Instead, I’m sprawled across the couch in the living room, guitar resting on my thigh, fingers lazily strumming out the chords to the song I sang at Nocté.
It’s good—but it’s notrightyet.
There’s something missing.
And while I could probably mess with it until things click, I needAnnato help me find it.
Finally, I hear her bedroom door creak open, and I school my expression into one of deep, brooding concentration, my fingers idly plucking at the strings as I hum the melody under my breath.
I don’t look up.I don’t need to.
I canfeelher glare.
And then—the hesitation.
That fraction of a second where she almost asks what I’m doing before catching herself.
I bite back a smirk.
Hook.
Line.
Sinker.
I drag out a sigh, shifting slightly on the couch as I deliberately botch the next chord.
Wince.Groan.Shake my head like I’m frustrated.
Damn, I’m good.I should have gone into acting.
Anna still doesn’t move.
She’s tryingso damn hardnot to take the bait.
It’s so fucking hard not to grin like an idiot.
I strum again—worse this time.
Oh, it’s a deliberate mess.A sound so wrong, so painfully off-key, it could haunt anun’snightmares.
Annahuffs.
I fight back the grin.
Almost there.
I strum again, singing under my breath a set of lyrics that obviously don’t work.
She growls.
Hooked.
“You’re kidding me, right?”
Bingo.
I glance over to her, keeping my expression neutral.“Hmm?”