“Okay, okay,” he said impatiently. “So how do you get it to sing?”
I laughed and began to play.
“What’s with the foot?”
“If I hit this pedal, it’ll keep the note going even when I’m moving on. See?” I demonstrated harmonizing with myself, and he soaked it up.
“How long have you been playing?” he asked.
“Since I was six,” I said, smiling at the memory. “My grandma bought us this little tiny box piano. I fell in love with it, and drove everybody crazy with terrible music until I figured out how to use it.”
“Self-taught, huh?” he asked, tentatively pressing a key.
“Essentially. I mean, I took some lessons to polish up my technique in high school, but mostly I just figured it out. It’s not like the piano is trying to keep secrets…it wants to be played. If you’re gentle with it and you pay attention, you can figure out how to stroke it just right to make it sing.”
His breath caught in his throat, and I smiled to myself. At least I knew I still had the wit; now if I could just arrange it into lyrics, that would be great.
“Did you play any instruments as a kid?” I asked him.
A shadow crossed his face, darkening his eyes. Anxious that I had stumbled upon a sensitive spot, I focused my gaze on the keys.
“No,” he said. “I wanted to. My friend had a guitar he would never let me touch, and my other buddy played the saxophone. My dad wasn’t into all that, though.”
“All what?” I asked, confused.
“Sissy stuff,” he said with an ironic twist of his lips. “Music, art, you know… Chick stuff.”
“Ah,” I said, rolling my eyes. “He’s one of those.”
“Yep.”
“My mom was like that,” I confessed after a moment. “The other way around. My sister and I were constantly in trouble for building or digging or rough-housing. Not that it affected me poorly or anything. I managed to make a living out of ‘chick stuff’… Still irritates me that I can’t fight or change my oil, though.”
He shook his head with a laugh. “If it makes you feel better, I was twenty-five before I knew how to change oil.”
“Really?”
He shrugged and twisted his lips at me. “Took me that long to get a car. Couldn’t afford one growing up.”
“Didn’t your dad work?”
I wished the words back as soon as they passed my lips. There were all kinds of reasons why someone wouldn’t have a car, I admonished myself.
Tyler shook his head, playing around on the keys. “He worked when he wanted to. Odd jobs and stuff. Gets bored easy, you know.” There was a softness in Tyler’s eyes, which surprised me. I wondered how much of that restlessness he had inherited.
“And your mom?” I asked tentatively, my desperate curiosity battling with my sense of propriety.
“Eh, non-issue. So, what’s the difference between the black keys and the white keys?”
He was trying to change the subject. I knew I should drop it, but there was something about his evasion which touched me.
“I’m so sorry.”
“For what?” Tyler hit two keys randomly, one right after the other. “Sounds off. Like the piano is disappointed.” Flashing me a shielding grin, he thundered across the keys. “I’m not angry, just disappointed,” he sang, amusing himself.
I rolled my eyes and let it drop. “Yeah, that’s kind of the feeling it’s going for,” I told him. “Disappointment, sadness, quiet, pensive… All those heavy emotions.”
“Hm,” Tyler said thoughtfully. “I guess those are heavy. I don’t know, I always kind of felt…floaty with those.”
“Like a balloon?”
“Not really. Maybe a buoy, that’s closer. Still not quite right, though.” He turned those incredible eyes at me again, stirring my soul. “It’s like getting slapped around and sucked under by the water, only to surface just when you’ve accepted death.”
He had an artist’s soul, and a whole lot of pain to pull from. I could see it, shining in his eyes, pouring out from the tips of his agile fingers to wash over the tinkling keys. Swallowing hard, I nudged him with my shoulder.
“You’re going to learn how to play Chopsticks,” I told him. “It’s one of the foundation pieces.”
We spent the rest of the evening playing at the piano and talking. Tyler was a quick study, and so much fun that I didn’t even notice when dinner time came and went. By the time we said goodnight and went to our bedrooms, I had managed to develop a Texas-sized crush.
