“That . . . that did not come out right.”
My cheeks are stained red—I can tell, because my whole face is one giant freaking raging bonfire—and Shawn is graceful enough to not say a word . . . which triggers my say-exactly-what’s-on-my-mind disorder and leads to an epic fucking disaster.
“I wasn’t offering to give you a blowjob or anything.”
Shawn’s eyes dart back up to mine, and now both of us are just sitting there looking absolutely mortified.
“I mean, when I asked what I could do for you . . . I didn’t mean I’d do anything, not like . . . that . . . I just”—I lift my hands and bury them in my hair—“keep talking. I just keep talking.”
Shawn stares at me for a moment—like I just escaped from a mental ward—and I stare back at him—like he’s right. And then, his face softens and he lets out a chuckle that breaks the awkward silence between us.
“God,” I say after a chuckle bursts free of me too. Did I seriously just say the word blowjob? To Shawn?
Yes, I seriously just talked about giving Shawn Scarlett a blowjob. To Shawn Scarlett.
“Are you nervous or something?” he asks with an amused smile on his face.
“Why would I be nervous?” I untangle my fingers from my hair and curl them around my knees to stop myself from fidgeting.
“Because I’m insanely talented?” He gives me a smirk that makes me want to start talking about blowjobs again, or kissing at the very least, because God knows I’m thinking about it. Instead, I manage to smirk right back at him.
“You only think you’re talented because you haven’t heard me play that guitar yet.”
“You haven’t put a good trade on the table yet,” he challenges with a suggestive smile.
My heartbeat kicks up a gear, his smile widens, and I realize belatedly that we are flirting.
In an instant, I wipe the smile from my face and clear my throat. “Do you have something for me to write with?”
Shawn’s smile slowly fades into nothing but a curious spark that glints in his eye, and he goes back to tuning his guitar. “Yeah . . . I’ll get Peach to get you something in a minute.”
I sit farther back against the couch to put a few extra inches of distance between us, resisting the pull he still has over me. I didn’t expect it to be this strong—not after this long, not after what he did to me.
It’s like the best and worst form of nostalgia. It feels like being a teenager. Like feeling my heart beat for the first time.
Like being in love.
“Peach,” Shawn shouts when he’s almost finished tuning his guitar. “Can we have some paper and something to write with?”
He roots a guitar pick from his pocket, and Rowan escapes Adam by hopping off of her stool with a handful of papers and a pencil. She sets them on the coffee table in front of me and plops down on the cushion at my side as Adam resigns himself to rooting through the fridge.
“What are you guys doing?”
I gather up the papers and pencil while Shawn answers for both of us. “Kit needs to write out the music.”
“Just the old songs,” I correct, clarity finally reentering my cloudy head. Not being alone with Shawn means I can finally think again, can finally breathe again. “If I write my parts myself, I’ll have them memorized, but if I’m trying to memorize someone else’s—”
“Here,” Adam interrupts, handing me a beer before setting another on the table for Shawn and collapsing into the armchair across from him.
Good. Shawn and me plus two extra people. A group. I can deal with a group. Groups are good.
“Oh,” Rowan answers, looking around like she’s just beginning to come out of her homework-induced stupor. Her blonde hair is up in a messy bun, and even though I don’t remember her wearing glasses the last time I saw her, they’re sliding down her nose today. “Hey, where’s Joel? Didn’t he make it to practice?”
Adam and Shawn explain that he took off as soon as we got back, but I zone out, mesmerized as I watch as Shawn’s fingers continue working their magic. I’ve never gotten to admire his hands this closely before, so even though I know I shouldn’t, I lose myself in the way they move, the way they fine-tune the guitar like it’s an extension of his own body. They twist a spell into the pegs, bringing the ancient instrument back to life.
“Ready?” he asks, and I jab the point of my pencil against the paper to pretend like I was paying attention. To the paper. Not to his hands. Definitely not to his hands.
I nod.
Shawn plays slowly enough for me to watch his strings and hear each one, naming the chords as he plays them, and eventually, Rowan and Adam leave us alone in the living room. But I’m too distracted to mind—by the sounds coming from the beautiful Fender, by the notes born of Shawn’s trained fingers.
“Would you mind if I made some changes?” I ask when we get to a song that doesn’t sound quite as magical as the others.
“You don’t like that one?” he asks.