If You Must Know (Potomac Point #1)(91)

The last time I’d heard that old “I Love My Dog” song had to have been 1998 or thereabouts. My dad had delighted in introducing me to obscure music that would make me giggle.

“Those are fightin’ words.” A glint of heat flickered in his eyes, changing the nature of his grin.

He seemed to enjoy this game, so I feigned nonchalance, teasing, “Well, I don’t want to tax you or anything. It’s okay if you can’t write a love song about a dog. I’m still impressed with your past accomplishments.”

Eli set his bottle on a coaster, went to the hutch to get a legal pad, then picked up his guitar again. “Have a seat and tell me what, exactly, you love about Mo.”

I nearly bounced on my toes because—even though we were joking around—I was on the verge of getting him to write something for the first time in years. This could be a turning point for him. My whole body warmed like it did when I helped my students make that mind-body connection. Guess this wasn’t all that different, except that I didn’t usually have the urge to jump over the coffee table and kiss my yoga students.

“Wait, don’t we start with a melody?” I asked.

“I don’t, but if you want to, hum what you hear in your head when you think about Mo.” He sat on the arm of the sofa—one foot on the coffee table—with his guitar across his thigh.

I closed my eyes, curious about what might come to me when thinking about the most awesome little dog. Unsurprisingly, a happy tune spun through my thoughts. “Something with a snappy beat, and maybe like ‘Ba da baah, la-la-la-lee da, doodley doo-di-ley, ba da ba daah.’”

“Sing it again.” He played a quick scale, and by the time I got to the la-la-la section, he chimed in with a chord or two.

“Ohmygosh!” I clapped. “I’m writing a song. My dad would be psyched.”

That elicited a pleased grin. Then he fingered the fret board and strummed, approximating the melody I’d laid out. Figuring a slight buzz could only enhance my creative process, I sank onto the sofa and drank more beer. Eli continued to play his guitar, teasing more out of my simple melody than I could’ve imagined. Out of nowhere, Sesame Street–inspired lyrics came to me. “Moey-Mo, whatever goes wrong, you’re always there to help me along.”

Eli looked up, smiling. “Just terrible! Keep going . . .”

He strummed again.

I set down my bottle and rose, lifting Mo to my hip and twirling with my pup in the living room while tossing out another lyric. “When the world shoots me down, you help straighten my crown.”

“And there I was, thinking it couldn’t get any worse.” Eli laughed.

I stopped dancing to nuzzle Mo, then set him on the ground, grinning. “Two failures in a row is my limit. Your turn to throw down something better.”

I plopped back onto the sofa close to where he’d perched, worried I might’ve pushed him too far.

His expression softened. He strummed while staring blankly, as if searching for the words in thin air. I waited, enjoying the gentle riff and petting Mo.

“Mmm, mmm . . .” He paused, eyes closed. “The world crashes in, and I lose my way, yet one kiss from you chases trouble away . . .”

He opened his eyes and stared at me, all joking evaporated. My mind blanked except for the wish that he’d been thinking about me when he strung those words together.

“Okay, you win. That’s way better than anything I said. You clearly don’t have to worry about competition from me.” And then, because kidding around made things more comfortable for Eli, I added, “Although I can’t speak for Cat Stevens.”

“Well, thanks.” He set down his guitar but remained seated on the arm of the sofa, head cocked, gaze unfocused yet somehow still aware of me.

I guessed he was wrestling with something, so I switched gears to keep things light. “What’s for dinner?”

His brows rose. “Oh yeah. I almost forgot why you’re here.”

“Not to be rude”—I crossed my legs and wrapped my hands around my knees—“but while your company is pleasant and I appreciated my first songwriting lesson, a girl’s gotta eat.”

One side of his mouth quirked upward as he stood and gestured toward the kitchen. “Hope you like red meat. I probably should’ve checked first.”

“Eli, I eat everything.” I stood, gripping my wrists behind my back. “I’m particularly fond of all the foods that are ‘bad’ for us, like red meat, sugar, and carbs. Hence the four cupcakes I brought for two people. In other words, I’m not one of those salad bitches.”

“Good to know.” Eli waited for me to start toward the kitchen.

Instead of preceding him, I looped my arm through his in the least intimate way I could think of.

“Look at us . . . this friendship thing is going along swimmingly.” I grimaced. “I have no idea why I said that or what that old saying actually means—only that my mom always says it when things are going well. Wonder why the person who coined it chose those words?”

A “beats me” expression crossed his face. “Maybe because swimming strokes are smooth—you glide through the water nice and easy?”

“Ah. See, this is why you’re a writer and I make soap.” I released him when we got to the kitchen.