He followed her around the corner of the small used bookstore as she continued browsing their extensive romance section, her fingertips dragging over the spines as she went. The bookshelves stretched nearly to the ceiling; sliding rickety-looking ladders were placed periodically throughout the too-narrow aisles. In the back corner of the store, a wisp of sheer fabric had been hung like a canopy over a half-height bookshelf stuffed with children’s books, the floor beneath strewn with mismatched pillows and cushions. At the center of the pillow pile, an elderly orange tabby cat slept, casting disdainful glances at any customer who dared get too close to his nest—not that Callie was deterred. She cooed at the cat as they passed before returning her attention to the numerous shelves of romance novels.
“You are aware that I make my living in the arts,” he said, leaning against the shelf at her side.
Callie shrugged. “And yet you have no appreciation for the smell of old books.”
“I also don’t want to stick my nose in a container of old vegetables. What doesthatmake me?”
She shot him a pointed look. “Not the same thing. Oh! I love this one!” She pulled a well-loved paperback from the shelf.
“Nine Rules to Break When Romancing a Rake?”
“It’s one of my favorites.” She ran her hand over the cover before adding it to her stack. “You better get me out of here before I spend all my money on books.”
“Hold on. We haven’t even gotten to the music section yet,” he said, moving further down the aisle as he scanned the signs overhead.
Callie watched him go, her skin cooling as all the excitement left her. She trailed after Noah until she found him crouched down to look at the bottom shelf of a bookcase overstuffed with sheet music. He glanced up as she approached.
“They have a whole American composers section.” He pulled a score off the shelf. “John Adams,” he said, dropping the score on the floor at his side and pulling another, “Samuel Barber,” and another, “Corigliano, Glass, Copland.” He smiled up at her, his smile so bright and boyish that it drew a smile of her own, despite the itch in her fingers and the urge to get as far away from his growing pile of scores as possible.
“That’s quite a selection.”
“What crazy person gave away all their sheet music to a used bookstore?” he asked, pulling more scores off the shelf.
“Maybe they had no use for them anymore.”
“Why wouldn’t they have a use for them?” He huffed out a laugh, continuing to add to his stack. “It’s not like sheet music has an expiration date on it?”
“If they can’t play them anymore…”
“What—” He froze, sliding the score beneath his fingers back into its place on the shelf. He closed his eyes and scrubbed his hand over his face. “Shit. I’m sorry, Callie.”
“It’s fine.”
She hoped her voice sounded light and easy and not like she was slowly suffocating on her own frustrations. It was one thing to watch Noah create a new piece, even to offer suggestions to him about that piece, and entirely another to stare at all those pages of music. Music she had learned seated at his side, melodies she would never play again but could still feel in her fingertips when she closed her eyes.
“Let’s get out of here,” he said, standing and leaving his stack of music on the floor.
“What about your scores?”
“I don’t need them.”
“Noah, you’re a composer. Buy the scores.”
He took her chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting her head up so her eyes met his. Before he could say anything, she pulled out of his grasp, taking a step back.
“I’m not so fragile that I can’t handle the sight of some sheet music.” She hated the defensive edge in her voice—almost as much as she hated that she was dangerously close to tears.Of all the stupid things to make me cry.
“I didn’t say you were,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest. “It was still insensitive of me. The Americans are your favorite.”
“Not all the Americans.” Her heart clenched at the idea that he remembered the detail even after all this time. “I don’t love—”
“Bernstein.”
She nodded, a quick bob of the head. “Buy the scores, Noah. Someone should play them.”
Then she turned on her heel, deposited her stack of books on a nearby armchair, and left the shop. She took a deep breath, filling her lungs with the salty ocean air, and shook out her hands, stretching and clenching her fingers as if that could somehow make them work the way they once had. As if she hadn’t tried everything she could think of already. She couldn’t say why she had been so affected by Noah shopping for sheet music when she’d lain in bed beside him as he composed just that morning and only felt an overwhelming attraction to him.
Maybe because this was the very thing she had fantasized about all those years ago during their late night phone calls: filling their arms with scores that they would spend the rest of the day playing side by side on the piano bench until one of them made a move, brushed a hand over the other’s, or nudged a knee. Music would be their own kind of foreplay, as it had been during those long phone calls. He might be in her bed—for now—but she would never again sit beside him and coax a song into life with him. She hadn’t realized how badly she still wanted to.
