Heart Strings

by Melanie Moreland

  Dear Reader,

  Thank you for selecting Heart Strings. There are many choices available, and I am honored you choose mine to read today.

  Heart Strings was a story original featured in the What The Heart Wants anthology in May 2017. A brief addition was created for bedtime stories in The Korner Facebook group. The readers loved Logan’s alpha, possessiveness of Lottie. Here we are with their full-length story.

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  xoxo,

  Melanie

  Also by Melanie Moreland

  Vested Interest Series

  BAM - The Beginning (Prequel)

  Bentley (Vested Interest #1)

  Aiden (Vested Interest #2)

  Maddox (Vested Interest #3)

  Reid (Vested Interest #4)

  Van (Vested Interest #5)

  Halton (Vested Interest #6)

  Sandy (Vested Interest #7)

  Insta-Spark Collection

  It Started with a Kiss

  Christmas Sugar

  An Instant Connection

  An Unexpected Gift

  The Contract Series

  The Contract (The Contract #1)

  The Baby Clause (The Contract #2)

  The Amendment (The Contract #3)

  Mission Cove

  The Summer of Us Book 1

  Standalones

  Into the Storm

  Beneath the Scars

  Over the Fence

  My Image of You (Random House/Loveswept)

  Happily Ever After Collection

  Revved to the Maxx

  Heart Strings

  The Boss

  Heart Strings by Melanie Moreland

  Copyright © 2020 Moreland Books Inc.

  Copyright #1174254

  ISBN Ebook 978-1-988610-42-9

  Paperback 978-1-988610-43-6

  All rights reserved

  Edited by

  Lisa Hollett—Silently Correcting Your Grammar

  Cover design by Karen Hulseman, Feed Your Dreams Designs

  Cover Photography by Wander Aguiar

  Cover Model Alex C of Zink Models

  Cover content is for illustrative purposes only and any person depicted on the cover is a model.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any

  means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information

  storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, events, and places portrayed in this book are

  products of the author's imagination and are either fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any

  similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Dedication

  To Matthew

  Because of you, I don’t walk

  this world alone.

  You are my very own heart strings.

  Always.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Melanie Moreland

  Chapter 1

  Lottie

  Voices droned on about numbers throughout the boardroom. Projected budgets, debt ratio, timelines. All very important—all very dull. I stared out the window at the darkening late afternoon, losing myself in the sway of the tree branches as the wind lifted them, graceful and flowing. Snow swirled, light and diaphanous, the flakes caught in the streetlights beginning to flicker on. It was a dance of sorts—a beautiful, elegant display of the winter that was closing in all around us.

  Much like these walls I felt closing in around me.

  I shook my head to clear the cobwebs and tried to concentrate on the meeting. Casting my gaze around the table, I saw that everyone was now looking at the forecasted dates, so I hastily flipped the pages, knowing I had missed much of what they’d discussed.

  “Charlotte, do you have any concerns in this area?”

  I lifted my eyes, meeting the intense gaze of the CEO, Charles Prescott. His stare was calm and steady, yet I wondered if he knew I had been drifting.

  I swallowed nervously. “Not at this time.”

  “Good. Ralph, what about your area?”

  I huffed a small sigh of relief, grateful I had gone through all the notes on the project prior to the meeting. I knew the ins and outs, and at that point, barring some catastrophe, I had no concerns.

  I made an effort to concentrate. I attempted to pay attention, jotting down notes and nodding as others around the table made comments. It lasted about fifteen minutes, until a gust of wind rattled the glass, and I looked over to see the snow getting thicker. A familiar thrill ran through me.

  I loved winter. I loved the cold, the snow, and everything it brought with it. The sounds and sights of the upcoming holidays. Sledding, skiing, even walking in the newly fallen snow—especially at night when the flakes drifted down and the streets were empty. I would walk for hours, bundled up and protected against the frigid cold. I walked until my nose tingled and my fingers curled inside my mittens.

  I loved mittens.

  My favorite thing to do in the winter was to curl up on the sofa with a good book, a steaming cup of hot chocolate, and a cozy blanket. Alone and peaceful. It was a stolen pleasure most of the time.

  “Charlotte?”

  I blinked, bringing myself back to the present. My chest tightened when I realized I had drifted away again. My hand was slack, my pen rested on the open file, and my head was down. It probably looked as if I were asleep.

  I raised my head, forcing a smile. “Sorry, I was lost in thought. Crunching some numbers in my head.”

  Charles lifted his eyebrows, leaving me no doubt he knew my mind had wandered from the meeting and my thoughts had nothing to do with numbers.

