Page 17 of Israel

Ohmygod. Heaven.

She moaned.

“Yep,” he said softly. “Wolves definitely do eat bunnies.”

A sudden vision of him going down on her flashed through her brain, and holy shit. Flash fire in the hoohah.

His fingers stilled for a second, as if her thought had communicated itself to him, and then his magic fingers started moving again.

Ashley bit back another moan.

After a few minutes he asked. “So, after the massage, what’s on the agenda for this not-so-restful rest period?”

She pulled away and turned to face him. Enough touching. Those magic fingers were giving her hoohah too many ideas. “I’m working on some new songs,” she told him. “I’m trying to write more of my own stuff for my next album.”

He looked immediately interested. “You enjoy writing?” he asked eagerly. “Which do you like better, writing or performing?”

Whoa, there. “Is this an interview?” she asked.

He looked a little hurt. “I’m just making conversation,” he said. “Trying to get to know you better. We’re going to be spending a lot of time together, so…”

She thought it was kind of cute he could get his feelings hurt so easily—he’d seemed way more thick-skinned this morning.

She relented. “I like performing the best,” she said. “The music doesn’t seem complete without someone to listen to it, you know? It was never as satisfying when I was just playing for myself.”

He nodded. “You like connecting with people,” he said.

“Yes!” she said, absurdly pleased that he got it. “That’s why I want to write more,” she explained. “So that the music really comes from me, and feels…true…to the audience.”

He nodded as if he understood. “So what are you working on now?” he asked. “Can I hear it?”

No. Absolutely not. But somehow the words didn’t come out. She didn’t want to see the hurt look in his eyes again. Which was stupid. She wasn’t responsible for his feelings.

Still, she had the absurd urge to explain.

She bit her lip. “I can’t…I can’t write with someone watching,” she said. “I feel…I don’t know. It’s too distracting. Like someone wandering around in all the private places in my head.”

“Oh,” he said. He looked disappointed. “I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable. Never mind.”

He’d been making her feel uncomfortable all day, but she didn’t have the heart to tell him that now.

“I can play you one I wrote that I haven’t recorded yet,” she found herself offering.

His face lit up. “Yeah, okay,” he said. “I’d like that.”

She went over and picked up her guitar from the stand in the corner. It was a battered old acoustic, with no leads for amplification, so she couldn’t use it onstage. She only used it to write songs.

She saw him looking at it, forehead furrowed.

“What?” she asked.

He shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess that’s not the kind of guitar I pictured you with. Everything else you have is new and sparkly and shiny.”

“Now, don’t you go dissing my guitar,” she said, only half-teasing. “It’s the best guitar in the world. The first one I ever learned to play.” She ran her hand down the curve of the guitar body like she was stroking a cat. “There was this man, a friend of the family,” she said. “He was a woodworker, and he made instruments. He knew I loved to sing, so he made me this guitar and taught me to play it. It’s still my favorite,” she added.

She looked up to see him watching her with a strange expression on his face. “That’s a nice memory,” he said. “Are you still in touch with him? Your teacher?”

She shook her head. She didn’t want to talk about that.

Israel seemed to sense that, because he didn’t ask any more questions. “So, will you play for me?” he asked.

She tuned the guitar and ran her fingers over the strings. Then she launched into the song. It was called “Fly Away,” and it captured the way she felt about being stuck in her human body, and how she dreamed about someday being able to be herself, and yet still being able to perform her music.

Israel started out watching her intently, but as the song went on, he seemed to lose himself in it, closing his eyes and just listening, soaking it in. When she finished she fiddled with the guitar strings some more, feeling suddenly shy.

He said quietly, “That was amazing. Thank you.”

She looked up and met his eyes, and something in her chest went all warm and mooshy. He broke their gaze.

“Do you want me to go so you can write now?” he asked.

She nodded. “Please?”

“Okay.” He picked up a chair and carried it to the door. “Don’t worry, you’re safe. I’ll be right outside.”

Ashley waited until the door closed, and then blew out a shaky sigh, trying to get rid of that mooshy feeling.

No, she was definitely not safe with this particular bodyguard.