“Thank you for sticking up for me.”
The way she says it, it sounds like it’s a rare occurrence, and I wonder exactly what this girl has to deal with in her life. I’ve seen her around and know she works at the library, but I assumed she’s like all the Chesterboro kids, raised wealthy or at least well-enough off. She certainly has the confidence of the rest of them. But Hannah looks like someone used to relying on herself.
I have the sudden raging desire to be someone she can lean on.
To avoid all that, I pop the trunk, slide out, grab her guitar out of the back, then slam the trunk closed. She joins me, hiking the same leather bag she’d carried on Friday onto her shoulder. “Have a good jam session.”
She wrinkles her brow and nose as if trying to figure something out. “It’s a composition class.”
“Writing?”
“No.” She laughs, and the sound hits me in the groin. “Music composition.”
“So writing music. Like I said.” She laughs again, and the sound makes me so happy, I immediately want to hear it again.
“Right.” She shrugs her guitar onto her back. I hadn’t realized the case had straps like a backpack. “Thanks again for the ride.”
“No problem.” I step back and clear my throat.
She grins. My gaze drops to her mouth, lingers. I stifle the sudden urge to step closer, to get into her space, to cover her lips with mine. She’s lovely, sure, but I’ve met lots of pretty girls. There’s something about her, though, a thread of steel that makes me want to learn everything she’s trying to hide behind her walls.
Except she said she wasn’t interested, and getting any closer to her isn’t an option for me. I’ve got playoffs coming, and it’s my last chance to impress scouts. My life doesn’t need any more complications. That means it doesn’t need Hannah Marshall.