Seduced The Unexpected Virgin - By Emily McKay Page 0,67

his mouth. He barely had to look up to speak into it. “How’s that sound?”

The crowd roared its approval.

He played a couple of notes, then twisted the tuner. Repeated the procedure. A few notes, an adjustment. Another few notes. Just a guy sitting on a stage with a guitar. Then he slipped seamlessly into the melody of the song.

He played for a few minutes without singing. His fingers moved easily over the strings of the guitar, coaxing out the song. The tune was complex and layered, full of yearning and emotion. If you weren’t watching him play, you’d never guess it was just one guy, with one guitar. Somehow he made that Alvarez sound like an entire band.

Ana watched his intensity and concentration. Her heart was in her throat. This was what he was meant to do. What he was created for. Everything else in his life was just biding his time until he could get back to the guitar.

The song he played was a new one. Completely unfamiliar to her, and she’d heard every one of his songs at some point or another. A preternatural hush had fallen over the audience as they listened to the haunting and lovely melody.

Then his finger slipped and he played a wrong note.

He tilted his head just lightly so the audience could see his grin. “Sorry. Bit out of practice.”

Everyone chuckled.

He slipped so easily back into the song, she wondered if he’d done it on purpose. Still playing, he starting speaking into the microphone. Just chatting as his fingers continued their complex fret work the way another man might drum his fingers on the table.

“When I was writing this song,” he said, matching the rhythm of his words to the natural rhythm of the song. “I got some advice from my friend, Ricky. You remember Ricky, right?”

Ricky had moved to sit on the edge of the stage, his legs dangling off.

“Ricky asked, ‘It isn’t gonna be cheesy like your other songs, is it?’” The crowd groaned in response. Ricky gave a little wave to go with his sheepish smile. Ward mocked an expression of shock. “‘What?’ I said. And then he said, ‘Dude, you sound like a—’” Ward broke off, gave the crowd a scan and then added, “Well, I’m not going to repeat the word he used. But then he told me, “You’re a guy. No wonder she didn’t believe you loved her if you talked like that.’”

Another laugh went through the crowd and Ward gave a little self-effacing shrug. “So here it is. A love song. Written by a guy. Just trying to convince a girl he really loves her. Here it is. ‘Not Enough Words.’”

The haunting and lovely melody was in such sharp contrast to its simple words. There was a playfulness to the song, a humor his earlier songs had lacked. And still, there on his expression was the pure joy at playing.

The song was about how difficult it was to describe love. The lyrics were remarkably unfussy, a little self-deprecating. As if he couldn’t really believe himself worthy of his shot at love. They lacked the poetic grace of some of his earlier songs, but she got the feeling that was intentional. Over and over again he repeated the refrain: If I could tell you how much I loved you, you wouldn’t believe me anyway.

The song trailed off. For a moment, every person within earshot seemed to be holding their breath. And then the crowd went wild with approval.

Despite her own stunned and battered emotions, Ana found herself clapping along with everyone else. How could she not? The song was brilliant. It would be a hit. It would make so much money for Hannah’s Hope, they may never need Rafe’s support again. They may not even need the fundraiser, even though the planning for it was well underway. Besides, when it came to charitable foundations, there was no such thing as too much money.

On the other hand, the money from this song would trickle in for the rest of the time she worked at Hannah’s Hope. It would always be there. A constant reminder of the love she’d turned away. Not that she needed reminding.

It took Ward thirty minutes to even get off the stage. Another twenty to make it out onto the street. Reporters were snapping pictures. People wanted autographs or just to shake his hand. He felt like he heard five hundred people say, “Great song, man,” while he shook their hand. He didn’t begrudge them—how