Beautiful. He called me beautiful, his dark eyes roaming over me as if I was his reason, the only reason.

I sit frozen under the force of that stare. He isn’t wearing his usual playful smile. He looks almost angry, desperate.

His fingers tighten around the neck of the guitar until his knuckles turn white. “Play with me, Liberty.”

I should have expected that—he’s holding his guitar, after all—but I didn’t, and the request is a sucker punch to the throat.

A strangled sound escapes me. I can’t perform in front of Killian James. While I’m comfortable with Killian the man, Killian the musician intimidates me. His vocals are the stuff of legend—strong, clean, and powerful with a rawness that hooks into your soul and gives it a tug. He sings, and you feel he’s doing it just for you, taking your pain, frustration, joy, rage, sorrow, and love and giving it a voice. And while I know I can sing, I’m an amateur.

Killian’s eyes go wide as he takes a step closer. “Please.”

He stands in the center of the room, still clutching the neck of his guitar as if it’s the only thing holding him together. But it’s me he watches, the lines around his eyes tight, his chest lifting and falling with deep, quick breaths.

He wants this. A lot. I suspect he needs this. Whatever his reason, he’s been pushing his music away. But he wants to let it back in just now. To deny him feels akin to stomping on a spring bloom fighting its way through the cold winter earth.

I lick my dry lips and force myself to tell him everything. “The first time I tried to perform for someone other than my parents was for the fourth grade talent show. I was set to play ‘In My Life’ by The Beatles.”

Killian starts to smile, but I shake my head. “It was no good. By the time I got on the stage, I was shaking so badly, I thought I’d faint. I just stood there, staring. And then I heard someone snicker. I ran out of there and fucking pissed my pants backstage.” A pained grimace pulls at my lips. “They called me Piddy Bell until senior year.”

“Fuckers.” Killian scowls. “And I have it on good authority that Jax pissed himself during his kindergarten’s holiday play. On stage.”

My hand caresses the smooth curve of the guitar body. I love this instrument. Love playing it. How can that be when it’s also linked to so much fear and humiliation? “Second time I tried to play on stage was in college. Open mic night. Didn’t even make it out there. I threw up behind some amps and ran out.”

“Babe…”

I hold his sad gaze. “I quit, Killian. Quit trying. Quit dreaming. And part of me is ashamed of that. But part of me is relieved. My parents were happy. They didn’t want that life for me. Said it was too brutal.”

Killian’s jaw works as he grinds his teeth, and when he speaks, it’s almost a growl. “When did they tell you that?”

“From the beginning. I just didn’t want to believe them at first.”

He nods as if I’ve confirmed something for him. “And then they were there to say, ‘We told you so.’ Had you tuck away your songs and focus on other things.”

My fingers clench my guitar neck. “It wasn’t like that.”

But it was. That burns too.

Killian’s gaze doesn’t waver. “You wrote those songs, tried to play for others, because you love music, just as I do. It’s in your blood whether you want it there or not.”

“Yes,” I whisper, because I can’t lie to him when he looks at me like he’s seeing my soul.

Killian takes a step closer. “Play with me. See how good it can be.”

“I don’t…”

“I will never laugh at you,” he promises fiercely. “Ever. I’m your safe place, Libby. You’ve got to know that.”

Some deep tether in me sags a little, giving me room to draw a deeper breath. I swallow my fear. “What do you want to play? One of yours?”

His tension seems to release on a breath, but his nose wrinkles. “Naw. Feels pretentious asking you to sing my songs. Let’s do something classic. But fun.” He bites his bottom lip, his brows knitting, until he lights up. “You know Bon Jovi’s ‘Wanted’?”

I have to grin. Were my dad alive, he’d be moaning over Bon Jovi being called a classic. But I can’t fault Killian’s choice. It’s unexpected, yet I see the possibilities. The song can work well on an acoustic and without drums to back it up. And it’s a duet of sorts.

“’Dead or Alive’? Yeah, I know that one.” I adjust my strings, fiddling with the tone. And then I pluck the first few notes, the old but familiar twang making me smile.

Killian makes a happy sound as he pulls a chair close and starts to do his own adjustments. Good Lord, just the sight of his big hand and long fingers moving along the frets, his forearms, corded with muscles and flexing, makes my mouth dry. Killian holding a guitar is the stuff of both my dirtiest fantasy and my most girlish daydreams.

My heart is pounding, anticipation and nerves running through my veins. I can’t believe I’m about to play with him. Sing with him.

He glances at me, his dark eyes glinting. “You take the lead.”

“What?” My stomach drops. “No. No way. You’re the lead guitarist.”

He chuckles. “Not tonight. You lead. We’ll harmonize the lyrics, but you take the first verse.”

After a few minutes of working out who will sing what, we agree to start. My hands are so sweaty, I have to rub them on my shorts before I can hold my guitar.

Killian’s voice is a soft purr of encouragement. “This is gonna be fun, Liberty Bell. Just let go, feel it.”

Taking a deep breath I start. And fumble. Blushing, I power through it. The music. Just feel the music.

Okay. I got this.

I begin to sing—wobbly at first, but stronger when Killian smiles wide and nods, encouraging. I close my eyes and think of the lyrics. It’s about a musician, world-weary and jaded. Lonely. A man who’s been reduced to nothing more than entertainment for the masses.

And it hits me. I open my eyes, look at Killian. My heart hurts for him. But he doesn’t seem to notice. He’s listening to me sing. He comes in with the rhythm, picking up the second verse. Then he sings.

Killian’s voice is a wave of sound that sweeps over the room. It’s the difference between singing in your shower and finding yourself in a concert hall.