Chapter 9
Tyler
I woke up thinking I was seven years old. An aroma I hadn’t smelled since that age filled my nostrils, pulling me out of my abstract dream.
Scrubbing my hands over my bristly face snapped me back into the present, but the scent was still there. Curious and searching my brain for the memory, I stumbled out of my room in nothing but pajama pants, following my nose like a cartoon character.
It led me down to the kitchen, where I found Paisley pulling the last fried pie out of a pan full of aromatic oil.
“Good morning!” she said, beaming at me. “Peach jack?”
“Good Lord, yes,” I said, my mouth watering. “I didn’t know you could cook.”
“Just a few things,” she said, waving a hand dismissively. “But all that talk yesterday got me missing my mom. She made these anytime we were nervous about a big day, or if we had a rough night, or even if she just thought we might need them. I tell you what, I had the worst time getting skinny with that woman’s cooking.” She laughed musically—a warm, pleasant sound. It struck me that I could get used to hearing it if I wasn’t careful.
“Let’s see how good you are,” I teased, sitting down as she put two plates on the table.
“Don’t get your hopes up,” she laughed. “I’m better at writing songs, and I suck at that lately.”
I rolled my eyes at her self-deprecation and took a huge bite. The taste exploded in my mouth, transporting me back in time. I could hear my mother’s voice, see her face in my mind’s eye. I choked on the emotion.
“That bad?” she asked with a wince.
“No,” I said quickly, croaking around the knot in my throat. “No, it’s perfect.”
“Oh, good.” She blew out a sigh and grinned at me. “I’m actually really proud of these. I spent forever learning how to make them like my mom did.”
“You did good,” I told her sincerely. “Real good.”
She blushed and made happy noises.
I grinned and shoveled another forkful into my mouth. They were fantastic, and so was she.
For a moment, I could almost pretend that it was real. That she and I were just two people eating breakfast, chatting about little bits of nothing.
I helped her clean up afterward; it was the polite thing to do. The little appreciative glances she gave me sort of emphasized the small touches. Her hand on my arm or my back as she passed me, her hip bumping my leg as she stood at the sink rinsing dishes.
I didn’t know if it was on purpose, or if Paisley was just the touchy sort of person. Either way, if I pushed too far too fast, the whole thing would blow up in my face. I had to wait until she was throwing herself at me before I made a move. If I misread the signs and pissed her off, she would kick me out without a dime. I needed those dimes. Billy sure as hell needed them.
So I let her touch me, and I returned her smiles, and I kept the conversation flowing. She would have to make the first move. Shouldn’t be too hard for a powerful celebrity to take the lead, right?
The subtle flirting continued for a few more days. I liked to watch her think and cook and obsess over her music. I started getting to know her, from a slight distance—the way she transformed from a powerful pop star into a little kid when her sister called, the way she crossed and uncrossed her toes when she was deep in thought. I learned that she mostly ate dessert for breakfast, which was fine with me.
I was getting comfortable there, even
though the house was too big and she was too pretty. I liked sitting in the piano room with her while she worked and she liked having me there. I could see it in the way she glanced over at me in between notes, or when she paused to write something down. I met her glance as often as I could without looking creepy, solidifying myself in her awareness.
Paisley was getting comfortable with me, too. She had started asking for fighting lessons on a daily basis, and I was more than happy to oblige. There was nothing like sparring to break the ice, and we broke it hard. She learned quickly, and actually managed to get a few solid hits in on the third day.
“All right, doing good,” I told her. “Now you’re gonna learn some grappling.”
“Grappling? I thought this was boxing?”
“Nah, darlin’. This is MMA.” I shot her a wicked grin, and she met my gaze with a steely glint in her glittering eyes.
“Show me,” she said.
I tossed her around like a rag doll. She seemed to be enjoying it a little too much; her eyes and lips darkened, and her tongue played with her smile. I had her pinned beneath my body, her neck locked in my elbow so her chin was held tight against my shoulder. My hips pinned hers to the floor, and her thighs splayed out on either side of me. I could feel her heart race, feel her nipples harden against my chest through her thin shirt.
