“Username,” I mumbled to myself, typing it in. I’d learned the “TFI” in Mr. Fender’s username stood for The Fender Initiative. He ran a music academy and could not look sexier holding a guitar. Or sitting by a piano. Or all the other instruments he evidently played.

“He’s a musician?” Daddy asked.

I nodded. “And a teacher. He has his own school for music.”

Daddy rested his chin on my shoulder and absently brushed his hand up and down my back. It gave me the shivers.

“A New Yorker like you,” Daddy murmured.

That was all the info we were given in Mr. Fender’s bio. It merely said “Brooklyn. The Fender Initiative.” And his name, of course.

I wasn’t sure I could call myself a New Yorker, though. Not anymore. I was born in Staten Island, but we’d moved to Charlotte when I was ten. After that, I’d stayed there until I’d attended college in California, where I’d met Daddy. He still had his restaurant in LA, but his flagship was here in Nashville.

The top photos in Mr. Fender’s feed were of instruments, a couple shots taken in a park, one of a little girl, but I’d deduced she wasn’t his child. She seemed to be the daughter of a friend. Farther down the scroll was the picture that’d made me stop the first time. Aside from a freaking gorgeous profile picture that revealed the hint of a smirk on a partly shadowed face, this was the one. A picture of Mr. Fender and his younger brother. The caption read, “Beer, wings, and rehearsal with Nicky.” And Nicky had taken the photo, flashing a wide grin while Anthony looked more like he was humoring his brother.

“Look at those eyes, Daddy,” I said quietly. “Isn’t he beautiful?”

The brothers shared similar features, brown hair and green eyes, but Anthony stood out. He was significantly older than Nicky, who I guessed was around my age, midtwenties or something. Anthony looked to be around forty. He had the sexiest laugh lines at the corners of his eyes, and he had that soulful appearance. Not unlike Daddy, actually. Maybe it came with age for some people? Either way, it was one of the most attractive attributes to me. When you could see the whispers of a person’s life journey, when childhood hell-raisin’ mingled with grown-up wisdom and experience.

Anthony Fender had that look.

“He’s definitely handsome,” Daddy agreed.

I scrolled down some more, showing photos of Mr. Fender’s life. Guitars he built and repaired on his own, students at rehearsal, more pictures of his brother, and a very, very, very sweet photo of Anthony and his grandmother, both smiling and holding up pastries. She was a short little thing next to him, and that was saying a lot coming from me. I’d been teased mercilessly throughout my childhood for being so short.