“Then prove it.”
Game on, pretty boy, country jerk, I think.
I start in on the first verse, and I make it most of the way through before my voice cracks. Normally I’d be embarrassed, but I don’t really care. A week ago, this would’ve been my big chance to show what I’ve got, but considering I don’t really respect Jesse, I don’t have anything to fear.
So I just keep belting out “Carolina in My Mind.” Playing guitar feels so good, I find myself sinking further down into the soft couch, relaxing, and not wanting to cry. Which is good, because lately, I’ve been on the verge of breaking down. I don’t want to waste a single tear on Nate or my band, but it’s been getting harder and harder.
On the second verse, Jesse leans back and closes his eyes. He joins me in singing the chorus.
When we’ve finished the song, we sit in silence while he chews on his lip. Enough time goes by to play the song again before he speaks. “You could use some training. You’re singing out of your throat, and it’s making your voice crack, but you have a nice tone.”
“So do you.” What a stupid thing to say. “I mean, obviously.”
He moves over to the couch, hip-checks me, and takes the guitar carefully by the neck, lifting it from my hands. I hold my breath and pretend I’m a mannequin.
“Watch.” He places fingers on four different strings. “Your hands are super small. So when you’re playing the key licks, don’t play an open B7, because that makes the transition too tough. You should bar the B7 at the seventh fret, which’ll leave your hand in perfect position to start the lick. That’ll make it easier.”
He demonstrates a riff, moving his fingers up the board.
“I’ll do that,” I reply, and we look at each other. If those caramel eyes weren’t attached to Jesse Scott, I could get lost in them.
A phone beeps, and we both startle.
Jesse swats the newspaper out of the way and fumbles for his cell on the couch cushion. He swipes the phone on and checks the screen. “Mark got caught up in contract stuff. He says he’ll be here in two minutes.”
“Which is what he said five minutes ago.”
Would Dr. Salter have left us alone with the housekeeper if he’d known Mr. Logan would be so late? I don’t think Mom would mind me spending time alone with a cute guy—I’m seventeen, after all, and everyone knows that a huge part of being a seventeen-year-old girl is spending time with cute guys—but Dad and Sam would freak. My brother would beat up the three-hundred-pound guard outside, scale the fence, and put Jesse in a headlock just for looking at my legs.
“Have you eaten breakfast?” Jesse asks.
“Yeah. A strawberry doughnut.” Dave made it especially for me when I dropped by the Donut Palace, where he’s spending his shadow day. He used icing to spell “Rock it out” in squiggly letters.
Jesse makes a face. “That’s so unhealthy. Come on.” He places the guitar back on the wall and gestures for me to follow him into the kitchen. It’s the biggest I’ve ever seen, but it’s cozy with wooden cabinets and cast-iron skillets hanging on the wall. An old-fashioned butter churn sits next to a woodstove.
“Jesus.” I stare up at the vaulted ceilings dotted with skylights. “You really live here by yourself?”
“Yeah…well, except for Grace and my cat. Casper doesn’t like strangers though, so you probably won’t see her.”
He has a cat?
Jesse pulls the fridge open to reveal shelves chockfull of energy drinks and fruit and vegetables and milk. He takes out a carton of eggs, a pepper, and an onion and lays them on the marble counter. His fridge has more produce than the Quick Pick. Why would a health nut get drunk and fall off a yacht?
Grace hurries into the room, brandishing a pink feather duster. “Get out of my kitchen, young man!”
“It’s my kitchen,” Jesse fires back. “And your omelets are too salty.”
“Last time you cooked, you burned chicken. It took days to get the stench out of here.”
“I promise not to scorch the frying pan this time.”
Grace mutters something in Spanish and feather-dusts her way out of the room. And I thought Sam and Jordan living together was drama.
I walk over to the French doors to check out the backyard. “Your pool is shaped like a guitar?”
“Big-time, isn’t it?”
“I bet it would be fun to play Marco Polo in it. You swim?” I ask, thinking of the boating incident again.