  “I asked if you were available to be on the committee. I’d like you involved.”

  I stifled a groan. Another committee. More meetings to sit in on and boring discussions to have—to listen to other executives drone on about how important they were to the project. I hated those meetings.

  “Of course. I’ll make sure I clear my schedule.”

  “Excellent. Okay, everyone, that’s it for today. The snowstorm is getting bad, so be safe out there.”

  I stood, grateful the meeting was finished.

  Charles held up his hand. “A moment, Charlotte.”

  I sat down, keeping the neutral look on my face, knowing I was about to get a lecture. He waited until everyone was gone, stood and rounded the table, sitting beside me.

  “Are you all right, Charlotte?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You don’t seem like yourself. You’ve been off for the past while.”

  I traced the woodgrain with my finger, unable to meet his eyes. I knew I would see disappointment. “I’m a bit
distracted,” I admitted. “I have a lot on my plate.”

  “We all do. That’s the nature of this business. I need your head in the game on this one. It’s huge. I’m counting on you.”

  “I know.” I cleared my throat. “It won’t happen again.”

  He studied me for a moment, then tilted his head in acknowledgment. “I expect you to do better.”

  Shame tore through me. “I will.”

  “You look drained.”

  I was surprised at the unexpected, personal remark. “I’m fine. Honest, I am.”

  “All right. You’re a grown woman, so I’ll take your word for it. I suggest you limit your nights out to the weekends. I need you sharp. No more drifting during meetings.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He stood, smoothing down his suit jacket, an action not required—Charles Prescott always looked impeccable. His silver hair gleamed under the lights, not a strand out of place. At sixty, he was still tall and broad, his posture stiff. His blue eyes were like ice—light and piercing. When I was little, I swore they saw everything, no matter how I tried to hide my mistakes. I was sure they still did.

  He crossed the room, pausing at the door. “Your mother is expecting you for dinner this evening.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “Will you be riding with me?”

  “No, I have a few things to do first. I’ll take the subway.”

  He exhaled hard, the sound impatient. “You know how I feel about that, Lottie. I wish you would stop with that independent attitude and let me give you a car and driver.”

  It was rare to see a glimpse of my father in the office. There we were Charles and Charlotte. Lottie was never used. Personal things were never discussed. The lines were clearly drawn. It was business, plain and simple. It didn’t matter that I was named after him or that I was his daughter. He was firm on his rules. I was used to it, and I made sure to follow them at all times. That was what was expected of a Prescott.

  “I like to walk.”

  He snorted and rolled his eyes. “And take the subway.”

  I shrugged. “I like the people. I like watching them.”

  “You can do that from the comfort of a town car.”

  It was my turn to roll my eyes. “That smacks of being elitist.”

  He smiled at me—a cold smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Heaven forbid I sound elitist when it comes to the safety of my daughter.”

  “I’m fine. I’m careful.”

  “I still don’t like it.”

  My stomach clenched at the thought of him insisting on the car. If that happened, the one thing that made my life bearable these days, the one bright spot, would be taken away. I couldn’t let that happen.

  “Please drop it,” I begged, my throat tight with emotion. “Let me have this bit of freedom.”

  He pulled open the door. “Fine. For now. But the subject isn’t closed.”

  I picked up my files, following him out the door. “I never expected it to be.”

  Chapter 2

  Lottie

  Time dragged. I watched the clock, its hands slowly counting down the seconds until I could leave. Everyone laughed at the old-fashioned battery-operated timepiece I kept on my desk. I liked the soothing sound of the soft movement of the hands as it ticked away the minutes. The quiet chimes it made every hour helped me through the days.

  Finally, it was six. I slammed down the lid on my laptop, jamming it into my messenger bag. I made sure I had my pass, and I headed for the elevator. Before the doors closed, my father stepped in.

  “Changed your mind? Are you coming with me?”

  “Um, no. I’m heading home.”

  A look of displeasure crossed his face. “Your mother…”

  I interrupted the start of his lecture. “I’m coming for dinner. I have to go home first.”

  His brow furrowed. “You live on the east side. We’re on the west. What is so important you have to go all the way across town?”

  My heart started to hammer in my chest. I felt the back of my neck grow damp with anxiety. “I want to change, and ah, Brianna is calling.”

  “What nonsense.”

  “She needs to talk to me, Dad. I promised.”

  “Fine. I’ll get the driver to take you.”

  “No!” I almost shouted the word at him.

  He stepped forward. “Charlotte, what is going on with you?”

  “Nothing. I just… I need to do a few things. Dinner is never until 8:30. I have lots of time.”

