There was no way to explain what was going on, so I shut up. I’d been singing his lyrics, playing the song he’d written. Not to mention, I’d been using his guitar. That was like wearing someone else’s underwear. You didn’t just play another person’s guitar without their permission.

I yanked the guitar off and tried to put it back, but knocked the stand over instead. Hands shaking, it took me two tries to right it again, all while Jared stood there, gaping at me. Why didn’t he say anything? Was he so angry he couldn’t speak? I set the guitar down carefully, then backed away like it was on fire—and ran straight into the drum set. Cymbals crashed as I fell against it, knocking the equipment all over the floor. Great, now he must think I’m a stalker and a complete klutz. I jumped up too fast, and my legs were so unsteady I started to topple over toward the table. Jared caught me before we had another disaster, his hands gripping my arms to balance me.

“You okay?” he asked, his blue eyes holding mine and making my heart pound even faster. If I stared into those eyes too long, I’d fall into them completely.

I jerked away from his touch and stumbled back. “I'm sorry, I—”

“You were playing one of our songs.”

“Was I?” I asked with a forced laugh, trying to edge toward the door to make a quick escape. “I mean, uh, yeah. I was. Obviously. But it’s not a big deal. It’s not like I listen to your songs a lot or anything. I just have that kind of ear where I hear something once and can play it back and uh…” Stop talking, I shouted at myself. STOP.

The thing about music was true. I could usually play anything just from listening to it a few times, but I’d also listened to Villain Complex’s album about three thousand times and practiced the songs in my room with my guitar hooked up to my headphones. I wasn’t obsessed or anything. I just liked their music a lot. But he didn’t need to know any of that. This was humiliating enough as it was.

“Really?” he asked. “I wish I could do that.”

Not the reaction I’d been expecting. I thought he’d yell at me to get out of his house or think I was another of his swooning groupies. Okay, maybe he wouldn’t think that. I didn’t look the part with my boring glasses and plain brown hair and flannel shirt. No, he probably assumed creepy stalker fangirl. I had to get away, out of this room, as far from Jared and his guitar and this nightmare as possible.

He started to say something else, but I blurted out, “I have to go.”