Free Heartstrings by Sierra Riley Page B

Little America were ridiculously so. The hotel room—if it could even be called that—was bigger than most apartments Cal had ever lived in. It had a sprawling lounge, two bedrooms winging out on either end of it, and a full kitchen tucked in alongside the bathroom. A big brick fireplace dominated the lounge, unlit at the moment.
    The coffee table had a bowl of fresh fruit on it, grapes and little tangerines and kiwis, and Cal was pretty sure they weren’t even fake.
    “We won’t be fighting for space in the bathroom while you curl your hair in the mornings,” Blake said, lighthearted and playful.
    “Well thank God.”
    “It’s not a bad idea to room together,” Blake said. “I need to see how rusty you are.”
    Cal arched up an eyebrow, momentarily unsure if that was meant to be a double entendre or something.
    “You said it had been a while since you played,” Blake clarified.
    “Oh. Yeah.”
    After dropping their things off, Cal and Blake set up shop in the lounge, unpacking their guitar and banjo kits all over the sofa. Cal eased down onto the floor, resting his back against the couch’s legs, the guitar resting across his thighs.
    The guitar itself was a fine piece of craftsmanship, understated in its quality. Blake’s father was a carpenter, so that wasn’t entirely surprising, but Cal was still impressed. The instrument felt solid in his hands, well-balanced and weighty in all the right places. He hadn’t tried it with the pickup plugged in, but if the sound was anything like it was when it was fully acoustic, it would be beautiful.
    Picking through the sheet music from Lily, Cal selected a page and turned it over toward Blake.
    “This one’s on the set for tomorrow’s show, right?”
    “‘Half a Tank’?Yep, sure is.”
    The fiddle part was simple enough, designed to harmonize with the banjo. Looking it over, Cal was confident he could come up with something.
    “Why don’t you give it a go and I’ll join in after getting a feel for it.” Cal settled back against the sofa’s legs while Blake relaxed in one of the high-backed armchairs.
    Nodding once, Blake gathered up the banjo and slipped on his finger-picks. This time, he wasn’t playing the big inlaid monster. Which made sense, as Cal imagined it would be loud as hell in a hotel room. The little Gold Tone model in Blake’s arms was still a pretty piece of craftsmanship, but it wouldn’t lead to noise complaints.
    Blake began to run through the song, a poppy and upbeat number. Every so often, Blake struck a chord with his banjo, hinting at the general chord progression so Cal could pick up on it. It wasn’t complicated. In fact, the song only had four chords. But simple wasn’t always bad. And he did like the rhythm.
    Slowly growing more confident, Cal put his fingers to the strings. At first, squinting down at the notes on the paper, he just fingerpicked along to Lily’s part. The notes blended nicely with Blake’s banjo. There wasn’t much to the song, but it was uplifting.
    As Cal grew bolder, he shifted to strumming, rocking the heel of his palm against the guitar’s body, keeping time. Blake hummed but didn’t sing, keeping the melody, and Cal found himself wishing he could hum along too, if only he knew the tune.
    Once they’d completed a full verse, Cal was feeling more confident. He strummed along easily, a high-low rolling rhythm that complemented Blake’s banjo beautifully.
    The fact that the song was an unfamiliar, poppy tune soon ceased to matter. Cal sank into the music like it was a warm bath, the sound lapping at him, taking him back to a time when life was simpler.
    When he looked over toward Blake, his fingers still working the frets, he saw Blake was staring at him. The stare was unguarded, open, but with that characteristic Blake Bradley intensity that made a hot shiver run through Cal’s body. Blake was looking at him with intent.
    But given the current state of their relationship, Cal didn’t know what