“That was beautiful,” he said.

Her insides warmed as though she’d taken a sip of brandy. “I didn’t write it,” she said unnecessarily. Of course he wouldn’t think she’d written such a lovely song. “It’s called ‘Moscas en la casa.’ That means ‘Flies in the house.’”

He smiled. “I know. Everything sounds so much more poetic in Spanish.”

“You understood the words?”

“All but ahogandome en llanto. Drowning in tires?”

It was her turn to smile. “Drowning in tears.”

His look of confusion cleared. “Ah.”

She shouldn’t have been surprised that he knew Spanish. He was Dylan Phillips. He knew everything. He probably spoke her native language as well as she did. Now she felt completely exposed, as if she’d shown him a piece of her heart.

“Do you play an instrument?” she asked, scrutinizing him in return.

His brows rose. “Me? No.”

“Why not?”

When his eyes darkened with sadness, she regretted the innocent question. Dylan may be gifted, but he was also wounded, and it was clear the subject disturbed him. “My mother played the violin,” he said, which was explanation enough. “Her music was… strange. Sorrowful. Haunting.” He swallowed visibly. “It was one of the only things she seemed to enjoy… near the end. I think playing kept her well, for a while. She wanted me to take it up, but I was too antsy. Too impatient.”

Angel smiled, remembering how hyperactive he was as a little kid. Like his mind, his arms and legs had never stilled.

“Reading music was easy for me. That part I understood immediately. I just couldn’t get my fingers to cooperate.” He made a stiff claw with his right hand, as if trying to force it into a more elegant position. “I should have tried harder.”

Her heart broke for him, for the boy he’d been. All of seven or eight years old when his mom died, and here he was, thinking he could have made a difference.

Angel had gone around that bend herself, many times. She and Dylan had a lot in common-none of it good.

“Now, a basketball,” he continued, reshaping his hands around a phantom ball, “that always felt right.”

Her tummy tingled as she imagined his hands on her rounded parts. Yes, she could certainly attest to the fact that his touch felt right.

Their eyes met and held. He dropped his gaze, and his hands. “Your voice is incredible.”

“No,” she protested. “It’s all scratchy. Not appropriate for singing.”

“That’s what I like about it. It’s unusual. Sexy.”

The sensation in the pit of her stomach deepened into a dull ache. “I want to be a songwriter, actually.”

“Really?” His eyes brightened with interest. “Play one of yours.”

Que horror! Why had she said that? “You don’t want to hear-”

“I do,” he said, wrapping his hand around the neck of her guitar. “Please.”

Reluctant to deny him, after he’d just shared that painful memory of his mother, she reached into her desk drawer and found a crumpled piece of notebook paper. She knew the words by heart, but it comforted her to have something to look at besides Dylan’s too interested, too earnest face.

Although she found Spanish easier to work with, and much more pleasing to the ear, “Deserted” was in English. The words just came to her that way, raw and edgy and unromantic. The harsher sound fit the dark subject matter, but her raspy voice softened it, made something layered and lovely out of the twisted, often ugly emotions inside her.

After the song ended, she flattened her palm over the strings of her guitar, silencing it, and glanced sideways at him, awaiting his reaction.

“You wrote that?” he asked, sounding impressed. “You should record it. Send it in to a radio station or something.”

She laughed, shaking her head.

“I mean it,” he insisted, grabbing the paper from the desk. “That part about the desert sky at night was awesome-”

Panicking, Angel tried to take the lyrics back, but he moved them out of her reach. “Don’t read that,” she warned, shoving her guitar back in the case hurriedly so she could attack him with both hands.

Thinking it was a game, and obviously enjoying the wrestling match, he stood and held the paper over his head. When he got a glimpse of the words on the page, he started laughing. “Do you write in code? This is indecipherable.”

Shaken and humiliated, she let her hands fall away. It was too late.

Unlike her, Dylan was no dummy. The smile slipped off his face. “Oh,” he said. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to-”

“It’s okay, Dylan. I know I’m stupid.”

“You are not stupid,” he said, his brows slashing downward. “These lyrics are brilliant. You just need a little help with… spelling.”

She tore the paper from his hands and shoved it in the desk drawer. What an awful joke she was. A songwriter who could barely write. Trying to prevent him from seeing the tears that were building in her eyes, threatening to spill down her face, she crossed her arms over her chest and looked down at the ground, blinking rapidly.

“You’re not stupid,” he repeated. “I go to high school, so I know stupid. You’re twice as articulate as the kids there.”

Sniffling, she swiped at the tears on her cheeks. “I don’t even know what that means.”

“It means that you express yourself well,” he said, reaching out to put his hand on her upper arm. Her skin prickled with sensation, and when she looked up at him in confusion, his gaze cruised over her face like a caress. “It’s a talent I can appreciate, because sometimes my tongue is as clumsy as my feet. Especially around you.”

She stared back at him, moistening her lips. “Not always,” she whispered.

Although she meant those words in a nonsexual way, his eyes darkened, and she knew the direction his mind went. And when he stepped forward, she knew the direction his mouth was going. Her palms flattened against his chest to ward him off, but when he touched his lips to hers, she stopped thinking about what she should do and starting doing what she wanted to do.

He didn’t ease into the kiss slowly, like she’d taught him. Instead, he jumped straight into a full-on, open- mouthed, tongue-stroking kiss.

It was kind of scary how good it was, considering his lack of experience.

She stood on her tiptoes and threaded her hands through his hair, plastering her body to his and kissing him back with matching enthusiasm. Her breasts crushed against his chest and he made this sound, low in his throat, like a wounded animal. Before she knew it, her back was against the wall and his hands were on her butt, lifting her to him.

Uh-oh. This was happening way too fast. This wasn’t supposed to be happening at all. “Wait,” she gasped, tearing her mouth from his. “Stop.”

“Sorry,” he said, breathing heavily. “I’ll go slower.”

She knew he would promise anything to keep her in this position. Or to get her into an even more compromising one. “No,” she said firmly, pushing at his chest. “I can’t.”

He let her down with a strangled groan.

“I can’t see you anymore.”

He gaped at her incredulously. She stared back at him in silence, her heart pounding, every muscle in her body taut with tension. When he saw that she was serious, his jaw hardened and the hot look in his eyes cooled. “Don’t act like you didn’t want me to kiss you,” he said. “I’m not Travis. Or Chad.”

His insinuation that she was a tease stung, but it strengthened her resolve. “I want a lot of things. That doesn’t mean I should let you do me against the wall.”

“I wasn’t going to do you!” he sputtered. “You can tell me to stop anytime.”

She regarded him with skepticism. “You want sex.”

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