Page 26 of Shy Girls Can’t Date Celebrities (Shy Girls Sweet Romances #6)

I’m sitting up in bed and tapping on my phone when Wyatt stretches awake.

“Hey, sleepy head,” I say, reclining against two pillows.

He squints at me. “Hey. What ya doing?”

I lock my screen. “Just writing.”

Wyatt frowns. “I thought you didn’t hide what you wrote.”

I bite my lip. “I don’t hide stories.”

He deadpans me. “You locked your screen.”

I wince. “Because it’s not a story.”

“Then what is it? What are you hiding?”

I cringe. “A poem.”

Wyatt sits up. “You write poetry? ”

I press the phone against my chest. “It’s just for me.”

“You don’t share the poetry?” he questions. “It could win awards like the short stories.”

I squeak, sinking against the pillows. “I’d be too embarrassed.”

Wyatt chuckles. “Why? You’re a great writer.”

I fan my face, mortified. “They’re about you.”

Wyatt’s eyes fill with glee. “Show me.”

I hide my face with my phone. “ Eep ! No!”

Wyatt doesn’t push. “Okay, okay. Have your secrets.”

I lower my phone, needing a subject change. “How’s your head?”

He smiles. “Great. It feels clear.”

I lean forward and kiss his forehead. “That’s beyond amazing.”

He reaches out a hand, patting my blanket covered leg. “Best sleep I’ve had in ages.”

“You wanna stay in bed a little longer?”

He throws off the covers. “Nah, I gotta get up.”

I slip out of bed and watch him slowly pull himself up. “You good?”

He grunts as he pushes off the bed. “Yep. Good.”

“You hungry?”

“I guess I could eat. You wanna check out the other bedrooms before we find food?”

“Yeah, sure.”

His eyebrows wiggle. “Gotta find where you’re sleeping.”

I giggle as he shuffles toward the doorway with me. “You’re still set on me moving in?”

“Ah, yeah.” He gestures for me to leave the room first. “I’m telling Erika to get you checked out of your suite.”

I giggle as I wait for him to join me in the hall. As he steps behind me, his hands grasp my hips and then slide around my waist. When his hands plant on top of my stomach, I blissfully move forward with him cuddled behind me.

We move into the second bedroom. It’s slightly smaller than Wyatt’s but looks super cozy with overstuffed pillows on the king bed, a chaise lounge, and closet entrance into the bathroom.

“Umm, I could totally kick it in here.”

He keeps me hugged close. “Yep, you need this one.” He kisses my cheek. “It’s the closest to mine.”

“So, you’d say I’m staying in here, even if it was the worst room?”

“Well, maybe not if it was the worst .”

I giggle and lead him out of the room. “Come on, let’s check out the other rooms.”

The third bedroom is similar to the second, and the fourth bedroom has been turned into a makeshift storage room. It houses an array of miscellaneous items, and my eyes lock onto something propped up on a black stand.

“Oh my gosh.” I gasp. “Wyatt, it’s your guitar.”

“It doesn’t look like my guitar.”

“This is the one you play at concerts.”

He doesn’t respond, except for a gulp.

I clutch his hand. “It’ll be okay. Do you want to hold it?”

“Nuh-uh.” He doesn’t budge when I tug on him. “I can’t.”

“You don’t have to play it, but maybe it’ll feel good to have it in your hands.” I gesture at the bed. “Why don’t you take a seat and I’ll bring it to you?”

He runs a hand through his hair, apprehension paling his expression.

I frown, touching the sides of his face. “Are you worried you can’t play it?”

Red lines frame his eyes, and he nods.

“Savanna’s had you building up your hand muscles. You might need a refresher on the chords. But, after some time, I’m sure it’ll all come back to you.”

“Joze,” it comes out broken. “Guitar is the one thing I love. Apparently, it got me famous. Who am I without it?”

“You’re the same person. The same sweet and talented Wyatt Hayes.”

He looks down at his hand, flexing it as if there’s an elastic band around his fingers. “The talent might be gone.”

“This morning you said, you were taking your time, remembering the sequences with the playing cards. Give yourself some credit. You’re already improving.”

He sucks in a breath and blows it out slowly. He edges toward the bed and gingerly sits down. “Okay. I’ll try.”

I mask my massive enthusiasm, forcing myself to move slowly toward the guitar. Tingles shoot up my fingers as I lift the iconic acoustic guitar. I can’t even count the many live performance recordings I’ve watched.

I hand it over to him. “Ready?”

He takes it, resting the body against his lap, and holding the neck against his open palm.

I kneel on the carpet in front of him, keeping my focus on the guitar. “Does it feel okay?”

“Holding it isn’t the scary part,” he half-jokes.

“You don’t have to play it. This can be enough for today.”

His index finger brushes against the strings, light enough not to make a sound. His eyes move across the neck, and then around our immediate area.

