After a tasty death-by-chocolate dessert, he paid for the dinner without making too big a fuss about it, and he hailed them a cab and took her back to her apartment. In her mental tally, she gave him points for each of those accomplishments, and she decided that she should definitely let him kiss her.
The driver asked if he should wait, and Greg said no, he’d walk home. That was smooth, Haven thought. No cab idling at the curb, but no making it too obvious that he hoped for curbside—or upstairs—action. Another point in the plus column, and none—none!—in the minus column. This was the most promising date she’d had in eons. She couldn’t wait to tell Elisa.
The street had been quiet outside her building. “Thank you,” she said. “I had a lovely time.”
“Me, too,” Greg said.
He took a step closer to her and bent to kiss her. It took a long time for his face to get near hers. Was he moving at snail speed? His lips touched hers. Then he drew back and smiled at her.
Huh.
Well, it had been a very brief kiss. Not really long enough to feel anything.
For some reason, she thought of Mark’s face in the barbershop mirror. That intense gaze, as if he knew exactly what she was wearing under her clothes and, even worse, what she was thinking.
Greg had looked at her closely, as if gauging her reaction, and then lowered his face again.
Kissing her. Like, serious. Not bad technique. Not wet or sloppy or too much tongue or anything negative she could think of. In fact, on paper, this should have been perfect.
It was just that it was entirely on paper. Not a molecule of arousal stirred in her.
Whereas on Friday night, watching Mark play guitar, just talking to him, it had all been stirring. Parts she didn’t even know she had, actually, little invisible hairs and supersensitive bits of skin.
Those same parts were stirring now—Where is he? What is he doing?—almost as though they were iron filings, straining toward him. If she let down her guard, would she be drawn right over there?
She let herself watch, because it was too hard not to. Mark was explaining something about picking technique, leaning over his gorgeous—almost tiger-striped—acoustic guitar and showing Gavin what he was doing. While Mark was talking, Gavin started strumming and messing around with fingerings, which would have driven Haven crazy—because obviously he wasn’t paying attention if he was playing. But Mark didn’t make him stop. In fact, Mark stopped playing and talking, and listened to Gavin, with his full, undivided attention.
“Let me show you something,” Mark said. He played the same lick, but with embellishments. It made Gavin’s rendition sound small and flat, as if Mark’s was full of something—emotion, Haven thought—that Gavin hadn’t quite managed to reach for.
Gavin played the phrase again. And wow. Not flat any more. The kid had played something almost soulful, and yet not an imitation of what Mark had played. This was very much Gavin’s. Mark had heard it in the kid’s playing and brought it out of him.
Hell, yeah, there would be more music lessons. And maybe she’d see what else she could set up along these lines. There were organizations, nonprofits and so forth, that helped get music into kids’ lives. She’d bet Mark would love that. It wouldn’t hurt his image, either.
Huh. That last bit had been an afterthought, not her main focus. Eyes on the prize, Haven, she chided herself.