He readjusted her index finger where it clutched the string to the fingerboard. It hurt, the way the string cut into her flesh, and without thinking, she reached for his hand and turned it over, stroking her thumb across his fingertips. “Calluses,” she observed.
He drew an uneven breath and she dropped his hand, aware suddenly that she’d crossed a line.
She stood up quickly and handed him the guitar. “I’d better get going.” She smoothed her skirt down and checked to make sure no pins were coming out of her hair. Despite the fact that everything was in order, she felt ruffled, as if the uneven thud of her heart were somehow visible.
“Set up more lessons,” she told him from the safe distance of the doorway. “Meanwhile, I’ll send you some info about nonprofits that have to do with music and kids. We could do some fund-raising work for them—I think that would go a long way toward getting your image back on track, and might be something you’d find fun, too.”
“Sounds good,” he said. He held his guitar by the neck and stared after her. She couldn’t read the look on his face.
Well, damn it, she shouldn’t be trying to interpret his mysterious looks, anyway.
“Tomorrow. Pete. My office,” she said.
And got the hell out of there.
* * *
“MR. SOVEREIGN’S HERE to see you.”
Bennie, Haven’s receptionist, poked her head into Haven’s office.
“Thanks. Send him in.”
Haven had purposely asked Pete to come a few minutes before Mark so he wouldn’t feel ganged up on. She wanted a few minutes alone to make nice with him, too, and get him in a good frame of mind. She hoped she could soften him up for Mark’s apology.
Pete Sovereign was a good-looking guy. He still had the boy-band appeal—clean shaven with longish blond bangs falling in his face and bright green eyes that would have dazzled her if he’d been her type. She came briskly around the desk and put out her hand. “Haven Hoyt.”
“Pete Sovereign,” he drawled, the Southern accent ringing false, since she knew he was New England born and raised. He had a loping gait that she suspected was put on, too.
She took her hand back. He’d held onto it too long, almost as if he were thinking of leaning down and kissing it. And he was giving her a ton of eye contact, all kinds of dark, stormy and come-hither. Pete Sovereign had an image going on.
She could respect that. He’d figured out what worked for him and stuck with it. The result was a healthy solo musical career, and he was in no hurry to go on the tour because it would mean taking a break from his own work to do it. She was sure it would only be worth it to him if he was convinced they’d make a fortune, and if Mark flaked out on them—
Well, that would mean no fortune for Pete or any of them.
“Mark’s on his way.” She hoped he was, anyway. She’d called him last night to make sure he wouldn’t forget the meeting, and he’d been drunk enough that she could hear it in his voice. She’d told him to quit drinking, slug a quart of water and take two aspirin. She had her fingers crossed that he wasn’t passed out or too hungover to move.
“So, hey,” she said. “I know things haven’t been the easiest between you and Mark, but I want you to know I’m working with him, and we’re smoothing out the rough edges.”