“Is there a pick anywhere?”

My heart hammers with anticipation. I jump to my feet, searching the area around the guitar stand. Hiding my excitement has totally gone out the window.

On the carpet, I spy a black and purple guitar pick. “Got it! ”

Wyatt mumbles a laugh as I take it to him.

“Sorry,” I murmur. “I’m trying not to get overexcited.”

“It’s cool, Joze. I’m fr-freaking out about playing too.”

I wince. “Your stutter’s coming back. Are you too nervous to do this?”

He shrugs, the pick resting between his lips as he correctly positions the guitar against him. He plucks the pick from his mouth, and says, “I think I’ll stay stressed out if I don’t play. You know, wondering if I could or not.”

“Well, take it easy. Like, don’t be hard on yourself.”

His left hand moves along the frets, his fingers trembling as they fumble against the strings. He frowns and shakes his head, shifting his gaze to the sound hole and rubbing his thumb and index finger against the pick. Tentatively, he strums downward once.

He puffs a laugh. “Way out of tune.”

My heart expands and a massive grin stretches my cheeks. “You heard that. See . Told ya it would come back to you.”

“But look at my hand.”

“It’s just nerves.”

“It’s a brain injury.”

The swell in my heart deflates with a tear.

He strums again, keeping his head hanging low. He then strums two more times. And then three times, up and down.

He looks at me with a small smile. “Okay, that part isn’t too scary.”

I stand on my knees. “You feel okay?”

He nods and taps the fretboard. “Yeah, but I, I don’t wan-wanna do this part yet.”

“That’s okay. You’ve taken a huge step just holding the guitar.”

He tilts the guitar against his lap. “This is a nice one. You’ve watched me play it at concerts?”

“Not live.” I cringe. “But I’ve watched the recordings over and over again.”

Wyatt’s eyebrows lift and he sucks in a ragged breath.

I cringe, hoping I haven’t triggered him.

He chews his lip, resting the guitar against him. “What kind of songs do I play?”

“You play pop songs, just like the old covers. Your second album had some electronic beats. Also had some cool blends with an indie folk sound.”

Happy surprise lifts his face. “Oh, that’s cool.”

I slip my hand in my pocket, grasping my phone. “Did you want to hear one?”

He grits his teeth, too tense to use his words.

“You don’t have to. I know you’ve been avoiding all this stuff.”

He slips the guitar off, sitting it on the bed beside him. On the other side, he pats the empty space next to him. “If I’m with you, I should be okay to hear it.”

I sit on the bed, nestled close to him. I open my phone to the playlist of Wyatt Hayes songs. It’s filled with studio tracks, concert performances, and recordings from Talent Quest. I tilt the phone so he can see the list. “There’s a few songs to choose from.”

Wyatt’s eyes widen, and he leans forward. Tentatively, he flicks a finger against the phone screen, scrolling through the playlist. “Dang. They’re all my songs?”

“Everything you’ve recorded that I could get my hands on.”

“Do you have a favorite?”

I scroll back up the list, landing on ‘Summer Glow.’ “This was the first song you released after winning the reality show. It still gives me chills.”

He peels my thumb away from the play button. “Not yet.”

I place the phone on my lap and curl my hands around his. “No problem. ”

“I-it’s like I’m li-living in some crazy dream. Can you imagine wa-waking up and being told hun-hundreds of people know your name, and y-you’ve recorded albums, and been in, in movies?”

I stop myself from correcting him. It’s not hundreds of people, it’s millions. But I think that would only hurt his brain further.

I squeeze my hands around his. “No, I don’t know how I’d deal with my life completely changing. Especially when it seems like it was overnight. But I don’t have to imagine it, because I see you going through it. It’s not fair.”

He sighs, letting his forehead rest against mine. “I wish I’d never gone on that stupid show.”

I gasp. “No, you can’t...”

He lifts his head and his red-rimmed gaze locks deeply with mine. “I wish I’d never left home, never left you, and didn’t ruin my family.”

“Wyatt, you didn’t...”

“My parents aren’t here,” he cuts me off. “I, I don’t live with them. I don’t have a re-relationship with them.”

“You travel a lot. You haven’t ruined anything.”

“But you don’t know, Josie. You’re not here.” His eyes grow glassy as his voice wavers. “We aren’t friends anymore.”

Those four words hit me hard, like a dagger into the chest. My airway constricts, and I choke as I look away from him.

He lifts my hands, still clutched around his. “Because of me. I hate myself for abandoning you.”

I whip my face back to look at him dead in the eyes. “Don’t say that.”

“It’s true. I do.”

I pull him into a tense hug. “You don’t understand how happy you make me. I’ve never hated you, so don’t let those thoughts enter your mind.”

He’s limp against me. “How could you not hate me? I don’t even understand how you want to be around me.”