Lips curling up on one side, he shook his head. “I’m having fun. You like it?”
“Love it,” I said, scurrying to the kitchen.
We sat for a few minutes while he drank a glass of water and I tried to get my raging hormones under control.
Was it possible to die from lust? Should I ask Willa? She was a doctor; she knew things.
“When did you start playing?” The question was lame, but most of my blood was pumping to my lady bits. If I didn’t distract myself, I was liable to rip my clothes off and offer him my body. No wonder I’d lost my mind and gone home with him last year. There was no resisting this man when he had a guitar in his hands.
“Third grade.” He took a big gulp of water. “The music teacher brought out recorders and made us all play them. Yes, they’re the worst instrument ever, but I loved it. Took mine home for extra practice, and my mother, God love her, eagerly listened every time I wanted to perform for her. She pretended like ‘Row, Row, Row Your Boat’ was not ear-splitting torture.”
A warmth of affection for a woman I’d never met bloomed in my chest. “That’s sweet.”
“After I got good enough to have a solo at the elementary school concert—we’d worked our way up to ‘Old MacDonald’—my mother signed me up for piano lessons. I spent years practicing in a musty church basement, all the while shoveling snow to earn enough money for a guitar. Any spare minute I had, I’d play. When I have a guitar in my hand, I know who I am.”
That statement cut through the affection like a knife through butter.
“I have no idea who I am.” The confession was ill-timed word vomit, but it was true. Though it had never hit as hard as it did in this moment, after watching him do something he loved so passionately. It was a stark reminder of how much I was missing.
“You’ll figure it out,” he said, his expression soft. “I have faith in you.”
Emotion rose up in my throat, but I choked it back. “I hope so.”
