Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 71698 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 358(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71698 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 358(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
“Did you make copies?” I ask.
“Making copies felt wrong. I did jot down some notes in the back about certain songs and chords, but most of it is up here.” He taps his brain. “Where all my other songs dwell.”
If I were one of those wise, sage people, I’d probably do the corny thing and tell him that the music should reside here, and thump my chest. But I’m a nurse and too practical for that. He’s right. They’re in his brain. When people talk about the heart, they’re talking about the brain. All feeling comes from the brain. The heart just pumps blood. The whole body might feel something, but yup, that’s the brain too. That might not be romantic, but it’s true. I’m sorry.
The brain can do fabulous things, like translate a total love of good cheese, so don’t hate me. I’m not bursting any bubbles, and I’m not the one who invented science. Don’t talk to me about the mystical or metaphysical either, as I haven’t quite decided what I think about that. There are lines that can be transcended. Sometimes, miraculous and unexplained things happen. I get it.
But songs are in the brain, and Wilder has a great big, incredible, beyond amazing one.
I gasp. “Have you memorized them all?”
He flashes me a sheepish tilt of his lips. He’s trying not to smile yet failing so adorably. This man is even better than cheese. My brain knows it, and it’s not going to change its mind.
“I might have, but it’s a habit. I couldn’t help it.”
He can’t. To the best of my knowledge, he has never forgotten a lyric, and not because he has one of those fancy teleprompter screens on stage at his feet either.
“I can’t think of a single word or statement that would do my excitement justice to hear you bring them to life as you experience them.”
He picks up a guitar that looks like it probably cost thousands and thousands of dollars. It’s immaculate, with fancy inlaid flowers trailing all over the body and little pearl flowers inlaid into every other fret. A gorgeous starburst of wildflowers stands out against the name on the headstock, blooming between the tuning pegs.
“Would you like to play as well?” he asks.
“I’d rather watch you first. And listen.” Maybe that’s not fair, but it’s the truth. Who wouldn’t rather soak in this man’s gifts? His rich, gravelly voice can transport a person straight to other places. And not just fantasy ones, but ones beyond the physical.
I know, I know. Music is in the brain, and the brain gives the signals, but I did say don’t start talking to me about the mystical or metaphysical. There are times when Wilder’s voice has been another dimension all on its own. A portal to other lands and things that shouldn’t be possible.
“I want to hear them as you hear them, and then I’ll join you. Maybe. If I can,” I add.
“You can. You can play, and you can sing.”
“I wouldn’t go that far.” This room is perfectly cooled, but I blame the overhead lighting for the way I’m certain my face flames ten thousand degrees of overheated. “Not like you can, at any rate.”
“That’s bollocks.”
He puts a British accent on that, then treats me to the sexy timbre of his rolling laughter. Without waiting, he launches straight into a song. It’s not something I’ve ever heard before, but one I know intimately because I’m the one who wrote it.
All I can do is gape. Stare. Fangirl in a starstruck manner. This isn’t how I would have ever imagined the tempo, let alone the sound of the song. It’s unmistakably Wilder’s style, but also something brand new. It’s his voice, but this song isn’t anything like any of his others. It’s mine. It’s also his. It’s a darned freaking star shooting across a purple black velvet night sky, a once-in-a-lifetime astounding event that leaves you breathless and speechless and awed, even if you can explain it scientifically.
After he’s done, all I can do is blink back the hot tears stinging the corners of my eyes. I’m not sad or happy. I’m beyond either of those emotions. The tears are inexplicable. I’m just… moved.
I’m in love with everything about this man.
I guess that’s probably a natural reaction when someone turns the deepest secrets of your heart, splayed out in a starburst on paper, into something that transcends thought or genre or anything rational.
“Here.” He slips the guitar strap off his shoulder and holds the instrument out to me. “You play this, and I’ll play the piano. Sing it with me?”
I take the guitar with wooden hands, slinging the strap over my shoulder for safety because I don’t trust my hands. I also don’t trust my legs. They have one job, which is to hold me up, but I’m not sure they can properly do that at the moment.