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He looks up at me, his dark green eyes bright with anticipation, and I’m glad I went to find him today.
“She’s perfect. Do you still not play?” He glances at my hands, and I instinctively link my hands together to hide them.
I smile sheepishly. “No. The piano was my sister’s passion.” I sit down on the bench and press a few keys.
He sits down next to me, close enough I can feel the heat and weight of his body. Touching him is the very last thing I should be doing. I stand and walk over to the open lid. “It needs to be tuned, I think.”
He runs a reverent hand over the keys. “I can do that.”
“Then come play any time you want. As long as you don’t mind me in here while you work. I love the light in this room.”
“It’ll be just like it was that summer,” he says.
“Almost,” I correct him with a chiding glance even as lust tightens my body
He glances at me while his fingers wriggle slightly. ”So… you’ll draw while I play?” he asks skeptically.
I nod.
“Can I see what you’re drawing?”
“I’ve been drawing you, again.” I admit, but don’t open my notebook.
His head jerks up, his eyes look at me. The surprise in them tickles me for some reason. “You still find me interesting enough to draw?”
I nod. “You know how you said my smile wasn’t genuine? How’d you know?”
He considers me for a moment. “I’ve seen your real smile, it has something…else in it.”
“Well, when you sing, you look like you’ve got…something else in you too.”
“Okay, I’ll bite. What?” he asks.
I consider him, and then walk up to him until we’re almost toe-to-toe. I sigh and stroke my chin thoughtfully while searching his face.
“May I touch your face?”
The smile that spreads across his face and the light that leaps into his eyes makes my heart flutter.
He grabs my wrists to press my hands against each of his cheeks. There’s more scruff than he had at the library, and I have to stop myself from curling my fingers to and stroking him.
“If anyone may, it’s you.” He lets go of me, and I want his hands back.
Oh God. I’m so stupid.
I run the tips of my fingers over his nose and trace his eyebrows. “You see this?” I stroke the space between his dark brows.
“A unibrow?” He frowns and touches the same spot. I push his fingers away.
“No, this tiny lines We all have it… tension is an universal human emotion.” I stroke them one more time. “And here.” I touch the corner of his mouth and then run my finger underneath the hinge of stubbled jaw. The knot of muscles flexes under my finger.
“I’ve got lines there too?”
I shake my head. “No, they’re just tense. All of the time.”
He jerks back slightly, and his shoulders come up. “No, they’re not,” he balks.
“Yes, they are. Except when you’re sleeping and behind the piano singing. Then, they disappear. You look like yourself but relaxed. And I knew…it was your thing. I mean, clearly the piano is your thing, but singing…is your thing.”
