"But you also play other instruments, right?" Noah asked.

"I like to experiment," I said, turning my attention back to our conversation. "You know what they say, jack of all trades, master of none."

"You don't think you've mastered anything?"

"Like I told Naomi, I play well enough to get by. Although I suppose I'm not bad on the hammered dulcimer. That one's my favorite."

He raised a skeptical eyebrow. "That's different."

"Maybe that's why I like it. No one else at my music academy plays it."

"Does it matter if you're the only one who plays it?"

"I suppose not." Even though it was a lie, I wasn't going to bare all of my insecurities to Noah, that was for damn sure. "So that's how I got into music."

We both went silent for a few moments. I had a feeling this was as much as we were ready to share about ourselves with each other.

"And did all this sharing help you?" he asked. I could tell he was trying to sound sarcastic, but I catch a hint of real curiosity.

"Let's get back to work and see, shall we?"

We continued working on our song, talking things through and hashing it out. All the while, I tried to hide my elation.

Even though it required me sharing more of myself than I'd wanted, I'd finally gotten Noah to open up to me.

Chapter Eight.

"No. No. Stop."

Noah growled and halted his playing, hands hovering over the piano keys. "What is it this time?"

"You're doing it wrong."

"You're going to tell me that I'm doing it wrong?"

"Yes. If you're doing it wrong, I'm going to tell you. Shove over." I hip checked Noah out of the way and took his spot at the piano.

"You could say please," he grumbled as he slid off the piano bench, barely catching himself before he hit the floor.

I was beginning to lose my patience. Noah had an idea of what he wanted the song to sound like, but it wasn't working. I'd tried to explain a hundred times that his way of attacking the problem was the wrong approach. I would just have to show him.

"Here. Like this." I put my hands to the keys and began playing, softly at first, then with more passion. I hit the keys harder as the bridge came to an end and exploded into the chorus. I closed my eyes and let the music wash over me. I could see the color of the notes in my mind's eye, could taste the flavor of them on my tongue. All my senses were engaged.

The song came to an end with a clash. I opened my eyes slowly and found myself breathing heavily from the exertion. That often happened when I played, when I lost myself to the music. I hadn't let it happen in front of Noah yet. I looked down at my hands and flushed, uncomfortable with how I'd gotten carried away.

"Like that," I said quietly.

"Shit."

I cringed. Noah hated it. Of course he hated it. I shouldn't have even tried. Now I'd embarrassed myself in front of him. He was going to realize I had no idea what I was doing.

"That was fantastic."

I glanced at him, surprised. "Really?"

His eyes burned with intensity. "Why do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Doubt yourself like that."

"Noah, come on. You're you, and I'm me. You don't have to lie to stroke my ego."

His narrowed his eyes at me. "You think I care about stroking anyone's ego?"

"No. I guess not."

"So quit it. If I say you're talented, you're talented."

My spirits lifted a little. Whenever Noah Hart said it, I couldn't help but feel that maybe he was right.

"Move. I'm going to try it that way."

Noah took his place again and tried to repeat what I'd played. My mouth twisted in contemplation as I listened. When he finished the song he sat there, still and quiet.

"That was..." I trailed off.

"It was trash," he said flatly.

"A little."

"Shit."

Noah buried his hands in his hair and stared blankly at the piano. "I can't do this. I'm never going to be able to write this goddamn song and make it not sound like garbage."

"We just need to keep working on it."

"August composes entire albums in days. I've had months. I can't fucking do it."

Despite the pain in his eyes, a small part of me was thrilled. Noah was slowly opening up to me. Instead of frustration and irritation, he was beginning to show his insecurities. His vulnerabilities.

"Yes you can. We've only been working together for a short time. We just need more inspiration. It's like I said before. If I keep on learning more about you, we'd have a better chance of writing the perfect song."

"You go first," he said grudgingly. "I shouldn't always be the one spilling my guts."

I paused, thinking about what to say.

