Just a little bit more
His guitar stops, so naturally, I stop. I open my eyes, and he’s watching me with one of his expressionless expressions.
I take that back. This expression isn’t expressionless at all. He’s thinking. I can tell by the squint in his eyes that he’s coming up with an idea.
He glances away in order to pick up his phone.
Ridge: Do you mind if I try something?
Me: As long as you promise never again to propose a question by asking if I mind if you can try something.
Ridge: Nice try, but that made no sense.
I laugh, then look up at him. I nod softly, scared of what he’s about to “try.” He sits up on his knees and leans forward, placing both hands on my shoulders. I attempt to hold in my gasp, but it’s a failed attempt. I don’t know what he’s doing or why he’s getting so close to me, but holy crap.
Holy crap.
Why is my heart spazzing out right now?
He pushes me until I’m flat on his mattress. He reaches behind him and picks up his guitar, then lays it on the other side of me. He lies down next to me.
Calm down, heart. Please. Ridge has supersonic senses, and he’ll feel you beating through the vibrations of the mattress.
Ridge scoots closer to me and by the way he’s hesitating, it makes me think he’s unsure if I’ll allow him any closer.
I will. I absolutely will.
He’s staring at me now, contemplating his next move. I can tell he’s not about to make a pass at me. Whatever he’s about to do is making him way more apprehensive than if he were just planning to kiss me. He’s eyeing my neck and chest as if he’s searching for a particular part of me. His eyes stop on my abdomen, pause, then fall back to his phone.
Oh, Lord. What is he about to do? Put his hands on me? Does he want to feel me sing this song? Feeling requires touching, and touching requires hands. His hands. Feeling me.
Ridge: Do you trust me?
Me: I don’t trust anyone anymore. My trust has been completely depleted this week.
Ridge: Can you replenish your trust for about five minutes? I want to feel your voice.
I inhale, then look at him—lying next to me—and I nod. He sets down his phone without breaking my gaze. He’s watching me as if he’s warning me to stay calm, but it’s having the exact opposite effect. I’m sort of panicked right now.
He scoots closer and slides his arm under the back of my neck.
Oh.
Now he’s even closer.
Now his face is hovering over mine. He reaches across my body and pulls the guitar flush against my side, bringing it closer to us. He’s still eyeing me with a look that seems intended to produce a calming effect.
It doesn’t. It doesn’t calm me down at all.
He lowers his head to my chest, then presses his cheek against my shirt.
Oh, this is great. Now he definitely feels how spastic my heart is beating right now. I close my eyes and want to die of embarrassment, but I don’t have time for that, because he begins strumming the strings of the guitar next to me. I realize he’s playing with both hands, one from underneath my head and one over me. His head is against my chest, and I can feel his hair brush my neck. He’s pretty much sprawled across me in order to reach his guitar with both arms.
Oh, my dear sweet baby Jesus in a wicker basket.
How does he expect me to sing?
I try to calm down by regulating my breathing, but it’s hard when we’re positioned like this. As usual when I miss an intro, he seamlessly starts the song over again from the beginning. When he reaches the point where I come in, I begin singing. Sort of. It’s really quiet, because I’m still waiting for air to find its way back into my lungs.