“How are you going to get out of this?” I asked, ignoring the hard heat raging between my legs.
“Why on earth would I get out of this?” she asked in a murmur.
My blood ran hot and it took every ounce of self-control to keep from grinding against her. “Because I’m attacking you,” I said firmly. “I’m a crazed stalker, out to get me a piece of Paisley Abbott. Come on, how you gonna get me off?”
“I can think of a couple ways…”
“Paisley.” I put a warning in my voice, but it came out sounding like a plea.
“All right, all right,” she laughed. “Um… I don’t know, you’ve got my neck. You could just squeeze, and it would be over.”
“Not if your chin’s in the way,” I told her. “Duck your head, there you go. Now how you gonna push me off of you?”
She pushed at me with her little hands, and it tickled. I flinched and laughed, and she punched my ribs.
“Well, help me!”
“All right, all right,” I laughed. “Sorry. Slide your leg under mine, get it up in between. There you go. Bend it… No, you’re not going for the nuts, girl! Damn. Okay, get your elbow under you. Yeah. You’re going to push your hip up into mine and roll like a gator. Got it?”
“Yeah,” she gasped.
She started, and I could feel the weight shift.
“Good, keep going. Push with your foot, your arm, get that whole side of your… Whoa! Good. Now straddle me.”
“What?” Her voice was muffled against my chest.
“Keep me down!” I jerked, and she slammed her butt down across my thighs. “Good. Now you want your head back, right? Yeah, you do. Start hitting my ribs, as fast as you can. Don’t worry about form or power or any of that, just hit me as many times as you can.”
I refused to pander to her, so she had nearly worn herself out by the time she got me to loosen my grip. “Now relax,” I told her. “Slide your head out.”
She did, her glossy hair flying all over the place, exploding in static. Grinning, I brushed it off of her face.
“Good work,” I told her.
“Thanks,” she laughed, glowing under her chocolaty halo, still straddling me.
She locked eyes with me, then, and I let her look. Moistening my lip with the tip of my tongue, I took a moment to appreciate the sensation of her soft, firm butt warming my thighs. The moment stretched out while she caught her breath, as the red faded from her face. Her eyes took me in, trailing down my face to my shoulders and back again, lingering on my mouth. Come on, baby, I thought. It’s all you.
“I need to ask you something,” she said softly, her voice hoarse with exertion.
“Ask me anything,” I murmured, tucking her hair behind her ear. The answer’s yes.
“I…” She hesitated, pressing her palms to my chest and looking away. “I have to go to this red-carpet thing. Country music awards, very fancy, very boring, and very public. I don’t want to look like a diva, walking around with my personal security guard in tow, so…would you be my plus-one?” She met my eyes when she asked the question, turning the full force of her female intensity on me.
“Yeah, absolutely.”
“Oh, thank God,” she said, collapsing on my chest with a happy sigh. “I really thought you were going to say no. You don’t seem like the gala type.”
“What the hell is a gala?” I asked.
She only laughed and slid off of me, which was less than ideal. “It’s tomorrow night. Do you have a tux?”
“Yeah, wadded up in my duffel bag,” I said sarcastically as I pulled myself to my feet.
She smirked. “Let’s go get you one, then. Job-related expense. I’ll cover it.”
“Oh… Ah…” On the one hand, she was my employer, this was her idea, and we had already agreed that she would cover the costs of doing my job. On the other hand, I had just spent an hour rolling around with her, platonic or not, and I didn’t feel right letting her buy me stuff.
“Let it go, big man,” she said, linking her arm through mine. “It’s happening.”
I wasn’t about to argue with her when she looked at me like that. I let her buy the tux. It was a business expense, after all.
Chapter 10
Tyler
“Relax,” Paisley laughed as I tugged on the bow tie for the millionth time. “I promise, men wear these all the time and they don’t get strangled.”
