off her thumb, then touched her index finger. “You learn to focus your mind on what you’re best at—playing the guitar—and train it not to allow in fear and distraction. And you practice in front of a few people, then a bigger group to give you building blocks of confidence. You’ll take all the emotion and passion you feel and channel the hell out of it into your performance.”
A slow smile crept over Tom’s face, a burgeoning of hope that warmed her soul.
“I can do this.”
“You totally can.” Savannah held out a fist. “Baby bro.”
Tom bumped her fist then poked his index finger at his open mouth and gagged at the reference from her script. “So, who will I practice in front of?”
“Me, for starters,” a voice said.
Both she and Tom jumped, their heads swinging in unison toward the barn entrance where Glen leaned against the doorframe. He still had his glasses on, and the tumble of just-out-of-bed hair that he’d obviously been driving his fingers through gave her a deep-belly quiver. The juxtaposition of smart, scruffily sexy, and the firm kindness in his voice, made her want to run across the barn and twine around him like a clingy vine.
***
Savannah jumped as if he’d goosed her when he spoke. Glen liked that she’d been so focused on Tom he’d caught her off guard. He liked that she looked fresher and sweeter than a spring breeze in her new rolled-up-at-the-ankle blue jeans and red canvas sneakers, her hair loose, the natural wave taking over since she hadn’t straightened it this morning. He liked the warm appraisal tinged with affection that showed in her eyes at the sight of him standing there—once she’d recovered from her fright.
Most of all, he liked her.
And if nothing else, since the odds of anything long term working between them were not in their favor, he’d take the like and enjoy it while it lasted.
“You can also practice in front of Nate and Lauren, Lauren’s brother Todd and his wife, Kathy, their daughter Sophie”—Glen’s gaze switched to Sav—“she’s perfect if you need a volunteer to read for the kid sister role.” Glen walked across the barn and leaned a hip against the workbench on the other side of Tom. “All of them would be happy to be your guinea pigs when you’re ready.”
“That’d work. You guys first, later some strangers.” Then Tom’s expression darkened, his fingers drumming a hollow rhythm on the guitar’s body. “Could be a waste of time when Dad finds out though.”
Cute lines formed on Savannah’s brow. “Would he really not understand?”
“You don’t know my dad. He’s like Granddad—all about working smart, working hard, and that the arts are for hippies.”
Savannah glanced over at Glen and he tipped a shoulder forward.
“Pretty much word for word on the lectures Dad gave me when I was a kid.”
Only phrased more harshly. He studied her pinched mouth, her softened gaze resting on Tom’s shoulders, hunched defensively over his instrument.
“Did you know Gran was a poet?” Glen said.
His nephew’s head jerked up. “Gran? My gran?”
“Yep. She had lots of lined notebooks, the kind you use at school—nothing fancy for her silly scribbles, she once said to me. She kept them stashed in her craft room, and she never wrote while your granddad was around. It was her thing. She only told me about them when she found a couple of my notebooks full of story ideas under my mattress.”
Tom snickered. “You couldn’t be a normal teen and have porn hidden there.”
Savannah elbowed Tom in the ribs, and his eyebrows winged up in a what-did-I-say? arch.
“Oh, I had dirty magazines too.” Glen chuckled. “But it was the notebooks that interested her. She asked me about them one morning while we were alone in the house. I admitted to her that I wanted to be a writer. Afterwards, she showed me her poems and asked me not to tell anyone else about them.”
Savannah braced her hands on her knees and leaned forward. “Meaning your father?”
“Yeah.” The breath in his lungs transformed to misted acid, burning through him. “Mum died of a brain aneurysm a few years later.”
“I’m sorry,” Savannah said. “I didn’t realize you’d lost your mum.”
“It was a long time ago.” Glen studied Tom’s fingers gripping the guitar’s neck. “But unlike your grandfather, Tom, she would’ve encouraged you to keep the creative part of yourself alive.”
“I don’t understand why they’re so anti.” Tom hopped off the workbench and stalked over to his guitar case. “Why Granddad wouldn’t let