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Zev's expression shifted from smoldering to amused. "This way, then."

He led their small entourage across the resort grounds to the main lodge. Chrissy was intensely aware of how her shorts rode up with each step. She caught Zev's eyes dropping to her backside more than once, his hands flexing at his sides as if physically restraining himself from touching her.

God, she liked that look on him—hungry but controlled.

Inside the main lodge, Zev guided them to a smaller room. Sunlight spilled through panoramic windows, illuminating two beautiful acoustic guitars displayed prominently on stands.

"Whoa," Chrissy breathed, approaching one reverently. "A Martin D-28? These cost more than my first car."

Zev chuckled. "We spare no expense for our guests."

As she admired the high-end instruments, Chrissy's attention caught on an older guitar tucked into the corner. It wasn't flashy or expensive-looking, but something about it called to her. The worn wood had a patina that spoke of years of being played and loved.

"What about that one?" she asked, pointing to it. "Why's it tucked away like that?"

Zev's expression softened. "That was my grandfather's. He taught me to play on it."

"Can I use it?" The request slipped out before she could think better of it. "I mean, to play a few songs for the kids?"

The look he gave her made her stomach flip—something tender and wistful and possessive all wrapped into one intense gaze. Nobody had ever looked at her quite that way before.

"Nobody's touched it since he passed," Zev said quietly. Then with deliberate care, he lifted the guitar and extended it to her. "But I think he'd approve of you being the first."

The weight of trust in that gesture wasn't lost on Chrissy. She accepted the guitar with reverence, brushing her fingers over the worn strings.

"Miss Chrissy." The little girl with pigtails tugged at her cutoffs, "Will you please sing 'Daddy's Girl'? Pretty please?"

Chrissy smiled down at her. "Only if you guys sing with me. Think you can handle that?"

The children nodded eagerly. Chrissy perched on the edge of a nearby armchair, adjusting the old guitar on her lap. It felt different than her custom instruments, but somehow right—solid and honest.

She strummed a few experimental chords, surprised at how well-maintained the guitar was despite its age. The notes rang clear and true.

"Okay, here we go," she said, beginning the familiar opening chords of the song that had changed her life.

Her voice filled the room, singing about her dad's calloused hands teaching her tiny fingers where to press on guitar strings. About rainy Sundays spent playing music together. About how much she loved him.

What had become routine on stage—something she performed because it was expected—suddenly felt raw and real again.

As the children's voices joined the chorus, sweet and untrained, tears pricked at her eyes.

She looked up to find Zev watching her with such naked admiration it almost stopped her breath.

There was no calculation in his gaze, no thinking about how much money her talent was worth, or how to package her for maximum profit. Just pure appreciation for the music and the woman making it.

When the song ended, the children clapped enthusiastically. Chrissy wiped a tear from her cheek, laughing at herself for getting so emotional.

"That was beautiful," Zev murmured, his voice pitched low for her ears only.

"Thanks," she whispered back, then noticed a girl hanging back near the doorway. She couldn't be more than eleven, watching with wide, serious eyes.

"Hey there," Chrissy beckoned her closer. "What's your name?"

"Emma," the girl said softly, twisting her hands in her t-shirt.

"Emma writes songs too," one of the boys announced. "She's always singing them when she thinks nobody's listening."

Emma shot him a betrayed look, her cheeks flushing.

"Really?" Chrissy's interest sparked. "Would you sing one for me?"

The girl shook her head vehemently, but Chrissy wasn't deterred.

"Let me tell you a little secret," Chrissy confided, leaning forward. "I was terrified the first time I played for anyone. My dad practically had to bribe me with ice cream."

"But you're famous," Emma said, as if that explained everything.

"Wasn't always," Chrissy laughed. "I think I nearly threw up the first time I played at my school talent show." She patted the spot beside her. "Come on, just a little bit. I promise we're the nicest audience you'll ever have."

After a moment's hesitation, Emma inched forward until she stood beside Chrissy.

"Should I play for you?" Chrissy offered the guitar, but Emma shook her head.

"I just sing," she explained.

"That works too."

Emma closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and began singing—a sweet, clear voice that belied her age. The song was simple but heartfelt, about finding courage within yourself.

When she finished, Chrissy beamed. "That was beautiful, Emma. You know what might make the bridge even stronger? Try holding that last note a beat longer, like this—" She demonstrated the technique.

Emma tried it, her face lighting up at the result. "Oh! That's way better!"

"The mark of a true artist," Chrissy approved, "is being open to making something good even better."

They worked through a few more tweaks to Emma's song, the girl growing more animated and confident with each suggestion. The other children watched, enthralled to see a real star coaching one of their own.

When Chrissy glanced up at Zev, her breath caught.

He was leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his broad chest, watching her with such open affection and pride that it made her heart stutter.

His blue eyes shone with something that looked dangerously like love, and Chrissy realized with a start that she might be tumbling headlong into the same feeling.