“Did you just make up a word?”
His arrogance hits all the insecurities I have. That I’ve never been good at school. Or that I don’t know how to play guitar, even though it’s something I’ve wanted for as long as I can remember. Anger bubbles at the sight of his attractive smirk and I feel myself snap. “Fuck you, dickwad.”
His brows shoot up.
I practically drop the guitar to my lap as my hands fly to cover my mouth. “Oh, my!” I can’t believe I said that. Lord! How did those words come from my mouth?
His gaze holds mine, his face full of the same shock I feel. Then, his lips split into a full smile. Laughter, deep and throaty, flows from his belly.
“I’m so sorry!” I apologize, but the ridiculousness of the situation causes a giggle to escape my lips.
He continues to laugh and shake his head. “No. It’s fine. Really, I deserved it.”
“You did!” I’m smiling. I can feel it in the way my face pulls, and it hits me that I miss this. The joyfulness that I used to experience regularly has now become a rare occurrence.
“But I wasn’t wrong about the guitar. Try it again.”
He’s doing it again. His bossy demands, but I don’t want to sour the easiness between us by calling him out so I set my fingers on the strings, pick up my pick, and try again.
“Good. Don’t pause, keep the rhythm.” He pats his hand against his jeans, and sets a pace I try to match. “That’s it.” His affirmation means more than it should. A happiness settles with his encouragement. For the next hour I play and he tells me where to put my hands, or how to move my arm. I think he might know his stuff, and may be a better teacher than Austin, because the longer I play, the more my songs resemble actual music. He even teaches me a few new chords and my transitions aren’t a complete failure.
“Keep playing.” He pushes up to his feet, stretching as soon as he stands straight.
I glance up and catch a glimpse of his lean stomach.Sweet Jesus.My hands falter, blundering my near perfect streak. Blushing, my gaze falls back to the strings before he catches the source of my slipup.
Not two minutes later he returns with two bottles of water. Lowering next to me on the floor, he scoots closer this time so his jeans brush against my knee. The touch sends goosebumps across my skin, but if he notices he doesn’t mention it.
“You’ve earned a break.” He holds out one of the bottles while I place the guitar safely in its case.
“Thank you.” I uncap the lid and take a sip. The cool water is soothing to my parched lips. I glance at the clock on the wall. A quarter after one. The guys should be back soon. Curious as to why he’s not out with everyone, I stretch out my legs and lift my chin to meet his eyes. “So, why did you come back early?”
“To correct your technique.” He squishes up his nose and his lips spread wide with a grin.
I roll my eyes. “Seriously.”
“Seriously?” He picks at the label on his water and lifts his gaze, the hint of a smile still at play, but with his stiff movements, he almost seems nervous. Or embarrassed? He clears his throat. “I wasn’t old enough to stay at the bar.”
“You got kicked out for being underage?” I can’t help but smile at the thought.
“No . . .” He drags out the word. “I left before I was asked to leave.”
Now I’m curious how much older he is than I am. “How many more months before you get to stay?”
He coughs. “Years.”
I lift my brows. I mean, sure I assume he’s closer to my age than the rest of the guys, but that’s because they’re pushing thirty. Before I can ask his age, he offers the knowledge freely.
“I’m eighteen.”
“Eighteen!” To say I’m shocked is an understatement. Between the two of us, I’m older. Not that there’s an us. I let loose a chuckle at the ridiculous idea. “You’re practically jailbait.”
“Ha!” He laughs, his gaze traveling over my body, brazenly checking me out. “And you aren’t?”
“I’m older than you.” I go for smug, preening at his hungry gaze. “By one year.”
He lifts his brows playfully. “When’s your birthday?”
“December.”
