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“Yes. Flip it over, you’ll see.”
Bree lifted it off her shoulder to examine the back. There, carved ever so carefully was “IL & BH Forever.” It was the same guitar. She ran her fingers over it, the sight of the familiar carving forming a lump in her throat. She remembered the night he’d put that there with his pocketknife. The memory and the emotions hit her all at once. “That was the night...” she said, her voice drifting off.
“I told you I loved you for the first time.” A faint smile curved his lips as he remembered it, too. “We sat on the lawn outside the quad and looked up at the stars while I played the new song I wrote for you.”
Bree felt the prickle of tears in her eyes. The blanket under the stars, the sweet melody of a love song, the strong arms of a man who loved her... When he’d carved their initials into the guitar, it had felt as if they were sealing their future together. It was the most romantic night of her life. Nothing before or since had ever come close to that moment. How many women had had a man write a song for them? It was a sentimental, romantic tune that had made her eighteen-year-old heart thump like a jackhammer in her chest when she’d heard it.
“‘I’ll Love You Forever, And Then Some,’” she said. Ian had been such a talented artist. He was gifted with an ear for melody and a perfect lyric. His stuff was better than most of what she heard on the radio these days. “I might be partial to it, but I always thoug
ht that was your best song.”
Ian nodded. “I thought it was, too.” He reached out and took the guitar from her. Her breath stilled in her lungs for a moment, thinking he might play a song or two for old time’s sake. She longed to see him play again, to sing the way he used to. To feel that flutter of excitement and desire curling in her belly. Ian was a handsome man, but she was never as attracted to him as she was when he played.
Instead, he held it by the neck at a distance, as though it might contaminate him if it got too close. “It’s a shame my advisor disagreed.”
He brushed past her to the closet and unceremoniously flung the guitar back inside. With a slam of the door, he turned back to her with a pained expression lining his brow. “But he was right,” he said. “After years in the music industry, I know better now. He wasn’t being cruel—he was being kind. Someone had to tell me I wasn’t good enough.”
At that, Ian turned and disappeared into his bedroom, shutting the door behind him.
With a disappointed sigh, Bree made her way to the staircase. Maybe it was just as well. She couldn’t afford to lose control and act on her building need for Ian. With that guitar in the closet, her desire could also stay firmly locked away.
* * *
Damn that stupid guitar.
What the hell was it doing here, anyway? Ian paced around his bedroom, irritation surging through his veins. He’d paid movers to bring furniture and some personal items to the house after it had been built. They must have grabbed it by mistake. He certainly hadn’t brought it, and his mother knew better than to bring a musical instrument into the house.
How many times had he been up here and never known it was hidden away? And of all the people to find it—it had to be Bree!
With a sigh, he flopped down onto his bed and dropped his head into his hands. That stupid guitar had flooded his brain with memories he didn’t need right now. Good ones of loving Bree and bad ones about losing his musical career. Either way, he had no use for the thoughts and images that haunted him. He was going after that guitar with an ax first thing in the morning. It would make good kindling for the fire.
Not long after he went into his room, he heard the water running upstairs. He assumed that it was Bree taking the bath she’d mentioned. That didn’t help matters. The sound brought to mind unwelcome images of her creamy, naked skin, slick with soap and glistening in the steaming, hot water.
Maybe he could break the guitar by repeatedly bashing it against his skull until every thought about Bree was driven from his mind.
He loathed himself in that moment. Ian wasn’t his own biggest fan to begin with, but he’d really taken the crappy cake this time. He was not allowed to be attracted to Bree. He was engaged to Missy. He was determined to be a good father, better than his own. That meant marrying the mother of his child and being a part of his life, whether it made him happy or not. He knew what it was like to not feel important enough to matter. Ian might not be happy about the turn his life had taken, but he would never, ever let his child feel that way. His son or daughter would feel loved, special, important... He would see to that.
Being attracted to someone else while the future mother of his child was miles away was an epically bad start.
Ian needed a distraction. He picked up a random book from his bookshelf and forced himself to read it for nearly an hour. By then, he thought perhaps the phone gods had smiled on his pathetic situation and brought back his connection to the world. As he slipped from his room, the house was quiet. Bree was probably asleep by now. He ventured back out into the living room and found that all the lights were off on the ground floor. Only the small light over the kitchen sink was burning. His phone was on the counter where he’d left it. There was still no connection, making it just as useless as before, except now it also needed charging. He dug the cord out of his bag and plugged it in by the coffeepot.
He picked up the house phone. No dial tone.
With a sigh, he went back into the living room and flopped down on the couch. It was nearly midnight now, but he couldn’t sleep. His brain was spinning and there was nothing to soothe it.
When he was younger, the music had helped. The doctors had diagnosed him with a hyperactivity disorder when he was a child, but his mother had refused the medicine. She had been determined to find a way for him to channel his energy. He’d played soccer for a while, but the real change had come with a chance encounter at a pawn shop.
He and his mother had gone there to pay off a debt she had against her mother’s wedding ring. They’d needed the money for rent. While they were there, a guitar had caught Ian’s eye. It had been way more expensive than he could afford. He had been only thirteen at the time. The man who ran the shop had offered to trade Ian the guitar for help on the weekends cleaning up the stockroom. He’d snapped up the opportunity and continued to work there after it was paid off to fund guitar lessons.
Music had changed Ian’s life. It had given him focus. It had helped him in school. Writing songs had come easier to him than any homework assignment. When he’d gotten to high school, he had joined the jazz ensemble. Some of the happiest days of his teen years had been spent holding the very same guitar that was in the closet right now.
Ian felt a pang of guilt for handling it the way he had. It wasn’t the guitar’s fault that the person playing it wasn’t any good. He sprung up from the couch, walked to the closet and turned on the light. The guitar was haphazardly lying on the ground, a flutter of loose Monopoly money on top of it. Apparently, he’d knocked the game off the shelf when he’d flung the guitar inside.
Reaching down, he picked up the instrument and carried it back into the living room. A quick inspection proved he hadn’t damaged it, thankfully. Ian sat down on the couch and cradled the weight of the guitar in his lap. It seemed like forever since he’d touched a guitar. He’d quit his music cold turkey. If he didn’t have what it took to succeed, he hadn’t wanted to waste another minute of his life on it.
Now his fingers itched to brush the strings. What could it hurt? Bree was asleep upstairs. If he played quietly enough, just one song to soothe his curiosity, no one needed to know.
He turned the guitar and gripped it. The first few notes were off, so he took a moment to adjust and tune it. His first solid chord sent a shiver down his spine. It was like his soul had reconnected with its true passion again. He began a quiet, mellow song—one of his coffee-shop favorites—to test himself. He wasn’t as rusty as he thought he’d be. The music flowed smoothly, the chord changes, second nature.
