Resisting the Musician (a Head Over Heels Novel) (Entangled Indulgence) by Ally Blake Read Free Book Online Page B

softened the fat dimpled cushions of a beige L-shaped couch, the twelve-foot dining table was surrounded by three mismatched chairs, and the only rug breaking the expanse of unpolished wood was for the dogs, who lay upon it snoring.
    One exposed brick wall boasted a fireplace large enough to house a small car, while another was nothing but glass. The view outside cold and green; fresh rain sparkling like crystal tears before acres of mighty trees stretching off into the distance. Making the house feel…warm. Comfortable. Like a sanctuary from the noise of the world.
    “Lori?” Dash asked, snapping Lori from her odd moment of fancifulness.
    His warm hand landed on the small of her back, and she nearly leapt from the intensity of the touch.
    “Everything okay?” he asked, the glint in his eye making it perfectly clear he knew exactly why she’d jumped.
    “Fine, fine,” she insisted. “It’s just… No signed posters from your fellow rock stars? No half-naked models lying stoned on your floor? No gun-shot holes in the walls? I have to admit it’s a little disappointing.”
    Dash’s hands sank into the pockets of his jeans, the glint flashing as a small smile played across his mouth. “My first home away from family was a tour bus shared with three other smelly, horny, loud seventeen-year-old boys. Six shows a week in dingy pubs, town halls, and the occasional concert venue. Living off fast food and cheap beer, getting an hour’s sleep here and there, mostly after sunrise. I lived that way for more than thirteen years. Sure the hotels improved, as did the beer.” He looked around the room, out at the view, breathing it in. “But this is better.”
    Shaking his head he then waved toward the couch. “Sit. I’ll go get cleaned up.”
    When he pulled the T-shirt away from his chest, Lori said, “No!” rather more effusively than she’d have liked. Sweaty and rumpled, he made a mockery of her constitution; she’d hate to think how jumpy she’d be if he cleaned himself up.
    She walked around and sank into the soft couch. Then her stomach gave a little heave at the sight of a pair of guitars lying across the coffee table, a battered old chest that could well have come from the stash of Captain Jack Sparrow.
    Lifting her gaze, she discovered Dash’s shirt-flapping had left an inch of exposed stomach—taut, brown, with an arrow of hair spearing into his jeans. Somehow she managed, “I have three more meetings after this, and to suggest I’m musically challenged is not an exaggeration. So…please.”
    His eyebrow rose at the please . As if he knew that was the hardest part for her. Harder even than admitting she wasn’t good at something.
    “You’ve never played?” He played a little air guitar.
    Watching his long strong fingers strum the air with easy grace, it felt like an age since she’d played in any capacity. Trying to right a sinking ship didn’t leave much time for the ‘blue’ sections of her calendar, so no wonder she’d had such a visceral reaction to the guy. Look at the pretty man! Don’t think about the other big horrible hard stuff you have to do. Just enjoy the pretty!
    Figuring the guitars were the lesser of two evils, she shuffled out of the over-soft cushion and grabbed one by the neck. And realized she truly didn’t have a clue which way was up.
    “Right-handed or left?” he asked.
    “Right,” she said, and, going by instinct, slipped the strap over her shoulder.
    The instrument was lighter than she expected. The wood cool against her palms, a neat weight on her thighs. She ran her fingers down the strings to find them tight. As her left palm landed on the lower curve of the body of the guitar, it fit as if an indentation had been worn there by another hand doing the same a million times before.
    Probably the same big hand that threw several pages on the coffee table. Paper covered in smudged pencil dabbling, like a drunken chicken had stepped in ink and gone for a stroll. Sheet