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Authors: Serena Bell
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something—emotion, Haven thought—that Gavin hadn’t quite managed to reach for.
Gavin played the phrase again. And wow. Not flat any more. The kid had played something almost soulful, and yet not an imitation of what Mark had played. This was very much Gavin’s. Mark had heard it in the kid’s playing and brought it out of him.
Hell, yeah, there would be more music lessons. And maybe she’d see what else she could set up along these lines. There were organizations, nonprofits and so forth, that helped get music into kids’ lives. She’d bet Mark would love that. It wouldn’t hurt his image, either.
Huh. That last bit had been an afterthought, not her main focus.
Eyes on the prize,
Haven,
she chided herself.
“Thanks, man,” Gavin said, and began packing up his guitar.
Even the way Mark shook hands with Gavin, earnestly, seriously, that same man-to-man vibe about it, was perfect.
“What about little kids?” she asked Mark, after Gavin had left and they were alone in the echoey band room. “You like working with them, too?”
She leaned against the piano, keeping her distance from him, as if that would help. As if that would stop the iron filings from aligning to him.
He nodded. “All ages. Any kid that’s serious about playing guitar or piano.”
“You play piano, too?”
He shrugged. “Enough to give good lessons. Hey, you want me to show you a couple things on the guitar?”
She shook her head. “I’m hopelessly unmusical.”
He wrinkled his nose at her, and the almost-smirk of it did something funny to her lower belly. “Nah. I saw you tapping your foot the other night.”
Oh, had he? He’d been watching, then, when she didn’t know he was. He’d been watching her the same way she’d been watching him.
That revelation showed up as warmth in her chest and heat between her legs and something that swirled on the surface of her skin. She had to get ahold of herself. No good could come of any of this, not the little hairs or the sensitive skin, not the iron filings, not the hyperawareness and not the way he was urging her into one of the uncomfortable chairs and settling the guitar in her lap, wrapping her hand around its neck with warm, strong fingers. Musician fingers. Not just warm and strong, but probably agile, too. Well, hell.
She was disappointed and grateful when he released her hand and let her do it herself.
“Thing is,” Mark said thoughtfully, “There’s native talent. And that’s helpful. But a lot of music is hard work. You can’t say you’re not musical if you’ve never put in any work. That’s what I mainly try to get across to the kids. I mean, I’m psyched if I teach them something new, and especially if I get them excited. Like I said, the best rush is getting to kids who don’t get excited about much. But the other thing is, I try to help them realize that sticking with it and working hard is more important than being some prodigy.”
She looked away from her fingers on the guitar’s neck and up at his face. His eyes were bright.
“I bet even when you weren’t the best role model, you did them more good than harm,” she said.
He shrugged. “Who knows? Anyway...” He unfurled one of her fingers and reconnected it with the string. “This is a C chord. First thing everyone learns.”
He guided her fingers, then showed her how to strum the chord with her other hand. “How’s your dad doing?” she asked, to distract herself from the way his touch had raised goosebumps along her arms.
“He’s improving,” Mark said. “I’ve been talking to him almost every day. I think he’s lonely.”
She caught his eye; his expression was wistful but also pleased. “I bet you cheer him up a lot,” she said. “I’m glad you guys have been talking. I know you said you wanted more connection to him.”
“I wish it hadn’t taken this to make it happen.”
“Me, too,” she said. “But the important thing is, it’s happening, right?”
He readjusted
Gavin played the phrase again. And wow. Not flat any more. The kid had played something almost soulful, and yet not an imitation of what Mark had played. This was very much Gavin’s. Mark had heard it in the kid’s playing and brought it out of him.
Hell, yeah, there would be more music lessons. And maybe she’d see what else she could set up along these lines. There were organizations, nonprofits and so forth, that helped get music into kids’ lives. She’d bet Mark would love that. It wouldn’t hurt his image, either.
Huh. That last bit had been an afterthought, not her main focus.
Eyes on the prize,
Haven,
she chided herself.
“Thanks, man,” Gavin said, and began packing up his guitar.
Even the way Mark shook hands with Gavin, earnestly, seriously, that same man-to-man vibe about it, was perfect.
“What about little kids?” she asked Mark, after Gavin had left and they were alone in the echoey band room. “You like working with them, too?”
She leaned against the piano, keeping her distance from him, as if that would help. As if that would stop the iron filings from aligning to him.
He nodded. “All ages. Any kid that’s serious about playing guitar or piano.”
“You play piano, too?”
He shrugged. “Enough to give good lessons. Hey, you want me to show you a couple things on the guitar?”
She shook her head. “I’m hopelessly unmusical.”
He wrinkled his nose at her, and the almost-smirk of it did something funny to her lower belly. “Nah. I saw you tapping your foot the other night.”
Oh, had he? He’d been watching, then, when she didn’t know he was. He’d been watching her the same way she’d been watching him.
That revelation showed up as warmth in her chest and heat between her legs and something that swirled on the surface of her skin. She had to get ahold of herself. No good could come of any of this, not the little hairs or the sensitive skin, not the iron filings, not the hyperawareness and not the way he was urging her into one of the uncomfortable chairs and settling the guitar in her lap, wrapping her hand around its neck with warm, strong fingers. Musician fingers. Not just warm and strong, but probably agile, too. Well, hell.
She was disappointed and grateful when he released her hand and let her do it herself.
“Thing is,” Mark said thoughtfully, “There’s native talent. And that’s helpful. But a lot of music is hard work. You can’t say you’re not musical if you’ve never put in any work. That’s what I mainly try to get across to the kids. I mean, I’m psyched if I teach them something new, and especially if I get them excited. Like I said, the best rush is getting to kids who don’t get excited about much. But the other thing is, I try to help them realize that sticking with it and working hard is more important than being some prodigy.”
She looked away from her fingers on the guitar’s neck and up at his face. His eyes were bright.
“I bet even when you weren’t the best role model, you did them more good than harm,” she said.
He shrugged. “Who knows? Anyway...” He unfurled one of her fingers and reconnected it with the string. “This is a C chord. First thing everyone learns.”
He guided her fingers, then showed her how to strum the chord with her other hand. “How’s your dad doing?” she asked, to distract herself from the way his touch had raised goosebumps along her arms.
“He’s improving,” Mark said. “I’ve been talking to him almost every day. I think he’s lonely.”
She caught his eye; his expression was wistful but also pleased. “I bet you cheer him up a lot,” she said. “I’m glad you guys have been talking. I know you said you wanted more connection to him.”
“I wish it hadn’t taken this to make it happen.”
“Me, too,” she said. “But the important thing is, it’s happening, right?”
He readjusted
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