Page 2 of Good Golly Miss Molly

That’s never a good sign.

″Of course she does! Any lady with a voice this lovely should be addressed by name, in tones of admiration. And that’s before one admires her stunning looks.”

″Itisa very pretty guitar.″

″Thank you! I had to chase that slab of rosewood for a long time.”

Surely not…

″You made this instrument yourself?”

″I did indeed. Logan Gilmour,” he says, offering me his hand. “Luthier. I make and repair guitars and such.”

The musician is a luthier.

″Do you play?” he asks me.

″Generally not. But I have known many musicians during my life.”

″Were you looking to buy a gift for one of them? Someone special? A boyfriend, perhaps?”

″No!”

OK. That was a little too emphatic, even if the idea is alarming. Pull it together, Molly.

″Bad breakup?” Logan asks.

″You could say that. It was a long while ago, though.”

″Still getting over it? That’s understandable. Any relationship worth being in is worth being heartbroken over. At least for a while. Just don’t let it stop you from getting to know new people.”

″I don’t know a lot of people yet anyway. I haven’t been here very long.”

″Oh! Well, welcome, then.”

And there it is again. He really needs to stop saying that word.

I smile at him absently, but the rosewood guitar has captured my attention. It’s even more impressive close up, shaped with a delicate touch and clear care for the grain of the wood, bringing out its natural beauty under a light polish.

″Did you want to try it? I noticed you said you don’tgenerallyplay. So you must play at least a little.″

His smile is winning, but earnest.

″A very little. Someone… someone taught me once…”

″The same someone who broke your heart?”

″Yes, though it was I who did the breaking.”

″Regrets…” he assesses aloud. “You have regrets.”

″I do. It was not a good ending. He deserved better.”

I look at my feet, uncomfortable with myself and how badly I know he’d judge me if he knew…

″Don’t we all,” Logan observes. It’s a thoughtful takeaway from my ruminations, even though I barely voiced them. Logan is very intuitive — with wood and with people, or at least with me. I push down that rush, that siren’s song that feeds the need.

″Here,” he says, handing me the guitar. Before I can object and push it away, he’s looped the elaborately decorated leather strap over my head and arm, settling it across my belly. It’s an intimate act, almost, his hands tracing across my shoulder to settle the strap in place, grazing over my hips as he adjusts the balance. As it washes over me, his scent is woodsy, with a hint of sandalwood and salty sea. I try to breathe less deeply.

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