“They’re crazy,” I said, digging my finger under the collar to scratch the persistent itch. “Who designed these things?”
“Men who wanted to look good on the arm of a classy lady,” she teased.
Paisley certainly looked the part. Her dress matched the color of her skin and was covered in tiny sparkles. I thought she was going to fall out of it every time she moved; the neckline was more of a ribcage line, and her pillowy breasts seemed to be wrestling for center position. With her hair and makeup, Paisley had transformed from the comfortable country girl I had gotten to know into the pop-country diva I had lusted after from a distance.
As the limo pulled up to the crowded venue, she winked at me. “Ready for this, sugar?”
“I was born ready, darlin’.”
My dry throat fought against the words, but I thought I was convincing enough.
The driver opened the door, and as instructed, I stepped out first, holding Paisley’s hand as she exited in an explosion of flashbulbs. She flirted shamelessly with the cameras as she rested her hand on my arm, utterly at ease. This was her world. It sure as hell wasn’t mine.
The last time I could remember being in the center of so many gasping onlookers and flashing cameras was the night I fought Billy. I barely noticed it then, but it made me nervous now. Each step I took up the red carpet felt like concrete on my feet. I felt like an ogre escorting an ethereal fairy. I couldn’t wait for her to get her material girl on and get out as fast as possible.
She stopped in front of a wall, patting my arm. “Pictures,” she murmured to me. “And questions. Won’t take long.” She winked at me, and I managed a smile.
“Paisley! Paisley! Who are you wearing?”
Who are you wearing? Are they talking about me? Harsh. But she answered the question with some French-sounding name. My brain caught up with the moment just in time for me to realize that they were talking about designers.
“Paisley! Who’s that on your arm? Is this handsome hunk your new boyfriend?”
She blushed, and flashed me a look from beneath her lashes. Perfect! She’d be putty in my hands before the night was over. Then lights, camera, action…payday.
Dan’s houseboat idea was pretty decent. I thought I might look into that once I go
t Billy and Jeanne taken care of. Opportunity for travel, sandy beaches, women in bikinis…
We were moving, then, as Paisley threw kisses at the paparazzi. I hadn’t heard her response to the question, but it didn’t matter. I would be…for a moment. Then I’d be long gone.
“Paisley, dollface.” A portly man in a shiny purple tuxedo sauntered up to us, puffing on a cigar and peering over circular purple sunglasses. “Who’ve you got there?”
He kissed her cheeks and rested a hand on her hip.
I tensed immediately, checking Paisley’s face for a response. She seemed comfortable. I wasn’t.
“Jude! This is Tyler, my…” She dropped her voice and glanced around exaggeratedly. “Bodyguard.”
“And what a body to guard, huh?” Jude raised his brows conspiratorially as he shook my hand in a bone-crushing grip. “You lucky bastard. Bet you get real protective when the sun goes down, huh?” His laugh was etched with smoke and his clumsy paws were nudging and patting like a drunken uncle’s.
I managed a tight smile. “You’re the manager?”
“Yes sir, yes sir! Why, you got a single you want to get out there? I’m much too busy for that, my boy, but if you can convince dollface here to do a duet with your group, why, I might consider picking you up! Oh, there’s Christina! Paisley, baby, good to see you, have fun!” He rolled off in his lazy stroll, and I resisted the urge to belt him in the back of his shiny, stupid head.
“Why do you work with him?” I hissed under my breath.
She shrugged. “He was the first who offered to represent me,” she said, almost apologetically. “He’s really good, everybody says he’s the best in the business. And my contract isn’t up for another year. Besides…it’s a biz thing, you know? They’re all like that.”
“They can’t all be like that,” I objected.
“Paisley! There’s the best-looking singer on two legs! When are you going to leave Jude and come play with me?” A skinny, over-coiffed guy in an outrageous white tux held her hands and flashed his glittering black eyes at her.
Protect Me - A Steamy Bodyguard Romance (You Can't Resist a Bad Boy Book 5) Page 6