by Amelia Wilde
None of it made any sense. The more I thought about all of it, the more the world seemed to swim.
I shuffled to the kitchen and made myself a cup of tea before sliding on my slippers and gray sweater and grabbing some sheet music from my desk. The building had a piano in the basement lounge, so I liked to play there sometimes when I had a spare moment or two. I hadn’t practiced in months and knew I’d feel a bit clumsy on the keys. But if music couldn’t distract me from what was going through my mind, nothing could.
My dad was my first teacher on the piano, but I started taking real lessons from one of our neighbors when I was about five. Somewhat ironically, it was my obvious talent that made my musical education the only thing about my upbringing my mother had a consistent interest in. As soon as it was determined that I had some promise as a pianist, her money secured the best instructors in New York, and Bubbe had dutifully schlepped me in and out of Manhattan twice a week until I was old enough to take the train myself. My ear for precision was applied toward classical training, and it was enough to earn me invitations to multiple conservatories when I graduated high school.
Unlike my dad, however, I had no desire to perform, no willingness to make my life as a starving (or trust-funded, as my mom offered to bankroll me) artist. Music was cathartic, but I wasn’t creative.
Aside from that, artist-types just bothered me. Through my dad, I had met one too many shiftless musicians, and their narcissistic relationships with “my music” were just plain annoying. It was their justification for leaving behind wives, children, jobs, and numerous other responsibilities. I thanked my lucky stars every day of my life that despite his complete and utter devotion to music, my dad, no matter his weaknesses, was the kind of man who was always there. There were a lot of other piano players who wouldn’t have stuck around.
Much like, of course, my mother. Janette Chambers was the definition of the flaky artist, although she had never had to forsake her comfort in favor of her art. Just her daughter. The fact that she, just like all of those other musical bums, deserted her family not once but multiple times in favor of her “art” just added fuel to my desire to be nothing like her.
However, since I did end up swallowing my pride enough to let her pay for college and save my dad a lot of debt, NYU proved to be a good compromise when I decided to study both music and business. In the end, I was grateful for it. The piano, with its mix of discipline and sublime beauty, would always offer solace no matter what I was doing.
The piano in the basement wasn’t tuned and probably hadn’t been dusted in years. But there was no one in the lounge at this time on a Sunday, so I had the freedom to lose myself for a bit. I pulled out one of the pieces of music and set it on the stand. After running through a few brief scales to warm up my fingers, I took a breath and began.
I played for more than two solid hours. I played old pieces and mustered my way through a few new ones. I played until the tendons in my hands ached from stretching over the keys. I played and played and played until finally, I looked at my watch and realized it was close to midnight.
My head was clear for the first time in weeks. With a quiet, exhausted sigh of contentment, I pushed back from the piano and collected my music from the stand. It wasn’t until I turned around that I realized I had company and probably had for a long time.
My jaw dropped as I beheld his lanky figure, long legs splayed and both arms stretched across the back of the sofa. A long, deep snore erupted from his lips. Brandon Sterling was sound asleep in my basement.
17
He was adorable. He couldn’t help it. Brandon’s head was tipped back, and his mouth was wide open as he slept, dark-blond hair mussed around his face. The tiny lines at the corners of his eyes disappeared in his relaxation. A maroon Henley shirt hugged his chest and biceps, and a pair of dark jeans slouched around scuffed brown boots while his scarf, hat, and down jacket had slipped to the floor. Were it not for the expensive watch, he might have fit in with the students.
He looked so innocent. I started to wonder again if I had been too hasty leaving him on the tarmac. Another massive snore erupted from the back of his throat, causing me to break my silence with a giggle. Immediately, he woke, tossing his head around as if looking for someone.
“What, who now?” he blurted out, making me laugh again. When his sleepy gaze found me, it softened. “Hey, Red,” he said groggily as he sat up and rubbed a hand over his face.
I hid a smile at the nickname. I wasn’t sure I wanted him to know I liked it.
