Page 28 of Forbidden Lyrics

“But you can relate to…” He pauses, searching his memories for the lyrics I’d tweaked. “Your hazel eyes still haunt my mind, right?”

I gulp past the lump in my throat and peek up at him, staring into those stupid hazel eyes that’ve been haunting me since the moment we first met. And now they’re focused directly on me. My face. My lips. Heck, my freaking soul. No one looks at me like this. No one looks at me, period. I always thought I was made to blend in, but anytime he’s around, I feel like I’m seen. Really, truly seen.

And I don’t know how I feel about it.

My tongue darts out to moisten my lips as I fist the damp paper towel at my side, unable to tear my gaze away from his. He’s way too close for comfort, yet I’m still struggling to not lean closer.

What is wrong with me?

“Y-yes,” I whisper. “I might be able to relate to that one.”

His mouth quirks up on one side, but he lets the lyrics go and murmurs, “You have a beautiful voice.”

I shrug off the compliment. “Thanks.”

“Where’d you learn to sing?”

“Where?” I question.

He nods.

“Um. Church choir?”

His deep chuckle does weird things to my insides, especially when we’re standing this close as he asks, “Is that a question?”

“I… Maybe?” I laugh before clarifying, “I guess I’ve always been singing. At home, in the car, during church, in the shower… Always. So when you asked where I learned to sing, I guess it stumped me.”

“I assume you’ve sung for other people?”

“Only church,” I answer before turning the tables. “Have you ever played in front of other people? Being the mastermind of Broken Vows and all…”

“I don’t play for the crowds.”

“Then why do you play?”

“Why do you sing even when no one’s listening?” he counters, his tall frame towering over me.

He’s too close. I can see the stubble on his cheeks. The way his jaw flexes every time I ask him a question instead of answering one of his. The way his eyes darken anytime they drop down to my lips. I can see it all. And I like it. A lot. The heat from his body warming mine. The way he’s managing to make me feel small yet protected. The fierce intensity emanating from every single one of his pores any time we discuss music. It calls to my soul, making me feel like I’m not alone. Like it’s okay to be passionate about something other than religion. Like there’s nothing wrong with me.

“Not gonna answer my question?” he prods.

Oh. Right.

My eyelids flutter, though I don’t meet his gaze a second time. Not when I feel like I’m baring my soul to the guy. If I do, I’ll be lost. And this stupid crush is already getting way too out of hand. He’s my coworker. My friend. And that’s all he’ll ever be.

“I guess I can’t help but sing,” I reply. “Even when no one’s listening. It’s like breathing. I have to.”

“Looks like you answered your own question.”

“Writing music and singing it aren’t exactly the same things,” I argue, daring to look up at him.

With an arrogant smirk, he counters, “You might be surprised.”

“Hmm,” I hum, unconvinced.

“Hmm?” he mimics, clearly more amused than I am.

“Tell me,” I plead. “I want to know.”

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