His brows furrowed. “Why do you care? You’re successful already. Your fans love you.”
“It’s not that simple,” I said, turning to him. “When I write my songs, it’s a part of me, a part of my soul. The thought of people hating them scares me. That’s why I never sing newly written songs at my concerts.”
“I can understand that, but I don’t think you have anything to worry about.” He kissed my cheek and got to his feet. “Wait here, I have something for you.”
I wondered what it could be. The answer came when he walked out the back door. Eyes wide, I stood and gaped at the beauty in his hands. “Oh my God, it’s amazing. Is it yours?”
He handed me the most beautiful guitar I’d ever seen in my life. It didn’t even look used.
“I’m not musically inclined. Give me a g*n and I’m good to go. It’s ac