“Hey yourself,” I replied warily. “I’m sorry you had to wake up.”
Brandon gave a warm, sheepish smile that caused my insides to melt a little more. I wondered if he knew the effect his smile had on me. He had to. There was no way he didn’t.
“I forgot you wear glasses,” he said.
Self-consciously, I touched the edge of my thick frames. “Sometimes I don’t feel like putting in contacts.”
“They look cute,” he said with another sweet smile, this one cautiously flirtatious. “I remember thinking that last time I saw them.”
He was nervous. It was utterly disarming. I tried to ignore the flutter in my belly and fixed a blank look on my face, praying I wouldn’t blush.
“How did you get in?” I asked.
Brandon shrugged, but his shoulders remained tense. “It wasn’t that hard to follow someone in and pretend I was a student. I heard the music and came down to see if it was you. I wish you had better security in this building, Red. Especially since you’re hanging out in empty basements by yourself at night.”
I raised an eyebrow. Controlling much?
“I, um, brought you this.”
Brandon pulled a robin’s-egg blue box tied with a white ribbon from the pocket of his jacket and held it out to me. Tiffany, by the look of it. It was slightly too big to contain what usually made girls in movies go crazy, but it obviously held some expensive trinket. A bracelet, maybe. Or a small necklace. It was exactly the box Patrick would have given me when he screwed up too.
Just like that, the flutter was gone.
I glared at the box with a frown but refused to take it, forcing Brandon to set it on the coffee table in front of him. When I looked back up, his eyes were wide, guileless, waiting hesitantly.
I sighed. “What are you doing here, Brandon?”
He pressed his lips into a crooked line, confused. “Well, I was listening to some gorgeous piano playing. Damn, Red. I think you might have chosen the wrong profession.”
I crossed my arms and sat on the closed top of the piano. “Don’t change the subject.”
Brandon sighed and leaned forward onto his knees, using one hand to brush away the hair across his forehead.
“I take back what I said about your potential as a litigator,” he said dryly. “I suspect you’d make any witness on the stand sweat bullets with that glare.”
I didn’t blink. “Just answer the question.”
“Can’t be distracted either.”
He sighed again. His innocent expression had morphed into a curious mix of desire and sorrow. I found myself gripping the edge of the piano to prevent myself from sitting next to him. Or straddling him.
Visions of what he had done to me in my apartment flashed through my mind, and I crossed my legs tightly. His eyes zeroed in on the slight movement, and an impish half smile spread slowly across his face. Yeah, he knew exactly what kind of effect he had on women.
“Something on your mind, Red?” he purred.
“Brandon,” I snapped, ignoring the heat building at my core. “Answer the fucking question, or I’m leaving.”
He huffed petulantly and sat back again. “Fine. I’m here to see you. Obviously.”
“Okay. I’ll be more specific. Why are you stalking me in my dormitory in the middle of the night? I haven’t seen or heard from you in over a week, plus I explicitly said not to contact me again. And now you sneak in bearing gifts? It’s creepy.”
Brandon nodded as if in agreement. “Yeah. Well. I wasn’t even going to call you again after that shit you pulled at the airport. I’ve never been treated like that by anyone, especially not by people I take to Paris.”
“So you have done it before!” I triumphed with a finger pointed at him. “I knew that was your game!”
“No, shit! That’s not what I meant!” He exploded forward. “A, I told you: I’m shit at dating. I’m sorry I got it wrong. I’m sorry I keep getting it wrong. But B, you deserve the best I can offer. Paris for the evening or a weekend away in Barbados. Why shouldn’t you take it? It’s not like you get these kinds of things tossed your way.”
“And how would you know that?” I snarled.
Was he really pissed just because I wouldn’t take his stupid, moneyed bait? Because I wasn’t willing to drop my panties at the sight of an outrageously expensive jet or a Tiffany box? I ignored the fact that I had already done so without gifts.
