Page 49 of Not Your Little Girl Anymore

I roll my eyes and push myself off the couch, leaving my glass on the end table. “Come on.” I grab my guitar and take one step into my room before I notice she is still on the couch. Turning around, I look at her. “Are you coming or what?”

She brings her glass to her lips nervously, guzzling down the remainder of her whiskey before placing it on the opposite end table mine is on. Then she stands and follows me into the bedroom.

“You’re not getting in my pants if that’s what you’re planning.”

I chuckle, shaking my head. “That wasn’t my plan, but I’d be down if you are.” I give a slight wink, and she gasps, slapping my arm. “I prefer to play in here. Now, sit down.”

She scoffs, crouching down on the floor in front of my bed. “You’re bossy.”

I sit beside her, adjusting my guitar in my lap. “I’ll start slow. All you have to do is copy exactly what I do.”

“That’s easy for you to say.” Her long eyelashes flutter.

I play a couple of easy notes for her so she can get the hang of how to hold the guitar and feel comfortable. She watches carefully. When I pass my acoustic to her, her eyes widen.

“Come on. You wanted to learn, so take the guitar and do what I just did.”

Chapter Eighteen

Summer

He stares at me long and hard, waiting for me to take this guitar from his hands. My eyes ping-pong between him and the instruments, a lump digging a home for itself in my esophagus, leaving me wanting to clear my throat until it vanishes.

Instead, I make myself suffer because I don’t want to make it more obvious that I’m way in over my head and completely fucking nervous.

I think I changed my mind.

As a matter of fact, I’m not even sure why I asked him to teach me when I don’t have the hand-eye coordination needed to play any instrument. High school music class taught me that little fact.

His eyebrows raise as he nudges the guitar in my direction. “Come on.”

I immediately shake my head, more so ashamed that he’s about to hear the worst sound in the entire world.

“OK. OK. But…” I turn my head, raising my index finger.

“But,” he repeats.

“You are not allowed to laugh at me.” He chuckles, and I slap him on the arm. “I told you not to laugh.”

He clasps his lips together and raises one hand with a black pick between his fingers.

Blowing out a breath, I grab the guitar from him. I stare at it for ten long seconds before I look back at Alec. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to position this thing.”

“This thing is a guitar, and you rest it on your leg, holding the neck at an angle. Like this.” He adjusts the guitar lap, and then he hands me the pick. I stare at it dumbfounded.

“Do I have to use that?” I ask.

He laughs again, and I roll my eyes, which makes him laugh a little harder. “No, but it’s a lot easier on your fingers if you do. Sometimes, if the tips of your fingers aren’t used to the tough strings, after a while, it’ll hurt.”

I can tell by just running my finger along the length of one of these strings that after pushing on them for so long, it’ll eventually start to hurt.

With hesitation, I swallow. Alec notices my discomfort, and his expression changes. “Alright, come here,” he says, waving his arm.

He adjusts himself as I scoot closer to him. He’s behind me, and I’m nearly between his legs, holding back from screeching like a teenager who finally got to kiss her crush.

I keep my eyes on the floor, not knowing what he’s going to do, and that makes me far more apprehensive. I feel his arm wrap around me and his fingers glide across my arm. A rush sways through my body as tiny butterflies flutter around each flower that blooms in the pit of my stomach.

His scent wraps around my senses, and I lean into him, needing to feel more of his body touching mine. His breath hitting the crease of my neck causes goosebumps to prickle along my skin.

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