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Perhaps that is why he believes I will run. I believe I should run, too, but I’m not. I’m still sitting here in his T-shirt, but still so completely naked.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Kace returns with two glasses of wine in hand and sits down next to me. I let the blanket fall away and accept a glass, our bodies automatically angling toward each other. There’s a comfort level between me and this man that defies our short relationship and my normal reserve. “This,” he says, offering me a glass, “is my favorite Italian blend. I actually pick it up when I’m in Italy.”
It’s a reminder of how dangerously close this man is to everything I’ve been hiding from, but for now, I reject fear. At last, I allow my taste buds to travel there with him. I sip from my glass and indeed the grapes are luxurious. “It’s wonderful. Smooth.”
“I’m glad you like it.” He sips from his own glass and studies me, his gaze far too probing and perceptive for my own good. “When was the last time you were in Italy?” he asks.
This is one of those moments I’ve trained for. I have stories to tell when asked this question, if ever asked this question, practiced stories meant to save my life, but those stories are lies. And I have told and lived so many lies. I need this time with Kace to be as real as it can be. I just need something real. I can’t lie to Kace. And so, I don’t. “Too long, Since I was a child.” It’s the truth, I think. It has been too long, but I can’t say that to him. Instead, I change the subject. “And you have been everywhere more than once,” I comment.
“I have been to many places, not everywhere. And while I’m ready to stay home for a while, there’s no question that it’s been a blessing many don’t share to see the world.”
I don’t miss the humble tone wedged in that statement nor the past tense. “You really aren’t going to tour anymore?”
“Contrary to my manager’s and agent’s demands, yes, I really am quitting. A performance and event here or there for a good cause is fine. A tour, night after night in a hotel, is a whole other ballgame. One I’m done playing.”
There is absoluteness to his statements, steel in his jaw, and I wonder if this has been coming for years or decided suddenly, but that feels perhaps too personal a question. Instead, I ask, “Sara said you have several charity shows coming up with Chris?”
“Austin the day after tomorrow,” he says. “And then L.A. and San Francisco in two weeks. The final show is a big charity event Chris does at the Louvre Museum in Paris every Christmas.”
Unbidden, I feel the bite of him leaving for Europe when I shouldn’t. I may not even know him a few months from now and this is a fling, a one-night stand. Sex and pleasure. Nothing more. Afraid he will read this in me, I deliver a well-deserved tease. “You quit the touring circuit as well as I quit chocolate.”
He laughs. “I guess that means you never quit chocolate. However, I am quitting the concert circuit. I have nothing booked after that Christmas show. I don’t need the money. I have other demands and projects outside of my violin.”
“But the violin is a part of you. An extension of your very person.”
“It is,” he says. “But it’s not all I am and I want to play for me. I want to play with passion again and I don’t feel I have that anymore.”
“You play like you do. So very beautifully.”
“And while I know you mean that, and I appreciate it, it’s become a job. A punishing job on the road with a different bed and time zone every time I blink.”
“Hmm,” I murmur, sipping my wine. “That must be very hard. And lonely.”
“There was a time that everything it is suited me, and suited me well. It’s what I wanted. That time has passed. I’ve been touring since I was ten. I’m thirty-four. It’s time to slow down.”
“Ten?” I ask incredulously. “I didn’t realize you toured that young. Performed yes, but toured?”
“Ten. I was schooled on the road. Everything has been a moving target my entire life.”
I consider his words and don’t take lightly what he has shared with me. He’s a private man, who never speaks of such things in interviews, and while I crave a deeper look beneath his public persona, I’m tentative about pushing him too far. Still, I can’t resist asking, “Did your parents travel with you?”
“I had a handler.”
I blink. “A handler?”
He sips his wine and then downs the rest, refilling his glass as if it’s a topic that requires further sustenance. “Sherry Meyers. I used to joke that she was Michael Meyers’ mother. She was my teacher and guardian who was paid to travel with me. Cranky old woman, too, but she did keep me out of trouble, which I tried to find often.”
