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Her eyes were locked on me, and a tiny smirk played at her lips as I tried again. This time it all came back to me. God, I loved this song. It was like a modern-day poem set to the most addicting tune—just like all of Gord’s songs were.
So many meanings to so many different people.
I’d heard and played this song so many times, I knew the words by heart. I was no Gord Downey, but I could carry a tune.
Eventually, about halfway through the song, I noticed that G was standing in the living room, leaning against the couch. I hadn’t even noticed because I’d been so engrossed in the song and all the memories it had brought back for me.
Soon, she sat on the arm of the couch, barely blinking, the dish towel still in her hands.
When I finished the final verse, she walked over to me, reaching for the guitar. An almost dazed expression on her face concerned me. Was she mad? I carefully took the strap from around my shoulder and lifted it off, placing the worn instrument in her hands.
She set it carefully against the chair, then took my hands in hers, urging me up. I stood, not understanding what she was doing. Her eyes filled with unshed tears. “Hey, what’s going on? Did I upset you?” My hands cupped her face as my stomach sank, thinking I’d made her cry.
Gigi shook her head.
“Was it my singing? I know I’m a little rusty, but I’ve never made anyone cry before.” I grinned down at her.
Now her tears flowed down her cheeks. “That was beautiful, thank you.” She sniffed, in a full-out cry now.
My heart broke right in half. “Geneviève, please don’t cry,” I said, wiping my thumbs under her eyes.
Her head shook vigorously. “Happy tears, not sad.”
Those tears—and knowing how deeply she was affected by the song—made me do it. I leaned down, taking her lips with mine. Her body melted into me as her hands pulled my body closer. She opened her mouth, darting her tongue out, searching for mine.
I gave it to her, dropping my hands down her back. The second our tongues touched, I moaned so low and guttural, the sound shocked me.
Gigi whimpered into my mouth, her hands sliding up around the back of my neck. She gently pulled down, and I took that to mean she wanted me to kiss her harder.
Which I did. Gladly.
Then, just as quickly as it had started, she broke our kiss and whispered, “Tacos are ready.” Her tearstained cheeks and red eyes faced me. God, she was beautiful.
I smiled down at her, then gave her one quick, chaste kiss. “Let’s eat.”
