“I thought it wasmyegg separator?” he quipped.
I cocked my head to the side. “The egg separator I got for you.”
He grinned as I returned to my bag. “How much stuff is in that bag?”
“Only a couple more things,” I said, digging out a small framed print of a bunch of raccoons playing poker. “I thought this would look good on the mantel.”
His mouth twitched. “That thing is hideous.”
“Isn’t it?”
“It’s perfect,” he said, taking it from my hands and heading into the living room.
I followed, smiling when he placed the ridiculous picture front and center above the fireplace.
“It’s as though it always belonged here,” I said, sitting on the overstuffed sofa. “And who knows—maybe the owner of this joint donated it, and here I am bringing it back where it belongs.”
“You didn’t have to do this.” Luca sat beside me, so close our knees almost touched. “Bring me all these things.”
“Didn’t have to or you preferred I wouldn’t?” I teased.
“I love it all. Even Randy McNutt,” he said. “No one’s ever done anything like this for me before.”
“Bought you weird shit from a thrift store?”
He shook his head, his voice growing soft. “Been so thoughtful.”
His words were like the strike of a match, lighting my cheeks on fire. My heart simultaneously fluttered and sank, its battered wings desperately trying to keep it afloat. The feelings I had for him were only growing, and I had to remind myself he only saw me as a friend.
I cleared my throat as I caught a glimpse of his guitar case in the corner of the room.
“Acoustic?” I asked, gesturing toward the case. “I never would have guessed that.”
He shrugged, letting out a low chuckle. “Yeah, I’m trying something different. My other guitars are back home in Kentucky, but after what you said about trying to get my words out like I was writing a song, I went and got a guitar. I thought an acoustic might be a better fit.”
I couldn't help the smile that crept over my face. “And how’s that going?”
“I’ve been writing a lot,” he admitted. “Once I started looking at it like I was creating music, it’s like the floodgates opened up.”
“I’m glad. Maybe I can get you to play something for me sometime,” I said, before quickly adding, “you know…if you want.”
“Actually, there’s something I’ve been working on this week.” He rubbed his hand along the back of his neck. “Can I…can I play it for you? See what you think?”
I blinked in surprise before nodding. “Of course.”
Luca brought his guitar back over to the sofa and sat, accidentally dropping the pick on the floor. He almost looked nervous.
“Okay, just know this isn’t completed yet, so I’ll probably change some things,” he said. “It’s just a verse, but…I think I like where it’s going. And I—”
“Luca, you don’t have to explain it,” I said, giving him a small encouraging nod. “Just play it for me.”
He raked a hand through his hair. “Right. Sorry. I guess I’m a little rusty.”
I tried to hide my smile as he began to play the most bittersweet melody. It felt like a hand around my heart. And then he began to sing.
“Locked inside the confines of my own mind
A cage built by my own hands is still a prison
