Page 113 of Hollow Heart

A huge weight falls off my shoulders and I feel like I could pass out.

Aside from creaky knees, everything is in perfect working condition.

I swallow as the sounds of faint strumming come from down the hall.

Lou texts me.

Tell him I will have a car pick him up at nine. We’re going to address this insanity head on, tonight on Romano.

I shoot back a ‘k’, turning off my phone as I slide it back in my pocket.

I walk down the hall, listening to the faint strums of the guitar, a familiar melody I haven’t heard in ages.

I’m surprised Felix knows Frankie Goes To Hollywood’sPower Of Love, being as it’s such an underground track.

But then I think about all the ways Felix keeps surprising me, and how each time, I fall deeper into him, into his powerful vortex.

I stop in the doorway, and he doesn’t see me.

He’s singing, his accent slipping through, while playing my most recent project.

An acoustic I built myself from reclaimed wood.

The sun shines through the skylight, lighting him up in a golden halo.

His eyelashes are thick, standing out against his pale skin. He doesn’t see me, with his eyes closed.

His voice—hisrealvoice—isn’t raspy and throaty.

It’s softer, deeper.

I watch as he gets lost in his playing, as his fingers dance along the frets, strumming the strings delicately, singing the words with more feeling than anything he’s recorded.

And I realize all at once as he sings those spellbinding words, that somewhere between fight and fury, between attitude and obedience, between music and lyrics, I have fallen in love with Felix Hart.

I push off the doorframe, heading toward where he sits, lost in his playing, in the power of the music.

And then I do something I haven’t done in a long time.

I sing, too.

Felix’s eyes flash open with surprise, but his fingers continue to strum as his voice falters. I continue as he plays, and he joins in until our voices dance together, echoing off the walls.

He stands, slowly walking toward me as he continues to play, his accent coloring the words with a realness that takes my breath away.

In this business, talent can be manufactured at the drop of a hat, especially today.

But beneath all the tattoos and the attitude, Felix Hart has real, raw talent.

Of course he does.

As I sing out the last line of the song, those final notes ringing out, I know without a doubt, he’s paradise.

“Sorry, I, uh... didn’t mean to impose on your stuff.” He says the words softly.

I take the guitar from his hands carefully, setting it on the workshop table before turning back to him. His blue eyes glitter like diamonds in the setting sunlight.

“Leave a musician in a room full of instruments, what do you expect?” I flash him with a smirk, setting my hands on his hips. I slide one over his left side and hefallsinto me without much guidance.

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