Page 65 of Gathered Sparkle

“They’re beautiful.” I reach toward the mahogany body of one. “Which one’s your favorite?”

That seems to bring him to life somewhat, enough for a small smile to form as he reaches past me and takes down the one I was about to touch. “This one,” he says, holding it with reverence. “She’s been with me the longest.”

I smile at that. “Would you play a song for me? You did mention music before hauling me up here.”

He glances from the guitar to me for a moment, still smiling, then nods. “Of course.”

My pulse quickens as he sits in his desk chair and swivels toward me, gesturing for me to sit opposite on the edge of his bed. He takes a pick from a small tin on his desk and strums a few chords as I get comfortable on his bed, folding my legs behind me.

It plays as beautiful as it looks.

“This song…” he glances at me with a spark in his eyes, then he refocuses on the strings, “… is called “Beautiful Crazy” by Luke Combs. It reminds me of you.”

The opening notes flow from his guitar, and for some reason, my cheeks heat. Then he begins to sing, and that warmth spreads all the way to my toes. His voice carries an emotion so raw it feels like a hand reaching out to cradle my heart. It’s almost overwhelming, but I can’t look away from it. From him.And when he looks at me, meeting my gaze straight on as his voice dips, my pulse trips over itself.

But then the lyrics register, and a laugh bubbles out of me. Koen’s lips curve into a small, satisfied smile, but he keeps on playing, keeps singing.

When the chorus lands, my laughter falters, quieting as the softer, sweeter parts burrow under my skin.

That’s what makes me drop his gaze and study his bedspread as I continue listening.

This song. It’s me. All the messy, chaotic parts of me I’ve tried to hide or downplay.

He sees me.

Every bit of me, even the parts I thought weren’t worth noticing.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Novalee

God, he’s good.

Too good. He could’ve been a musician instead of a mentalist, and the world would’ve been better for it. And yet, I’m selfishly glad he’s here, in this room, singing only for me.

When the song ends, the final notes linger in the air like a promise, and I raise my gaze to meet Koen’s, finding his expression soft and unguarded. The way he looks at me makes my stomach tighten like he sees something I don’t.

But what’s new?

“You’re amazing,” I manage to press out once the music fades, the tension left between us only growing stronger in its absence.

He sets the guitar down carefully beside him without breaking my gaze. Then he stands from his chair, rests his knee on the bed in front of me, and cups my cheek, pulling a small gasp from me. His thumb traces a slow path along my skin like he’s memorizing me or afraid I could slip away one day.

Which is accurate. That thought, paired with the intimacy of the moment, makes my throat close up, and it suddenly feelshard to draw breath. I don’t know what to do with tenderness like this.

The space between us is charged with possibility as his thumb once more brushes against my skin in that perfect way that makes me melt.

“You’re really good,” I whisper, speaking that truth again with a small smile curving my lips because I know he already knows.

His lips twitch, his touch remains impossibly gentle, and my heart stutters, sensing the danger. His care might unravel me faster than any roughness ever could. But I don’t balk as he continues to watch me like he’s trying to drink in every part of me or memorize every second of this moment between us.

And I gladly let him.

No walls. No hesitation. Just this. Us.

“Do you know my favorite thing about human physiology?”

“What?” I reach up to cover his hand with mine.

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