“Is it the same way you found out what kind of tea I like?” I demanded. “Or where I grew up? You’ve managed to learn all these things about me before I even tell you, but since you don’t talk directly to me, all you do is make these crazy assumptions! I suppose I should be oh-so-grateful to receive such generosity, right?”
I punctuated the last comment with a sarcastically mimed kowtow, but Brandon’s only response was a raised blond brow that only infuriated me more.
“1809 K Street, Brooklyn,” he recited. “Last date of purchase was in 1949 for just under seven grand. No known remodels since then, although I hope for your family’s sake, you at least bought a better refrigerator.” Before I could make a retort, he continued. “I’ve seen where you grew up, Skylar, because you let me walk you there. Yes, I looked up some information, because I have to. It’s become a habit since people regularly try to scam me.” He sighed. “I met your dad, and it wasn’t even our first date. You haven’t even let me have a fuckin’ first date with you! But I think I know at least a little something about you by now. Maybe I’m off, but last I checked, city garbage collectors who moonlight as broke jazz musicians don’t exactly make bank.”
I glared, seething. “See, that’s exactly what I’m talking about. You spent a couple of hours tagging along in my old neighborhood, had some PI look into my family, and you think you know everything about me. Be honest, Brandon. I’m a piece of ass you want to slum it with for a while, and you want to know what you’re risking. So what’s next after the trip, huh? You gonna set me up with a nice condo like you promised, baby? Give me a black Amex to go shopping on Newbury? It’s a no-win situation for me. If I say no, I’m a frigid bitch, and if I say yes, I’m just a gold-digging whore. You never once thought that I just wanted to go out on a date with you like a normal fucking person!”
Brandon winced visibly at my last words and shook his head. “I promise you, I never thought of you like that, Skylar.” His nostrils flared as he exhaled forcefully. “I have some money, and I like to share it. It’s no different from one of your law school buddies buying you a beer. It doesn’t fuckin’ matter to me! And clearly, you won’t take them for the gifts they’d be anyway!”
“Because they’re fucking insulting!” I was glad that we were in the basement of the building and not where my classmates could hear us exploding through the thin walls, Brooklyn accent versus Bostonian. “I’m not your Pretty Woman, Brandon! This might come as a surprise to you, but your money doesn’t fucking impress me!”
Brandon shot out of his seat then and stalked toward me like a big cat he resembled so strongly at times. With his thick halo of golden hair, blond stubble, and ferocious expression, he was the spitting image of a lion in his prime. I fought the urge to cower as he came close enough to brace his hands on either side of me on the top of the piano.
“Then what does impress you, Skylar?” he asked, his voice low, and so quiet that I had to strain to hear him. “Most people are falling over themselves the minute they enter my house. You practically sprinted out of there. Most women would jump at the chance to be swept off to Paris, but you slapped me in the face. Most girls would tear into a Tiffany box like a kid on Christmas. But you won’t even touch it. So, what’s gonna do it? How do I get in there?”
He pushed one large finger into my chest, forcing me back against the hard edges of the piano. His Boston accent was now out in full force. For a moment, I saw him as a kid, living in one of the battered row houses in Dorchester. Tired. Hungry. Bruised. Alone.
I shook the image away. “Why do you want to know so badly?”
My voice was smaller than I wanted it to be, and I struggled to maintain eye contact. He smelled so good this close, and I was battling between wanting to push him away and kiss him with everything I had. All the frustration melted when we touched each other. It would be so easy…
Brandon sighed again. Then, slowly and carefully, he pressed his forehead softly to mine.
“I can’t stop,” he whispered hoarsely with his eyes closed. “I can’t stop thinking about you. Every day. Every night. I can’t explain it, but…I walked into my house three weeks ago, expecting to talk business over brandy and bore myself to sleep like every night. Instead, I felt like I had been tossed underwater when I saw you sitting in my window. I couldn’t fuckin’ breathe, Skylar. You were so beautiful.” His hands floated to clasp my face gently as he pulled away just enough to meet my eyes. “You felt it too, didn’t you?”
