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Her eyes looked down to the floor. An odd expression crossed her face before it cleared and was replaced with another smile. Gigi set the spoon down that she’d been stirring with and shifted around to face me.
“You’re welcome. I want you to feel safe here. This is your home, too,” she said, her hands now on my chest. I grinned and slid my hands up to cup her face, then I leaned down and lightly kissed her lips.
At least that’s what I had planned on anyway. Instead, after that first initial peck, I backed away a few inches and our eyes locked. Something stirred deep inside of me and I kissed her again.
This time it wasn’t near as sweet. She opened her mouth and I took full advantage, finding her tongue instantly. A small moan sounded from her throat and it made me pull her body closer to mine. God, she felt so damn great—her soft tits pressed into my chest and her tight, lean body in my arms. Perfection.
Unfortunately, Gigi pushed away, stopping a really great kiss just when it was getting even better. “The meat’s going to burn,” she whispered, her lips looking swollen and pink. Her cheeks looked flushed and beautiful.
“What?” I asked, unable to understand what she was talking about. “Meat?”
She giggled slightly and nodded toward the stove. “For our tacos?”
“Oh,” I said, feeling like an idiot. I let her go and stepped away. “Is there anything I can do?”
Her eyes gazed over at me quickly. “Nah, but thanks for asking. Everything is pretty much ready. Ten more minutes for the beef and then we can eat.”
I nodded at her, then turned around to take a look around. Gigi’s place was immaculate. A place for everything and everything in its place. It was also homey and welcoming. She had knickknacks around that didn’t have much monetary value. They looked more sentimental.
The biggest thing that caught my attention was a guitar hanging on the wall with care. Several pictures surrounded it. I stepped closer for a better look. The photos were of a man at concerts—Tragically Hip concerts?
A few of them contained what looked like a very young Gigi. She had dark, straight hair and the same olive toned skin. What really gave it away was the look of sheer joy on her face. It was the same look she had when we were on the ice together.
“Is this yours?” I asked Gigi as I lifted the guitar from its place on the wall. It felt good in my hands. It’d been years since I’d played.
“Uh, no, my dad’s.”
I strummed the strings lightly, getting an urge to test this sucker out. It appeared to be well-used. Gigi had it in a place of honor. So, like most things, it wasn’t expensive, but I’d bet it meant a lot to her anyway.
There was nothing to it—I had to play. I continued fiddling around with the tuning keys. “He come over much?” I asked because from the sound of it, nobody had tuned this thing in a very long time.
She didn’t answer me right away. When she finally did, she said, “He died years ago.”
My head popped up and looked straight at her. “Shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
Gigi’s eyes found mine and she nodded slightly.
“He liked The Hip?” I asked, touching a snapshot of what must be her dad with a few of the band members.
“Yeah, he went to as many concerts of theirs as he could. It was his life goal,” she said, smiling at the lettuce as she chopped.
“I don’t blame him. I went to their concerts when I could.” I leaned in further to one of the pictures. “I actually think I was at this one. Was it in Toronto?”
“Mm hmm.”
“What was his favorite song of theirs?” I asked, continuing to tune the guitar as best I could. One of the strings was barely hanging on for dear life.
“Bobcageon,” she answered back softly and gently, it warmed my heart. “Bobcaygeon” was a great fucking song. I don’t know what came over me, but the next thing I knew I was sitting on her love seat, playing the first chords.
G’s head snapped up, her eyes fixed on the instrument in my hands. Shit, maybe I’d overstepped? “Is this okay?” I asked, feeling like an idiot for not getting permission first.
“Uh, yeah, of course. Nobody else plays it.” A look of anxiety or worry crossed her face. Did she think I’d break it?
“I know how to play. I won’t wreck it, I promise,” I said, hoping to quash her anxious look.
She shook her head. “It’s fine, really. Go ahead.”
A minute later, I played the first chords—rather roughly. I chuckled and then apologized. “Sorry, it’s been a few years.”
