I groan dramatically, just picking on him now. Feeling alarmingly relaxed. Better somehow, knowing that Willa is here under the same roof rather than out in the city or whatever she and Summer got up to on their girls’ weekend.

Perfectly normal outing for two young women, I’m sure, but I’ve never been good at turning off the protective streak. The one that’s constantly worrying about everyone’s safety.

“Pick something easy, like ‘Twinkle Twinkle.’ We don’t know if Willa is any good.”

“Dad!”

Willa laughs and shakes her head, before dropping her gaze to the strings that her fingers and pick hover over, a curtain of warm copper hair shielding her face like she’s a little bit shy. Her long lashes flutter shut for a moment, and her knee bounces.

Then the smooth hum of the strings fills the kitchen. I immediately recognize it as a slowed down acoustic version of the song that was just playing.

I stop and put down the peeler in my hand. I’d be the first person to confess that I leave my radio tuned to the country station. I’m no connoisseur. And when I’m out in the pastures, the soundtrack is the snorts of our mounts and the thrum of the cows’ hooves against the land.

Truthfully, silence doesn’t bother me in the least.

But she’s impossible to look away from. I figured she’d have some basic knowledge of the guitar, but this is impressive. Or maybe it’s just because it’s her.

There’s something soulful, something that warms me to my bones as I watch her.

“Wait! You missed the part where you sing!” Luke’s tone is accusatory.

Willa peeks up, timidly pushing her hair behind her ear. “I don’t sing, Luke. I just like playing guitar.”

“You sang during our dance party the other day.”

She drops her eyes, lips pressing together, cheeks flushing the prettiest shade of pink. “That was just for fun.”

“Sing! Sing! Sing!”

A deep laugh bubbles up out of me. Luke is so damn persistent.

Willa’s eyes widen on mine, and I cross my arms with a shrug. “Sing, Willa. Let’s hear it.”

Her blush deepens, crawling down her neck onto her chest. It’s how she’d look with beard burn on her.

My beard burn.

“Fine. But I don’t have a good voice, so no making fun.”

“You do too!”

She points at Luke. “This was supposed to be background music while you cooked, not a concert.”

“It sounds so good, Willa. I want to play the guitar as good as you.”

The shy smile that touches her lips as her head dips down has me softening toward her. She’s so brash sometimes, and then there’s this sweet side. This bashful side. This insecure side.

And she has no business feeling that way at all.