We stood there for at least five full seconds in complete silence, blue eyes meeting green, bright blond head tipped to blazing red. He looked so vulnerable, this savvy businessman, the most cutthroat attorney in Boston, this big-time venture capitalist, scared like a child. His eyes were desperate, searching my face for recognition that he wasn’t going crazy.
I gulped.
“Yeah,” I finally answered. The admission was like a dam being released. “Yes. I felt it too.”
Brandon closed his eyes and exhaled a long, audible sigh of relief through his nose.
“Thank God,” he breathed before pulling me into a kiss.
This wasn’t the frenzied kiss from the other night; it was closer to the long, lingering one he had given me in front of my family’s house. My hands instinctively tangled themselves in his hair, already a mess from his hands running through it. We melted into each other, unable to get close enough, although there was no way we could close the distance more.
After several minutes, Brandon finally pulled away. One of his hands lingered on my waist as if he couldn’t bear to break our contact.
“I’m sorry,” he said, pushing one hand back through his hair. “I don’t know how to do this.”
“Yeah, you keep saying that. It’s…getting old. You make it sound like you’ve never been with a woman before, but I know that’s not true.”
Brandon rolled his eyes. “Jesus, Red, no. I’ve been with plenty.”
I cringed at the idea of him screwing half of Boston. “Yeah, I know. It’s kind of obvious.”
“Don’t be like that,” Brandon said with a nudge. “I just haven’t tried to be close to anyone. Not for a really long time. I told you, I haven’t had time for a relationship. I haven’t wanted one. Not until now.”
He reached up to pull at his hair again, and I fought the urge to take his hands just to calm him down.
“How do I explain it without sounding like a pushy psycho?” he asked with a rueful half grin.
“Oh, I think you crossed that line a while ago.”
His expression grew suddenly serious. “I’m not crazy, Skylar. I’m just at a loss here. My life…it hasn’t always been that great. I just wanted things to be like…the movies, you know? Like a dream. Because by the time I invited you to stay the night at my house, I already felt like I was dreaming. I wanted you to feel that way. I suppose I thought things like that,” he gestured helplessly back at the box on the table, “would help.”
I cocked my head, considering. He seemed so earnest; it was getting harder and harder
to doubt him. I realized I didn’t want to doubt him anymore. I just wanted to let him in.
“Well,” I said finally. “They won’t.”
“Because it’s a game?”
“Because it’s manipulative,” I agreed. “And the only place I like to play games is in the bedroom.”
“Oh, really?” Brandon grinned lasciviously, but I swatted at him.
“I’m serious,” I said. “Are you?”
He was quiet for a moment, then looked at me, all joking set aside.
“Will you tell me what you want?” he asked, his eyes tired and pleading. “So I don’t fuck this up again? I’m running out of chances here.”
I smiled and touched his cheek. He nuzzled his face into my palm.
“I just want you,” I said plainly, feeling my heart dance a bit at the simple acknowledgment. A weight I’d been carrying for the last several weeks lifted as I finally admitted the truth. “I want to know who you are. What bothers you. What entertains you. What you hate. What you love. And I want you to learn those things about me by earning my trust, not by spying on me or having some weirdo research my family and me.”
“I wasn’t spying,” Brandon objected lamely. “I just made a couple of calls. The sale of a house is public record. Even I have limits, you know.”
I just folded my arms and stared at him. “You follow me or not, Sterling?”
Brandon stared back. Just when I was about to slide away, he nodded.
“Okay,” he said. “I can do that.”
He pushed off the wall and took my hand, leading me through the lounge and up the stairs to the lobby, where he turned to me again.
“Will you give me a chance to make it up to you?”
I pursed my lips. “I think that could be possible.”
“Friday? I have to go out of town on Saturday, and I’ll be gone for a week. I don’t want to wait until I get back.”