  He narrowed his eyes at me. “And you insist on taking the subway?”

  “I like the subway. I listen to music, and it gives me some downtime.”

  “I don’t understand you. You’re distracted. I don’t like it.”

  “I’m fine.” The doors opened, and I hastened ahead of him. “I’ll see you soon!”

  He didn’t chase after me. I knew he wouldn’t. Charles Prescott would never make a scene in public. Still, I didn’t stop until I was around the corner. I stood against the wall, breathing heavily, forcing myself to calm down.

  He was right, of course. It was stupid to travel across town to my own condo, then head to their place for dinner.

  But if I didn’t, I would miss him.

  I couldn’t let that happen.

  He was the only thing I lived for these days.

  Even if he didn’t know.

  I exited the train, my eyes scanning the area. I felt frantic tonight. The anxiety I’d been experiencing grew daily, and I was always tense until I saw him. Then my body would relax, my heartbeat slowed, and I felt better.

  It happened every time.

  I heard him first. The strains of his guitar met my ears, his music settling into my head, blanketing me with peace. I followed the sounds, finding him close to the benches as usual, playing. His head was lowered, shaggy brown hair falling into his face as he looked down at his hands. Streaks of white-blond mixed with the dark at the front, and I often wondered if it was bleached from time spent out in the sun. It gave him a bohemian look that suited him well. Casually propped against the wall, he was tall and broad, his chest tautly muscled under his well-worn leather jacket and tight T-shirt. His fingers were long and strong as he coaxed notes from a guitar so old, I was sure it was an antique. A battered case lay on the ground in front of him, coins thrown in by commuters glinting in the light. There were only a couple of paper bills among the collection, and I wondered, as I did every time I saw him, if he had collected enough to eat tonight. If he had somewhere to sleep.

  My fingers curled around the bills I had in my pocket. Tonight, I would somehow distract him long enough to drop the money into the case. Every time I tried, he frowned at me. He let me know, silently, with his whiskey-colored eyes, he didn’t want my money. He had accepted it once—and never again. The last time I edged closer, intent on dropping in some cash, he used his foot to snap closed the lid, giving me a glare and a firm shake of his head. When I retreated and sat back down on the bench, he flipped open the lid, letting others drop in money.

  Why he wouldn’t allow me to do the same, I had no idea.

  As I stood, watching and listening, he lifted his head. Our gazes met, locking across the busy platform. The ghost of a smile curled the corner of his mouth. Tonight, his chin was dusted with a five-o’clock shadow, darkening the sharp edges of his jaw. Sometimes, he was clean-shaven. Other times, a beard appeared. I never knew what to expect.

  His ever-present dimple deepened when he grinned. My chest loosened as I moved closer, sitting down on one of the benches with a long sigh of relief.

  I never spoke to him. He never approached me. But every evening, I was there, hoping he would be somewhere in the station, playing. And every evening, he was. His music soothed and calmed me. His presence did the same.

  And tonight was no different. I was ready to let the day melt away.

  The first time I heard him, I was rushing through the terminal, stressed and upset. The latest project I
was working on wasn’t going well. It was behind schedule, and investors were balking, threatening to pull their support. My father had been on a tear, and it didn’t matter that I was his daughter. I was included in the rant, which was long and loud. After he finally let us leave, I headed home, feeling exhausted and deeply distressed.

  I hated my job with a passion. I hated every aspect of it. I did it because of obligation and duty. I was good enough at it but found no joy in the routine. Others around me lived for it, and I often wished for their drive.

  My legs felt too weary to hold me up any longer, and I stumbled to a bench to sit and find enough energy to walk the short distance home. I shut my eyes, letting my head fall forward. A few minutes later, I heard it. The strains of a strumming guitar and the timbre of a low tenor singing. The notes and music filled me. As I listened, I felt a wave of calm flow through me, and my strength returned. I lifted my head, and I was met with a gaze that shook me to my very soul.

  Eyes the color of the darkest, richest whiskey regarded me. His hair was long and shaggy, yet it suited him. Dressed in torn jeans and a worn leather jacket, he stood tall and confident, meeting my eyes. His brow furrowed as he observed me, still singing and playing. He tilted his head, as if silently asking me if I was okay. I found myself nodding in his direction, and it happened.

  He smiled.

  His dimple popped, his lips curled, and it felt to me as if the sun had suddenly burst forth in the station. I felt the warmth of his soul in that smile. Then, as suddenly as it appeared, it faded, leaving me feeling cold. Still, his eyes remained on me as he played, moving from one song to another.