Page 35 of The Bridges I've Burned

“No,” I answered too quickly before adding, “But I can’t just ignore my responsibilities while I’m gone either.”

“And what is it that you do that’s so important you can’t take a little time off?”

“I can take time off,” I argued.

“Clearly not,” he countered.

I huffed. “I’m a lawyer. Criminal attorney.”

That pierced brow lifted, and suddenly, I was left wondering if he had any other piercings. My eyes dragged down his body, and I felt heat sear my cheeks before I finally looked away.

“What do you do?” I asked, trying to focus my attention on my screen for half a second before giving up and looking up at him again.

His fingers began to pluck out a familiar tune, and before I got lost in the melody, I realized what he was saying.

“You’re a musician?”

“A guitarist.” He grinned. “I thought a lawyer would be smart enough to decipher what kind of instrument this is.”

I let out a sigh “I didn’t want to assume. You could play other instruments.”

“I can, actually. I play a little bass, and I can bang on the drums decently, but they only pay me to do this,” he said, strumming the guitar almost effortlessly.

This time, it wasn’t anything I recognized, but it sent shivers down my spine, and I found myself setting my computer down and turning to face him.

“So, are you in a band or?—”

“Session guitarist.”

“I don’t know what that means,” I confessed. “I dated a guitar player in college, but it was only a week, and honestly, he wasn’t much of a talker.”

“So, you are a groupie. I knew it.”

I laughed, shrugging. “I will admit, I did meet him at a concert, and he was in a band. But it was a one-time thing. After he stole shit from my dorm room while I was sleeping, I found myself miraculously cured of my”—I made air quotes with my hands—“‘groupie phase.’”

“Until last night, that is.” His grin was shameless.

God, those fucking dimples. How many women had he charmed into his bed with those?

“Whatever, Trouble.” I folded my arms across my chest, like I didn’t trust myself to stay put.“You asked me to dinner. Not the other way around.”

“I’m not denying that, Louie,” he said, bending down over his guitar as he strummed out a melody. He looked up at me once more. “I knew what I wanted.”

That zing of energy pulsed between us. It was just as potent as the night before, but more intimate because, now, I knew him.

And that made it more dangerous.

“But”—he cleared his throat, placing his palm down on the strings, silencing the notes with the touch of his hand—“I guess it’s good that you decided to leave.” He didn’t look at me, his gaze fixated on the instrument at his chest. “It would have complicated things and?—”

“When are you going to tell him?” I asked, knowing this would most likely be the end of our conversation, considering the way it had gone last time I brought up Macon.

“Tomorrow,” he answered. “Like you said, I don’t want to ruin today for them.”

I nodded, my head turned toward the window.

“You won’t…” He paused, clearly sorting out his words. “You won’t tell Marin?”

I let out a pained laugh.

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