Page 34 of The Beat Match

“Fine,” she said, her emotions warring. “Tomorrow it is, and you better not think about lying.”

Weston was right to postpone this interrogation. She was confused about that kiss, his relationship status, upset he hadn’t confided in her about his music. Not that she’d been much better lately. She hadn’t told him about meeting that busker, the piano lessons, her DJ plans. And he was Falcon, the man, the myth, the musical genius! She’d been lusting after Weston and his alter ego. The awareness ratcheted her spark of attraction into a full-blown fever.

She needed time to acclimatize, figure out how she felt under this mess of emotion. Get her haywire hormones in check. Then she’d attack him with a list of questions, none of which would be: When do I get to kiss you again?

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11

“When did you start DJing?” Annie sat across from Weston, spine straight, her hands clasped together on his dining table.

The marble monstrosity sat twelve comfortably. The cool surface was clean and polished and did zero to douse the heat pulsing off her body. Anger heat. Defensive heat. Not in-heat heat. She meant business. She may have worn an off-the-shoulder maxi dress in shades of turquoise, exuding summer fun, instead of a blazer or pantsuit, but she had three pages of questions and a pen to cross off each one. She wanted to know why Wes had hidden his DJing. She was determined to have him teach her. She needed to understand why he’d devoured her that night and had lied about enjoying it.

No one was leaving this table until she was satisfied.

Weston removed his tie and folded it over the chair to his left. He undid the top two buttons of his dress shirt and rolled his cuffs, as though he had all the time in the world. Like he was the one in control. She gritted her teeth.

He matched her pose, non-dainty hands clasped, shoulders squared. “I started playing in clubs three years ago, but I’ve been dabbling in music longer.”

“How much longer?”

A small vein pulsed at his temple. “The year after my mother died.”

Her heart squeezed. This confrontation was bound to unearth painful memories from both their pasts, but she’d been determined to maintain an emotional distance. There were reasons she’d kept secrets from him. He no doubt had his motivations, too. Yet here she was, one question in, already softening toward him. “Because you missed her?”

He unclasped his hands and ran a hand over his mouth. “Because I was angry. Violent at times. Marjory blackmailed my father by threatening to quit and forced me into therapy. It was suggested I find an outlet.”

Wes’s mother had died a year after Leo. Another devastating blow. Still, he’d maintained his weekly visits with Annie, had never failed to rag on her about homework, hobbies, friends. He’d show up random days to walk her home from school. He’d been serious, not angry. Intense, but not the type to lash out. “I don’t get it. We hung out back then. You always seemed fine. I mean, fine for a guy who thought wearing loafers was dressing down.”

He smirked, then swallowed. “I need a glass of Scotch with this conversation. I have that Chardonnay you like.”

He didn’t ask if she wanted a drink, just stood and moved through his kitchen methodically. He knew the wine she liked, expensive stuff she’d never buy at home. He stocked it for her, along with her favorite salt and vinegar chips and rocky road ice cream. He even had an Architectural Digest subscription because she used the magazines for scrapbooking. None of these details were new, but warmth spread through her chest. This man who’d kissed her passionately knew her better than anyone. And he had a girlfriend.

Wes returned with their drinks and walked to her side. His hip brushed her arm as he set her glass down. They both froze. Her belly windmilled.

He returned to his seat and took a pull of his Scotch. “I was never out of control with you,” he said, his attention on the glass in his hands. “Everything was always better with you.”

It was a good thing he wasn’t looking at her. Her cheeks felt like they were on fire, and the windmill situation upgraded to dizzying spins. She sipped her wine. The toasty notes clung to her tongue, settled her stomach. Her body loosened as she looked at Wes for what felt like the first time. “I wish I’d known you were struggling.”

“I didn’t want you to know.”

“I’m strong on my own, Wes. I never needed you to be strong for me.”

“It was never about that.”

“Then why hide the music from me? The therapy? I told you when I had counseling. You were the one who said talking about tough stuff was important.” He’d been the reason she’d stuck with those sessions. She’d despised them at first, had grown to accept them, and was thrilled when they’d been done. In hindsight, they had helped. Wes had helped her, but he’d never let her help him.

He ran his finger around the rim of his glass. “There were things about Leo’s death I didn’t want to talk about. It was all too hard at the time.”

She pictured Wes’s devastated face when he’d woken her at the shelter, his choppy words, his tears. Visions she didn’t want to recall. They weren’t here to rehash what they’d lost. This was about his secret identity, the changes in their relationship.

She consulted her question list. “You could have picked up guitar, drums, the triangle. How’d you end up DJing?”

“My man hands are too big for the triangle.”

Smart ass, trying to distract her by being adorable. “Wrong answer.”

He smiled. “Same reason you’re into it.”