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Only Marcello had played sports. He was QB1 in high school and had the body to match. The other three had spent their days terrorizing everyone at school, smoking weed on the soccer field, and pissing off the teachers. And of course, tormenting me relentlessly.
Bastian watched me as I helped him out of his shirt, sliding the soft fabric over his broad shoulders. Except for the scattered scars marring his chest, he had tanned, smooth skin. I traced my fingers over the most prominent scar, the one directly over his heart. It looked like an X made with a knife.
I glanced up at him. “How did you get this one?”
He looked away, as if he were ashamed. “Don’t worry about it, Cherry.”
“Tell me.”
“No.” He gripped my wrists and moved my hands back to my sides. “Go get in bed.”
I inched backward a few steps, my body shaking, but this time, it was from the anger swirling inside me. “You don’t have to be so mean.”
His arm shot out toward the door. “Go. Now.”
And here I thought we were having a moment of normalcy.
I did as he requested and sat on his bed. The mattress was soft, the sheets smooth against my skin.
Bastian emerged from the closer wearing a pair of dark gray boxer briefs that hugged his impressive package. Nothing but muscle graced his toned body that had me salivating for a taste.
“Might as well get comfortable, Cherry.” He lifted a notebook and pencil from the table. “You’re spending the night.”
As he approached the bed, my pulse raced uncontrollably. I pressed my lips together and breathed through my nose. Bastian propped his back against a stack of pillows and stretched out his long legs beside me. He rested the notebook on his thighs and flipped through the pages.
Silence passed over us, and as if I wasn’t even here, he started writing in his book. I rolled onto my side to see what he was writing.
Music notes.
“You write your own music?”
He bobbed his head as his pencil moved across the page.
“Isn’t there an app or program you can use?”
Bastian sighed, then glanced over at me. “This is how my mom taught me to write music.”
His confession shocked me. He was only nine when he lost both of his parents.
“You could write music when you were that young?”
“Yes.” Bastian raised an eyebrow. “Any other pressing questions?”
I scooted closer to him, my fingers inches from his thigh. Being this close, I could feel the heat radiating off his body.
“How old were you when you learned how to play?”
He dropped the pencil into the crease of the book and sighed. “Three.”
“Wow. Really? So you were… What do they call it?”
I was drawing a blank.
“A prodigy,” he answered.
“Yeah, that’s it.”
Bastian grabbed his cell phone from the bedside table and groaned. “It’s almost midnight. Bedtime soon, Cherry. I need to get back to this. Quiet.”
