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sed above his head, running his hands through his hair.
“I noticed. I wouldn’t have picked you for cousins,” I commented, trying to fill the silence. Or, more to the point, trying to distract myself from staring at those strong, sexy biceps, straining the material of his tee shirt almost beyond its limits...
“Yeah. We were even less alike when we were kids. We didn’t exactly run with the same crowd.” He sank down next to me and reached for his drink.
“You were too cool for your little cousin?” I teased.
He laughed. “Other way around, actually.”
“No way,” I snorted, covering my mouth with my hand. “Harry was cool?”
“You find that shocking, but not the part about me not being cool?” he asked, narrowing his eyes. He got up and walked over to the bookshelf that sat behind the table. “Show this to anyone and I’ll have you killed,” he warned, throwing a yearbook my way. “Go to page fifty-three.”
I flipped it open. My eyes widened as I spotted Sax immediately out of a group of boys. His beautiful eyes were hidden behind thick-framed glasses, and his hair was slicked forward. I glanced down at the bottom for the date. He was sixteen in this photo. Wow!
“How did you get started with the band?” I asked, my brow creasing as I continued to study the picture.
He chuckled. “I used to perform on the street or in the park every weekend. A major talent scout for EML records spotted me. He knew of a band that was forming, and with a bit of a makeover, I found myself part of a band that was soaring up the charts.”
He handed me a few more photos. He was slightly older in these, but still so young. About my age . . . My true age. One photo was of him and Harry.
“Were you close when you were kids?” I asked. They didn’t seem that close now—though I’d had a whole two days to come to that conclusion, but their competitiveness was obvious.
“Not really.” He shrugged. “We were both so into music that you’d think having that common ground would’ve made us friends. But it was the opposite. We were competitive with everything, and when I got the recording deal, things got worse.”
I handed the photo back to him. My eyes met his as his fingers brushed past mine. I jerked my hand away and focused on the album sitting on my lap. What the hell was that? Did he feel it too?
“So, Micah, how long have you been singing for?” he asked, changing the subject.
“Since forever. My dad was a drummer in a band way back when. We used to jam together when I was little,” I joked.
“Cute,” he said with a grin. “Are you guys still close?”
“He died in a car accident when I was young. No, it’s fine, I can talk about it,” I tried to reassure him, when his face fell, “it was so long ago that I don’t really remember much about him.”
“I’m sorry. It still sucks, though. I’ve lost people close to me before, though nothing like you’ve been through. You move on, but you never forget.”
“No,” I mumbled softly. I knew that better than he realized.
“Any brothers or sisters?” he asked brightly.
I smiled at his attempt to lighten the mood. “I had a brother. He died a few years ago.”
“Fuck. This is going well.” He rubbed his forehead with his fingers before wincing at me. “Maybe this will go easier if you tell me what we can talk about and what we can’t. All I seem to be doing is digging myself a deeper hole.”
I laughed. “It’s fine, honestly. Steer clear of anything involving families, and we’re good.”
“I can do that,” he said, huffing out a relieved breath.
He pressed his hands against his thighs, and my eyes fell on his long, slender fingers. My skin prickled as I imagined those hands running gently over the curve of my bare back kissing his was down my neck, then my shoulder, and then my…
“Micah?”
“I’m sorry, what?” I mumbled, jolted from my wayward erotic daydream. I must have blushed three shades of pink, the way he was eyeing me. It was like he could read the dirty thoughts going on in my head.
“We’ll start with ‘Meeting Sorrow.’ That’s probably the hardest one to get the timing right with. Listen to me run through it, and then we’ll go through it together.”
He reached behind him and retrieved his guitar that had been resting against the back of the sofa. I sat back and watched as his fingers began to strum the strings of his Fender. His voice was beautiful: deep and husky. I could’ve sat there listening to him sing all night. And the way he worked that guitar was pure magic.
