Page 29 of Forbidden Lyrics

“Why?”

“Because you fascinate me.”

“And why’s that?” he prods, the toe of his black shoes kissing mine on the polished concrete floor.

He’s too close.

“I-I don’t know,” I whisper, shaken from a simple touch of shoes. How can I be oh so aware of a single person? It isn’t fair.

“Now who’s deflecting?” His breath fans across my cheeks. “I’ll make you a deal. You tell me why I’m so fascinating, and I’ll tell you why I write music. Agreed?”

With a nod, I rub my hands against my worn jean shorts while making sure I don’t accidentally graze his front. That wouldn’t be awkward at all.

He lifts my chin, forcing me to look at him and stay focused on the conversation at hand instead of what’s in his pants.

Oh, crap. Now I’m picturing it.

“Tell me,” he demands.

“You fascinate me because…” Chewing on the inside of my cheek, the words roll around in my head, but I’m too embarrassed to spit them out.

Because you’re gorgeous. And kind. And a little quiet but sharp and thoughtful. You’re friendly but firm. Logical and talented. You were meant to be center stage, yet you fight it. Honestly, I’ve never met someone so fascinating in my entire life.

“Because…?” he prods, forcing me back to the present.

I clear my throat. “I guess I’ve never met someone who hates the limelight so much that they don’t even acknowledge their success in the first place. And that’s fascinating to me. Don’t get me wrong; I know what stage fright is, and I hate being the center of attention more than you can imagine. But your lyrics, your music… I don’t think you understand how many people you’ve affected with it. And if it isn’t because you want to share your talents, I want to know why you bother to write it in the first place.”

He hesitates, grabs the back of his neck, and squeezes it until the tips of his fingers turn white from the pressure.

“I went first,” I remind him. “Now, it’s your turn.”

That same devilish smirk greets me before a resigned Gibson drops his hand to his side. “For me, I guess writing music is… It’s more like poison. If I don’t get it out of my system and down on paper, I get pissed off and depressed.” He laughs as his analysis goes a step further. “Hell, I can’t even live in my head when the music gets too loud. Getting it down on paper balances me out.”

“As long as no one knows it’s you,” I point out.

“I’m not hiding it––”

“Yeah, but you’re not exactly screaming it from the rooftops, either. Do you ever go on tour with them? Or attend their practices? Anything? I’m pretty sure your name isn’t even mentioned on Wikipedia, or at least it wasn’t the last time I checked. Am I right?”

He stays silent, studying me. Like I hit a nerve, and he isn’t sure how to respond. I squirm from the intensity that takes in every inch of my skin before he dips his chin a little, coming to some kind of conclusion, though I have no idea what it is.

“Get back to work, Dovey. Those dishes won’t clean themselves.”

Then he steps away from me and heads to the exit.

“Wait!” I call out, surprising myself.

He stops but doesn’t turn around.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable or change any of your lyrics that were already perfect––”

“Stop apologizing,” he orders, his hackles rising.

“I’m serious, Gibson––”

“Stop.”

My mouth snaps shut.

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