Page 36 of Ghost Note

With a smile, I took his hand and guided him over. “Happy birthday!” I beamed, excited to see his face when he opened it.

Danny looked at me with caution, an air of suspicion about him as he moved around the box. He found the gift tag on top and twisted it around to read.

“You once said you live to make me happy. Now it’s my turn to give the same back to you,” he read aloud, before looking up under his thick, dark lashes and raising a brow. “Daisy…”

“Just open it, Danny. Come on. I’m dying over here.”

He took his time, as though he was afraid that he was about to find a bomb, but when he saw the brand name on the box beneath the wrapping paper, his fingers froze, and his eyes widened, snapping up to me sharply.

Danny’s face dropped. “Did… did you get me a fucking Fender guitar?”

My shoulders deflated. “Did I get the wrong one?”

He tore away at more paper until the make and model were there for him to see. Danny took a step back and brought his hand to his mouth.

“I thought… I thought you’d like it,” I said quietly.

He closed his eyes, and for the first time since I’d been with him, I saw a tear fall down Danny’s cheeks. I was about to go to him and tell him I’d return it—I’d get him something else—when all of a sudden Danny stared right at me before he moved across the garage and swept me up in his arms to spin me around.

He buried his face into the curve of my neck, squeezing me so tightly, I could hardly breathe.

Relief washed over me, and I hugged him in return. “Happy birthday, superstar.”

“You’re crazy, Daisy.”

“It’s not the first time you’ve said that.”

“You bought me a fucking Fender.”

“Not just any Fender. According to the guitar experts I spent forty-billion hours speaking to on the Internet, this is one of the best ones you can get. Something to do with lead, or rhythm, or… I don’t know. There was a lot of talk of melodies, and then a lot… and I mean alotof arguments about which was most important in a band. Anyway, like I said, this isn’t just Fender. This is a Fender American Performer Stratocaster.” I scowled in thought. “I think that’s right.”

“I know exactly what it is.” Danny dropped me back down to the ground, his arms tight around my body as he stared down at me. “And I know how much they cost. As much as I love you, Zee… I can’t accept this.”

“You can, and you will. Or… or I’ll deny you sex for three months.”

Danny laughed roughly. “You wouldn’t punish yourself like that.”

“Dammit.”

“I mean it. I can’t take this from you.”

“You have to. We made a promise to each other that we’d always do our best to make the other one happy. This is me making you happy. I busted my arse for this at the pool, working all that overtime on lifeguard duties.”

“You told me you were saving for your first car.”

“I lied.”

“You lied too well.”

“A lie told to make you happy isn’t classed as a betrayal. Now, stop moaning about money, and go and enjoy your new gift.”

Danny sighed, and he dropped his forehead to mine. “Fuck, I love you, Zee.”

I was really starting to piss myself off.

Swiping the back of my hand under my eyes, I smudged away the tears, raised my chin, and I sniffed up to swallow back the emotion that had taken over. The YouTube clip had ended, slipping directly into another one where each of the band members sat on a long, yellow leather sofa, talking to some British talk show host I wasn’t familiar with.

“So, for those who have been living under a rock,” the lady said, her knees towards all five of them, and her cheeks flaming from her own fortune, “tell everyone at home who you are.”

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