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“God no,” I say. “I can barely feel my face right now.”
He laughs and so does the waitress before she walks away. “I’m not staying or intruding,” I quickly say. “I’m about to leave.”
“Don’t,” he says.
“Don’t?”
“Don’t leave.”
It’s exactly what he’d said to me at the bakery and as I sit here, drowning in his stare, I’m not even close to leaving. He leans forward. “What did the song mean to you?”
The alcohol has loosened my tongue and my answer comes quickly with no reserve. “Life. Death. Passion. Pleasure. Happiness. Sadness. Loss.”
His eyes flicker and burn with what I don’t expect, but after listening to him play, should have expected: understanding. “Then I was right,” he declares. “It was personal.”
I forget the denial that will get me nowhere anyway. “Very,” I say simply.
“Your reaction wasn’t about me at all,” he repeats. “I like that.”
My brows furrow. “Why?”
“Because it was about the music, just the music. Because your reaction was raw and real. That’s not easy to find.”
I lean in closer, and dare to speak what I feel. “Every time you play, it’s raw and real, Kace August.”
“And that matters to me coming from you because I know you mean it. And because I can tell that you truly love the violin. Do you play?”
“Not since I was a small child,” I confess when I would never admit this to anyone else, but he’s Kace August, and the world around him sees him, not me. And at least tonight, with a little drink down me, that idea is liberating, it’s freedom I embrace.
“Do you want to play?”
“As a child, but now, like millions of other people, I’d rather listen to you play.”
“I’m not thinking about millions of other people,” he says, his voice low, almost seductive. “I’m thinking of you. I’m right here with you.”
Until he’s not again, I think. “And that,” I say, “is exactly how you make everyone feel when you play.”
“I’m more interested in how I make you feel. Now. Right now.”
Heat spikes in the air, sizzling between us and that confusion he stirs in me sears me right along with the heat in his stare. Heat I can no longer dismiss as mine alone. It’s here. It’s real. It’s—
“Aria.”
At the sound of Alexander’s voice, I cringe at the timing, and Kace’s gaze jerks up and left. I follow his lead to find Alexander towering over me, dressed in an expensive three-piece suit and wearing a look of expectancy. “Can we have that talk?” he asks.
The air cuts and bleeds with Kace’s energy and when I look at him, his expression is closed, unreadable.
Crystal picks that moment to return as if she’d seen the disaster in the making, and dove right in to save the day. Kace stands up to allow her to access the booth and when he does, he steps into Alexander and speaks, his voice low, for Alexander’s ears only.
I push to my feet and when Kace turns, he’s between me and Alexander, his lashes half veiled, his jaw hard. There is something between him and Alexander, something that isn’t even close to good. I open my mouth to speak and then press my lips together. I can’t assume this reaction has anything to do with me. Kace and I are not dating. We barely know each other. In fact, he hasn’t even asked for my phone number.
I turn away from him and grab my purse, glancing at Crystal. “Thanks for the drinks and everything.”
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” she promises.
“Sounds good,” I murmur, and Kace sits back down, effectively clearing my path to Alexander.
As silly as it may seem, it feels like a reminder that it’s always about the moment with Kace, only the moment. And another moment is over.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I follow Alexander to a small table still in view of Kace and Crystal, where we sit down. “Can I buy you a drink?” he asks.
“No, thank you,” I say. “I’ve had my share. I’d rather talk about wine than drink it or anything else right now.” I glance left as Mark and a several others join Crystal and Kace.
“He’s not what he seems,” Alexander says, obviously catching my quick look in that direction or maybe it’s more about whatever Kace said to him.
“And neither are you,” I rebut, not about to start dissecting people for being something they don’t seem when I’m not what I seem, either. “Ed says you know him.”
“I do,” he agrees, and when the waitress joins us, he pauses to order a whiskey before glancing at me. “You sure you don’t want anything?”
“Not if you want to actually talk, but again, thank you.”
He nods and even before the waitress leaves us alone again, his gaze lands heavily on me. “I want something from Ed. We have a deep history. You’re caught in the crossfire.”
