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I force a smile and let out a heavy breath, knowing I could argue more, but a part of me doesn’t want to. This piano is calling to me.
“Okay…” I mumble, moving toward the seat. When I sit on the bench, he gives me space, leaning against the wall as he watches me with those somber brown eyes.
The keys are smooth against my fingers as I rest them gently in place. It feels as if they’re home for the first time in years. After swallowing my nerves, I press down with both hands at once, and the room fills with a rich, intoxicating sound. Instantly, I’m transported. A different time. A different place.
Nowhere specific. The notes take me away as I play a simple song I wrote years ago, but it’s really a feeling I’m whisked off to. The sensation of being free. No worries or fears or stress. The melody drowns all of that out.
My eyes begin to sting with the threat of tears, so I keep my head down.
Even the damper pedal feels like butter under my barefoot as each note melts into the other, and suddenly, I can’t seem to stop. I play from memory, deviating from the melody and blending together my own chords and bridges until I find a place to stop. Even after my fingers have risen, I keep my foot pressed, letting the sound coast until I lift it and it’s replaced with silence.
And just like that, I’m back. Back in the real world. Sitting in a billionaire’s apartment playing a piano that’s not mine.
“That was beautiful,” he whispers delicately, almost as if he doesn’t want to disturb the tender moment I’m in.
“Thank you,” I reply just as softly.
“Did you write it?”
I shrug. “Yes.”
“How long have you played?”
When I finally lift my gaze to his face, I find it almost difficult to look him in the eyes. The way he stares at me with interest is intoxicating, and I worry I’m falling into his hypnotic trap.
“I started taking lessons as a kid, but then I just liked to mess around on our piano at home. But I’ll be honest…” I say, staring down at the keys, “I think this is the first in-tune piano I’ve ever played.”
When I look up at him, my face pulling into a gentle grin, he smiles back, and for a moment, I swear I forget to breathe.
“You’re welcome to play this one anytime you’d like.”
I clench my molars together as I swallow down the emotion building in my throat. The opportunity to play again—reallyplay—hits me harder than I expected.
“Thank you,” I reply, clearing my throat as I look down.
Ronan has this strange way of feeling far more relatable than he should. Maybe that’s his charming trick with women, to deceive them into thinking he actually cares about them or has more in common with them than is reasonable to believe.
The worst part is that I think I’m falling for it.
And I’m sure my mother did too.
RULE #6: KEEP YOUR DIRTY THOUGHTS TO YOURSELF
Ronan
She plays for another hour. When I leave the room, working in my office, she plays even better, as if not having my direct attention gives her the freedom to get even more lost in the music. The sound carries beautifully through my apartment, and for the first time since I moved in, my home feels alive.
I’ve held parties with musicians, but it was never like this—as if I’m listening to Daisy and feeling her at the same time.
I’m a fool for letting myself get so enamored by it. Or by her. I don’t even know the girl.
The entire time she plays, I stare at the computer screen in my office. Emails and reports coming in from my team, but I don’t move to respond. The truth is, I don’t need to work anymore. There is nothing at my company that requires my attention, expertise, or time, but I do it because I don’t know what I’d do without it. That silence is the same demon I fight at night when I try to sleep. Both haunt me with painful memories and I’d rather drown them out with things I can manipulate, like money, work, and sex.
And today, I’ve discovered that having a twenty-something-year-old playing the piano in my apartment has the same effect. If not, more so.
I’m coming to grips with something pathetic, and that’s that I don’t want her to leave. I haven’t even slept with the woman and I’m thinking of ways to get her to stick around longer. Does that make me a creep?
Not that Iwouldn’tsleep with her. Those beautiful long legs of hers wrapped around my waist has riddled my mind nonstop for the last twenty-four hours, but I won’t make a move. Not on this one.