Noah gave me a pointed stare. "And tell me something real. I don't care what your favorite instrument, or your favorite color, or your favorite food is."

I wanted Noah to open up to me. If I wanted him to share something real, I supposed I would have to be willing to, as well.

"My mother had depression," I blurted out before I could second guess myself. "My father was away for work all the time. I think he was having affairs. I had to take care of my mom when she couldn't take care of herself. Hearing me play music was the only thing that made her happy."

I clapped my hand over my mouth, appalled that I had told him so much.

"Sorry," I whispered. "I didn't mean to unload on you."

I waited for Noah to make fun of me, to make a snarky comment, but he was silent, watching me with those unreadable eyes.

"It's fine," he murmured. "I wanted something real."

"That was too real. I don't want to bring us down."

"I've heard worse."

"Have you?" I asked tentatively. "I don't mean to pry. But from the things you write in your lyrics, I can't help but wonder..." I hesitated, not knowing how to articulate what I wanted to say without scaring him off. "I wonder if maybe you've got stuff that you feel is too real to talk about, too."

Noah was eerily silent for long moments. I was about to take back everything I'd said and tell him never mind. He flicked his eyes quickly to mine.

"My drug addict mom left when I was barely a teenager."

A pang of sympathy ran through me. I knew what it was like to have mother issues. "I'm so sorry."

"I was sent to foster care. It sucked." His voice was devoid of emotion.

I'd heard enough horror stories to not need any more detail. "I can imagine how hard that must have been."

"It wasn't a fucking walk in the park," he muttered.

He tugged on the hair at the back of his neck. Without thinking, I put my hand on his and pried his fingers from their grip.

"You can talk to me about it, if you want. I'll listen."

His eyes met mine. I halted, my hand still on top of his. I should have pulled back instinctively. Maybe if it had been days or weeks earlier I would have. But I saw something in his gaze. Just like the simmering frustration I was used to seeing, there was now a simmering heat.

Noah pulled back, looking away. I tried to squash the disappointment in my chest.

"Whatever," he said. "I'm over it."

"Are you?" I asked quietly.

He gave me a sardonic look. "Are you over your depressed mother and absent father?"

Fair point. "I suppose that explains some of your sad lyrics."

"They're not sad." He frowned, looking almost insulted. "They're sorrowful. Melancholy. Tragic."

"That's why you're the poet."

"It's not like all my lyrics are bleak. I write other stuff."

"I know. Fiery passion, wistful longing, painful heartbreak. You've got a gift for emotional range. Which is ironic."

"Ironic how?"

"The only emotions you ever show are irritation and impatience."

"I show more emotions than that."

"Like what?"

A dark smirk appeared on his face. "Deviant lust."

I let out a nervous laugh, until I saw the look in his eyes. They were half-mocking, but there was something deeper there. The pupils of his eyes had dilated, turning his dark eyes almost black.

His eyes flicked to my lips. I parted them without thinking.

Was he was going to kiss me?

My stomach quivered, all my inner muscles clenching, throbbing.

I wanted him to kiss me.

I wanted him to do more than kiss me.

A shiver ran through me. Without thinking, I placed my hand on his leg. He stared at me, unmoving.

I pulled back and ducked my head, embarrassed. Why had I touched him like that? I must have misread all the signs. He was probably just teasing. He probably thought I was an infatuated fangirl.

I cleared my throat and brought my hands to my lap. I had to bring this back around to business.

"Now that we know a little bit more about each other, why don't you tell me about your usual process?" I fought to keep my voice from shaking. "What do you do to get your muse talking?"

Noah's eyes flared with heat as they held my gaze. I found myself wetting my lips unconsciously. His eyes narrowed as they focused on my mouth.

"Surely you don't just sit down with a pen and paper, waiting for inspiration to strike?" I asked, now filled with nerves.

His gaze fell to my chest, that heat turning scorching hot. My nipples peaked, turning hard underneath my shirt from arousal.

"You want to know my process?"