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“She’s as stubborn as she is sweet,” he adds, and I laugh silently. He thinksI’mstubborn.
“Might be what you need. She’ll keep you on your toes,” the woman jokes.
“Yes, she would,” he replies in a low tone.
As quietly as possible, I close the door and head into the bathroom. My fingers slide easily over the marble counter before I reach into the shower and twist the handle, until steaming water sprays from both showerheads. In my head, I hum a tune that’s been plaguing me for a few days now, and when I’m standing under the warm spray, I play with different lyrics to assign to the melody.
Showers are always my favorite place to think, and after months of public showers, I’m so relieved to finally have the privacy and time to really brainstorm.
And for the first time in months, the song comes easily. By the time I get out, I feel more refreshed and cleaner than I have in ages. Standing in nothing but my towel, I grab my phone and quickly jot down messy, typo-riddled lyrics in the notes app before my brain forgets them.
After slipping on something comfortable, I run my fingers through my hair while it dries, so it ends up with a wavy textured look. Admiring my good hair day, I decide to leave it down.
Then I ease out of the bedroom and walk barefoot down the hallway toward the main living area. I’m not sure what’s more impressive: the view at night or the bright light that makes this entire apartment feel warm and inviting, as if I’m living on a cloud hovering above the rest of the city.
I’m surprised to find the place empty when I emerge, so I take a few minutes to be snoopy and curious. I mean…who wouldn’t?
The intoxicating aroma of coffee pulls me toward the kitchen, but instead of pouring a cup, I continue on through the dining room and into another large living space, this one a little more formal than the other. There aren’t any personal photos to inspect. Just some art on the walls, a few pieces of memorabilia that look to be from his travels. There’s a bar and a shelf full of old books and—
I gasp, freezing in place as I allow my eyes to drink in the image before me. A black, pristine baby grand piano. Probably the most beautiful piano I’ve ever seen.
Taking a few steps toward it, I listen for the sound of anyone approaching, but the apartment is silent. I reach out to touch it, and when my fingers brush the cool, clean, black-lacquered wood, I let out a husky breath. This is the kind of piano you only see in movies.
When I was eight, my mom found an old upright piano that someone left in one of the houses she sold. The day she brought it home and shoved it into the tiny, cramped corner of our two-bedroom bungalow was one of the best days of my life. I fiddled with that piano relentlessly, learning notes, scales, and Chopsticks on repeat for an entire year.
She gifted me proper lessons the following Christmas with the money she scraped together from her commissions. Every Tuesday after school, I sat with an old woman named Dorothy who taught me theproperway to play, but it wasn’t long before I went rogue.
When I was truly alone with the piano, I felt connected to it. Like it was an extension of myself. To the point where I didn’t know if I was the one writing the songs, or it was. But together, we pieced together melodies, then bridges, refrains, choruses, and hooks.
The day I sold that piano was the second worst day of my life. But it reminded me too much of my mom.
Just as I let my fingers slide along the ivories, a deep voice echoes from behind me. “Do you play?”
With a yelp, I jump back from the piano, as if I’ve been caught with my hand in the cookie jar.
“Oh my God, you scared me.”
“Sorry,” he replies with a laugh. “Didn’t mean to.”
“It’s okay…”
With my hand over my chest, I take in Ronan’s casual appearance. No suit or tuxedo, like I’m used to seeing him in. Not even the unkept, afterwork version, where he ditches the jacket and lets the top few buttons loose so he can relax.
Today he’s in a tight long-sleeve shirt and jeans over black boots. I feel myself tensing as I quickly assess his appearance. Why am I struggling so much with how good-looking he is? Why can’t I just admit that he’s gorgeous?
“So, do you?” he asks, his eyes trailing toward the baby grand.
“Um…yes. Actually, I do. Or…I used to.” There’s something strange about revealing personal details to Ronan, being arealperson around him, letting my guard down enough to let him see the girl underneath. Maybe it’s from always only seeing one another in a work environment.
I see him as nothing more than a rich older man, and he sees me as nothing more than a drink server in a short skirt and heels.
When he pulls back the bench, I tense.
“Well, go ahead then,” he says softly.
“Oh no, that’s okay. I’m so rusty.”
“There’s no audience. No one to impress. Just play.”
