Page 39 of Christmas Trees & Weak Knees

It’s a good start, and honestly, I’m kind of impressed. I didn’t think he had it in him. But there’s still so much hurt I’m carrying around. I’m not sure it’s enough.

“Is that all?”

He scrunches up his face and closes his eyes. A muscle in his jaw ticks as he thinks. He opens his eyes and fixes me in his gaze. “I’m sorry about the whole room service thing. I shouldn’t have been so demanding, and I should have been more grateful that you brought me anything to eat at all. For what it’s worth, it was really good.” The edges of his mouth tip up. “Look, I messed up. And you and I both know I’m in a bind. I have a deadline for this demo, and I…” His brow furrows like he’s in pain. “I’ve never been great about asking for help and sometimes my ego gets in my way. I’m pretty sure that’s part of the reason I’m not in the band anymore.”

I cross my arms over my chest and arch my eyebrows.

“Thing is, I can’t do it on my own. I thought I could. I can’t. And so here I am, asking for help. And I know I’m asking a lot of you,” he says. He reaches out to grab my hands and dips down so that we’re eye to eye. “But I need your help. Please.”

Somehow, I manage to extract my hands from the comforting warmth of his skin on mine. The calluses on his left hand brush over the back of my right hand, and I let out a slow, measured breath. I take a step back and swallow.

Turns out, I’m a sucker for baby animals and quality apologies from Kash Murray.

“Meet me in the loft tomorrow at nine a.m.,” I say, shaking my head in disbelief because I can’t believe the words coming out of my mouth. “Bring your guitar and whatever you’ve been working on.”

“I’ll be there,” he says in a raspy voice. He reaches out and gives my arm an excited squeeze. His eyes twinkle in the white Christmas lights. “Thank you.”

A group of people wander over and I direct my attention back to getting everything ready to make the hot cocoa. He nods goodbye and turns to go.

“Hey, Kash,” I say before he walks away. “Don’t make me regret this.”

November 10

Since agreeing to help Kash, I’ve had a field day with my doubts. Was agreeing to co-write his demo a wise business decision or just another choice I’ll come to regret?

I guess there’s only one way to find out for sure.

The ladder to the loft creaks as I climb up to the ledge. I’m almost to the top when Kash greets me. “Morning.”

He stands in the loft, his dark hair post-shower damp. Light from the window behind him casts a golden halo around his head, and in his dark T-shirt and black jeans, he might as well be standing on a stage. It’s incredibly sexy and disconcerting. He steps forward and reaches down to help me up, like he’s picking me out of a crowd to join him onstage. I hesitate, wondering how many times he’s done this before. Is that why he didn’t recognize my face?

I can’t go there. What does it matter how many groupies he has? I should grit my teeth and just get over it already. I can’t expect Kash to show up, ready to work, and then not give it my all because of my own hang-ups. If we’re going to pull this off, we both need to give one hundred percent.

“Thanks,” I say, reaching for his hand.

His grip is sure and steady. He tugs me up the rest of the way, and I stumble when the toe of my boot catches on an uneven floorboard. Kash braces me before I slam into his chest. His eyes widen, and then his gaze goes to my mouth. There’s a definite charge to the air around us, and for the first time, I’m glad the loft is no longer used to store hay. One spark and it would all go up in flames.

Kash drops his hands from my upper arms where he was steadying me and steps back to give me space. The cool air of his wake brushes over my heated skin, and I give myself a little shake. Just because he’s hot doesn’t mean I should let myself go all weak-kneed for him. We’re here to work, and with everything already on my plate, I don’t have time to lose focus.

I follow Kash toward the barn’s long wall, where some of the boxes and crates have been reorganized and stacked to create a cozy nook around the sleigh and two mismatched wooden chairs. An old, braided rug is spread in the center.

“You’ve been busy,” I say, setting my guitar down so I can unwrap the scarf wound around my neck.

It’s kind of cute how his spine straightens with pride. He does a little bounce on the balls of his feet and then strides over to his guitar case.

The old ladder-back chair wobbles a bit when I sit down and set my acoustic guitar in my lap. Kash settles into the Windsor side chair across from me. I check the tuning on my guitar and then turn my attention to Kash. “Ready to get started?”

We start by playing the chorus of Kash’s song “I Don’t Know How I’ll Make It on My Own” a couple of times. Kash makes a few small adjustments to the lead guitar part, but otherwise it sounds a lot like the version I was playing the other day.

“What about this for the intro?” he asks, his lips pressed together in concentration.

“Okay,” I say. “I like where you’re going. What about this?”

We fall into an easy back-and-forth pattern, building off each other’s suggestions. It’s almost too easy. Still, I don’t hate it.

“One more time from the top?” he asks, fidgeting with the pick in his hand. “I want to see how the lyrics fit.”

Up to now, we’ve been humming the melody line over the guitars.