I shake my head firmly. “No. I might record a new album, as Ross Rockit, but Ross & the Rock-its is gone. It would be disrespectful to my boys.”
He nods like he understands. “I respect that. But I’ll tell ya, if you did a solo project, I’d be the first to buy it.”
I smile up at him, my fingers moving over the frets easily.
This is really the most beautiful guitar I’ve ever seen.
“He’ll take it,” Wynter says quietly, pulling her credit card out of her purse.
The older man smiles.
“Wait. Wynter, what are you doing?”
“Making a decision for you,” she replies, nodding at the owner.
“Babe, no.” I quickly stand up. “I can afford the guitar.”
“It’s not about what you can afford,” she says softly, her eyes boring into mine. “It’s about buying you something meaningful.”
“I don’t need presents.”
“I know.”
There doesn’t seem to be any response to that, so I lean in and kiss her. “Thank you. I love that you want to do this, but I can’t let you. You’re technically unemployed.”
She laughs. “I have almost no bills. I can buy you a guitar if I want to.” She dances out of reach and follows the store owner up to the front.
Dammit.
I can’t allow her to buy me a guitar like this.
Especially since I feel like she’s pushing me toward doing the solo act thing.
I truly haven’t made a decision and I don’t want a big purchase like this to influence it. The pull—to record new music and to buy this guitar—is hard to resist. But there’s another part of me that doesn’t want to start over. It’s not even really about my old band or the loss or any of it.
I’m forty-two. Not old, but not young. I’ve finally reached a point in life where I make a great living, I’m saving for the future, and now I might be building that future with a very special woman.
If I try to reinvent myself as solo Ross Rockit, I can’t concentrate on any of the things that have become important to me, including Wynter. Becoming a rockstar, in the most general sense of the word, is all-encompassing.
I look over to where Wynter and the store owner are talking.
He’s packing up the guitar, throwing in free strings and a handful of picks.
Even the case is beautiful, a swirling design embroidered into the leather.
“Hey, stop.” I lean over and kiss Wynter’s cheek. “I’ve got this, babe.” I hand the guy my black American Express card. The one the band gave me for literally anything that might come up. It’s the only one I have that would allow such a large purchase without prior authorization.
And I do have the money in savings, so I can pay them back immediately.
“But I wanted to,” she protests.
“I know. But this is the first guitar since…well, you know. I have to be the one to buy it. It has to be my next step. A way for me to push past the grief. Does that make any sense at all?”
And of course, Wynter understands.
“It does.” She moves closer to me and whispers, “but know that I was willing to buy it to help you take the next steps in healing. That’s the important thing. No matter what you decide professionally.”
This right here is why I’m falling in love with her.
