“I’m being serious. Tell me—if I wanted Luke Canton as a fan—what would you tell me to do? How do I reach you with my music?”
Because that’s what I wanted. I wanted to pull a man like Luke into my heart. And the music in my lyrics was the writing on my soul.
He rubbed the side of my calf. “I am a fan. A very big one.” Luke stretched his back. “I think I paid high-dollar for a private concert. You could sing for me now.”
“You’re not serious.”
“Do you know how much that check was I wrote?” he asked.
“It was for charity. For the kids,” I pressed. “You don’t really want me to sing for you after hearing that album. Not if you like this kind of music.”
He tilted his head. “I like lots of things. And I’ve decided I can never get enough of Alexa Wilde. Your voice is gorgeous—like the rest of you. Sing, baby.” His voice was determined.
It made me blush. Shameless flirting worked. And the funny thing was he didn’t need to do it. He already had me. We had crossed every personal boundary two people could cross. We had given each other our souls. We had made a co-conspirator pact. And I was trying to pretend that there wasn’t a chance we had possibly made a baby.
My stomach rolled when I thought about it. I couldn’t think about it. No baby. No baby. I had taken the next pill in my packet after we showered, but I realized then how terrible my math really was. It was closer to seven days since I had last taken a pill.
“My guitar is still in your truck,” I offered. “I could do the concert now.”
I had to stop thinking about the possibility of a baby. Music was where I could get lost. It was always my refuge.
I realized I might have the perfect audience for my new material. Luke didn’t want to hear the pop-country crap my fans loved. I could sing the lyrics that spilled through the pages in my journals. He had seen me completely raw and vulnerable. This felt right. Completely right.
“Going to get it now.” He waggled his eyebrows and hopped up with the dexterity of a well-trained athlete.
I cleaned up the white paper boxes and stored the leftovers in the refrigerator. I refilled my wine glass and walked back to the living room.
Luke appeared holding my guitar case. He handed it to me. He quickly turned off Keen and sat on the ottoman closest to the hearth. He was only feet away. I took my time unlatching the case and tuning the instrument.
It was strange. This morning we had sung together at the hospital. I hadn’t felt self-conscious. I was used to audiences. This felt completely different as if I were sharing something even more intimate.
“What are you going to play?” he asked.
“Something new. I want you to tell me your honest opinion.”
“I’m not very good at constructive criticism,” he explained. “I’m a terrible bullshitter.”
“Good.” I smiled. “Tell me if you hate it. I need to know.”
“I’m not gonna—”
“Shh. Listen,” I ordered.
I bowed my head over the guitar and started the song. The notes flowed. The words poured from my throat. The music filled the room.
It was Luke, my guitar, and me. I had never sung like this before. I had never sung to someone—to a man. To a man I was inexplicable bonded to like none other. Every word. Every note. Roped us closer together. The lasso was so tightly wound my heart beat hard against the restraints, but I couldn’t stop. I had to tell him how I felt. How my life wasn’t mine alone anymore. I sang. I spilled my depths and layers. I didn’t stop until Luke knew my life was forever different because I’d laid in his arms.
I looked up when the last word fell from my lips.
Luke’s eyes held mine.
I couldn’t speak. I didn’t know if he could either.
“Damn, Alexa.”
“Damn good or damn bad?” My voice quivered. If he said bad I would pack up the guitar. I might hide in the closet, or head back to the airport. That song said everything.
“Damn, you have replaced that album of mine.”