“You should explore, try different songs out. You’ve only got two days, you know.”

“Shit, yeah.” Wyatt focuses on the guitar, plucking at the strings, hissing when he doesn’t get something right. In the months that I’ve watched him practice and play, he’s never really slipped up before, not in a way that I’ve noticed, at least; and even if he has, he’s never been this vocal about it. Is he stressed about performing? Is he scared? Does he want to back out? The deal was just for an audition, and I guess this could technically be that, though I’m betting he expected something more one on one.

“How do you know what to play?” I ask. “Like the strings?”

“It’s easy when you memorize it, but there’s an order.” Wyatt scoots down the couch on the patio. “Come here?”

I take the spot next to him.

He hands me his guitar, and this time it feels more like some kind of rite of passage, almost like he’s trusting me with his life even though I was literally holding this guitar seconds ago.

Wyatt scoots in closer, and I can feel his body wrap around me.

Then his hands are on top of mine.

Oh.

“Put this hand here.” His left hand directs me to the neck of the guitar. And his right arm wraps around my body to guide that hand. “Each of the strings is a note. E, B, G, D, A, and E.”

He lets me pluck them one at a time.

“Two Es?” I ask.

“Yeah, one is the highest, the other is the lowest.”

He plays each individually, and I can hear the difference.

“But how do you know what to play?”

“Well,” he chuckles. “I don’t know if I have time to teach you everything, but … here.”

He directs my left hand again. “You kind of number your fingers. Just use these three here.” It’s hard for my brain to focus on what he’s saying with the heat of Wyatt’s touch, his breath against my neck, the smell of his cologne.

“Okay.” I let him guide me because I have no idea what he’s talking about.

“Here, here, and here.” I’m pretty sure I have fingers on the G, B, and E strings. “Now strum.” He pats on my right hand.

The guitar lets out a smooth sound.

“You just played a D chord.”

I strum a few more times, the sound coming out uneven when I move my fingers a little too much. But it is fun—that much I can admit.

“These strings are rough.” After a few seconds, I can already feel the tingle.

“That’s how I developed these calluses.” Wyatt flips his hands over, showing me his fingertips. I never really noticed before how rough his hands look. Not that it’s that noticeable, but the tips of his left fingers certainly look rougher than his right.

“I could just give you lotion.”

“No way. It makes me a better player.”