Cross My Heart (A Contemporary Romance Novel)

faded away. Then she laid her palm softly across the guitar strings, stilling their vibration.
    “Well?” she asked, laying down the instrument and leaning forward with a smile. He was spellbound, by her if not the music, and it was a moment before he could speak.
    “Well, what?” he asked finally.
    “Have we made a blues fan out of you?”
    He hesitated.
    “Not yet? Don’t worry, you haven’t hurt our feelings. We’ll just have to keep trying, that’s all.”
    “He needs to go to a show,” Claire said, and Jenna nodded.
    “There’s no substitute for seeing a real blues artist perform. Albert Cray is in Des Moines Friday night, but he’s playing in a bar, so that’s out. I’ll check the online listings for shows in the area and—”
    “No, you and Dad should go see Albert Cray,” Claire said quickly. “I could stay over with Mrs. Washington and Ellie. They said I could, any time.”
    Jenna glanced at him. “I don’t think so,” she said cautiously. “Why don’t we look for a concert we can all see? I’m sure there’s—”
    “No,” Claire said firmly. “Albert Cray is playing on Friday, and Dad has to see him. It’s perfect. I’ll stay the night at Mrs. Washington’s, with Ellie.” She jumped up. “I’ll go and ask her right now!”
    Michael spoke up at that. “Claire, it’s almost nine-thirty. Don’t you think you should—”
    “If their lights are off I won’t bug them, I promise. But I bet they’re still up.”
    And before he could say anything else, she was out the front door.
    Silence fell.
    He imagined driving into the city with Jenna, just the two of them. Leaving the bar with her after the show, stepping out into the warm summer night, the stars shining above them. Walking with Jenna along the city streets, hearing her voice and her laughter, maybe brushing against her every so often.
    Neither of them had said a word since Claire had charged out of the house. Jenna was frowning down at the floor, her lower lip caught in her teeth.
    He forced himself to break the silence. “So, what do you think? Going to a concert would definitely further my musical education,” he added, wanting to put her at ease but also really hoping she’d say yes.
    “It would be a great experience,” she said, looking up at him. “Albert Cray is an amazing musician.”
    He felt a rush of satisfaction. “Then it’s settled.”
    “I know it goes without saying, but...it wouldn’t be a date.”
    “Understood.”
    “Nothing even resembling a date.”
    “Got it.”
    “Just two friends going to a show.”
    He leaned forward. “Jenna, you don’t have anything to worry about. Okay?”
    She looked at him for a second and then smiled. “Okay.”
    She picked up her guitar again and began to strum softly, the fingers of her left hand curving over the wood as she formed chords. “It really is a good idea. If Albert Cray doesn’t turn you into a blues fan, nothing will. Not that I’ll be upset if you don’t like him,” she added. “I don’t want you to feel obligated to like him. Claire and I have given it our best shot, but if you don’t like the blues, you don’t. I want to know your honest reaction, whatever it is. Promise you’ll tell the truth, whether you love it or hate it or something in the middle?”
    If he was out with Jenna, there was a chance he might not even notice the music. “I promise.”
    Claire came back at that moment, brimming with satisfaction. “It’s all set,” she informed them. “I’m sleeping over Friday night with the Washingtons, so you can stay out as late as you want.”
    Michael glanced at Jenna. As soon as their eyes met she looked away.
    Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea, after all. He’d just told her she had nothing to worry about, and looking at her now with that blush staining her cheeks, he wondered how the hell he was going to keep his hands off her Friday night.
    With will power, damn it. Will power and self-control.
    Two things that had never been in short supply before Jenna came into his life.
     

 
    Chapter Seven
    This isn’t a date, Jenna reminded herself as she stood in her bedroom, her hair still damp from the shower. Her clothing choices seemed loaded with meaning. Did she go with new jeans, the denim still stiff? Or did she go with an old, faded pair, soft as a bird’s wing from years of use—the ones that hugged her hips and made her legs look a mile long?
    She reached for the old pair, telling herself they were