Page 71 of That Fake Feeling
Patriciagrabs my arm and leans in. “You’vepicked a good one.”
Connorcan play the guitar?Andwho knew he’d be so at home and relaxed with a bunch of kids?Hetaps his foot and sways from side to side in time with the music as he smiles and eggs them on.He’sobviously having the time of his life—even happier and more relaxed than at his parents’ house.It’slike he’s a completely different person.Isthis him being himself?
Andis there anything sexier than a man in ripped jeans and a whiteT-shirt playing the guitar?Yes, there is—a man in ripped jeans and a whiteT-shirt playing the guitar for a bunch of delighted children.
Hisright bicep bulges against the body of the instrument as the agile fingers of his left hand form the chords with ease.It’simpossible not to imagine all the other things they could do.Yes, those thoughts are wrong, butI’monly human.
Behindthe kids are two guys, one taking photos, one shooting video.IguessI’dbetter get over there and do my job.
“Oh, he’s definitely a good one,”ItellPatricia.Andmaybe he really is. “Excuseme one minute.”
JeremyandSeetagrin and wave asIdance towardConnor, clapping and joining in.
AsIreach his side, he looks up at me with a giant smile and raises his eyebrows as if to saylook whatI’mdoing.
Hefinishes the song with a flourish.Thekids squeal and cheer and call for more.
Idon’t even have to make an effort to smile asIrest my hand on one of those illegally hot shoulders and bend down to his ear.
“Thisis amazing.”Awkwardor not, he definitely deserves praise. “Ihad no idea you could play guitar.”
Hestands up.
“Learnedin my misspent youth in bars and during college evenings staying up late and hanging out in dorm rooms rather than studying.Gothere early and this was lying around.”Heholds up the guitar by its neck. “Thekids were being a bit disruptive, soIthoughtI’ddust off the old skills and see ifIcould calm them down.”
Heturns to the kids who are yelling for more. “Gottago, the boss is here.”
Hedrapes his arm around my shoulders, and my body instinctively leans into him as the cameras click and film away.
“Maybemore later,” he tells his groaning audience.
Patriciastrides over.
“Fabulous!” she tellsConnor, then turns to the kids. “Everyone, say ‘Thankyou,Mr.Dashwood.’”
Thekids repeat it, almost in unison.
Connorholds the guitar out at arm’s length and pulls me down into a deep bow with him.
Iturn my upside-down head toward him. “Youlook like you’re actually enjoying this.Likeit’s not just for the cameras.”
Helooks at me, his smiling upside-down face distorted by gravity. “It’sfun.”
Finally, something that’s real.
Weright ourselves and the blood rushes away from my head.
Butthe brush ofConnor’slips against my ear has it quickly reversing course and flooding back to my cheeks, while a shiver ripples from my neck to my toes.
“Sorryfor being a dick yesterday,” he whispers. “You’rejust doing your job.Itook it too far.Sorry.”
What?
Hewas being distant because he thought it wasmewho regretted the kiss?
Well,IguessIdo.Butalso,Idon’t.
It’sconfusing.
