I stroke his dark hair, loving the feel of it. His face is buried in the crook of my neck, and then I notice he’s humming a tune, humming it so softly that I can only barely make it out.
“What’s that?” I ask, my tender voice echoing around the room and mixing with his hum.
He nuzzles me. “Just a song.”
“One you wrote? It sounds like a lullaby.”
He shakes his head ever so slightly. “I haven’t written it yet. It came to me just now.”
A flush marks my cheeks as I comprehend the fact that he thought of new music while he was inside me. Electric tingles prick at my skin, my every pore coming alive.
To be a muse is to be a wonder in someone else’s eyes, flaws and all.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Six months later…
By some strange twist of fate, I find myself in the southwest of the country again. This time I’ve travelled with Shane for a performance. He was asked to come play as a guest with the Symphony Orchestra at the Cork Opera House.
I love seeing him play in the symphony back home, but there’s something extra special about his solos. It’s like I’m getting to view all the passion and emotion that’s inside him from the comfort of my seat in the audience. I get to witness how his playing affects others, how he sometimes brings a tear to their eyes and often brings them to their feet with applause by the end.
I’m really excited for tonight and have even splashed out on a new dress for the occasion.
I know, fancy dress, fancy man. I still feel a little like I’m playing a role when I go to these types of things, but then again, I do enjoy assuming a persona. Or maybe I can be me and be fancy all at the same time. I will shun perfection in order to remain a caterpillar. In fact, I’ve always thought that butterflies are overrated. Caterpillars may be pests, but they do have a certain quirky charm, bumbling along with all those legs and eyes.
Instead of becoming poised and sophisticated, I will continue to bumble.
Speaking of which, Mirin has been slowly coming around to the fact that this caterpillar is going to remain a permanent fixture in her son’s life. I have a feeling Shane might have had a good long talk with her about it, because she came up to me in the concert hall a little after the whole Mona drama and apologised for how she’d treated me. I accepted her apology with quiet grace, while a small surge of triumph settled itself in my chest.
At the moment we’re staying at a swanky hotel, but Shane left just after lunch to go to a rehearsal. In reflection of my unsophisticated ways, I changed into my dress and then decided to treat myself and order a slice of chocolate cake from room service. In fact, I ordered two slices so I could keep one for Shane for when we get back later.
Ever since our weekend break in Kerry, I’ve been reminiscing about cake. I got up early the morning after our first night, leaving Shane snoozing in bed, and got Clark to drive me to the bakery in the nearby town. They didn’t have anything that was as grand as what I’d been envisioning, so I went wild and purchased three large cream sponge cakes. When we arrived back at the house, I stacked them one of top of the other to create a super cake, planting a three and a zero on top and lighting them with the flick of a match.
Now that’s how you say happy birthday, Jade Lennon style.
Shane woke up and came sleepily into the kitchen to be greeted by me, Clark, Ben, and Lara yelling “surprise!” at him, blowing on party whistles and wearing ridiculous cone party hats on our heads. I’m surprised we didn’t give him a heart attack. After all, these sorts of surprises are generally an evening affair. I got it into my head that doing it in the morning would bring an extra level of excitement.
I mean, cake in the morning? It’s so wrong it’s right.
Shane’s eyes lit up when he saw the cake on the table, looking a little more like a monster cake than a super cake, if I’m being honest. I didn’t know what his reaction was going to be, but then he laughed harder than I’d ever heard him laugh, clutching his stomach, happy tears rolling down his face.
That day we had cake for breakfast and lunch. Take that, Marie Antoinette. By the time dinner came around, none of us wanted to look at another slice for at least a month. Anyway, long story short, nowadays every time I want to treat him, I buy him a cake.
So, back to my current cake debacle. I’m so ravenous to shove it down my gullet that I end up dripping a load of chocolate sauce onto my lap. And yeah, I’m so busy enjoying myself that I don’t even notice the error of my ways until I’m at least four bites in. Panicked, I shove the cake aside and pull the dress up over my head. It takes forever but I manage to salvage it by dabbing the sauce off with a damp towel in the bathroom. A tip for getting out stains: dab, don’t rub.
By the time I get outside the hotel I’m seriously late, and it doesn’t help that it takes forever to hail a cab. I mutter swear words to myself all the way to the Opera House, shoving a twenty in the driver’s face and not even bothering to wait for change. The concert tonight is Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, and as I’m being seated by an usher I note that they’re already playing the Summer Concerto. There are some grumblings as I pass people by, but at last I reach my seat. It’s in the second row, and as I look up I see Shane standing in the middle of the stage, diving right into Summer Presto.
I remember him practicing this in our hotel room this morning while I was taking a bath. It sounded wonderful then, but now with the accompaniment of the entire orchestra it’s like it’s a living, breathing thing, invading every one of my senses.
A shower of colourful petals bursts out of the strings section like confetti at a wedding.
Roots explode from the stage floor, crawling swiftly up the walls, making me feel like Jack staring aloft at a gigantic beanstalk. Daisies sprout around my feet, and a bunch of lilies falls into my lap, filling my nose with their pretty scent. Pink chrysanthemums twirl down from the ceiling as though dancing through the air.
Bringing my attention back to the stage, I meet Shane’s gaze, his bow sawing into the strings in quick, vigorous movements. I mouth the word sorry at him, apologising for my unexpected lateness. He only smiles with warm eyes in return, a smile so hot it makes me feel a burning underneath my skin. Whoa, he really is sexy when he’s up there performing. There’s a sheen of sweat on his brow, but that only adds to his appeal.
I relax back into my seat, unable to close my eyes and let the music wash over me because I simply can’t stop staring at him. He’s wearing a perfectly tailored suit with a white shirt, the first two buttons undone, no tie. The vision of his exposed neck causes all sorts of vivid images to corrupt my thoughts.
He walks across the stage, playing his part effortlessly, like it’s second nature. The piece of wood resting beneath his chin is his glittering soul in tangible form, an expression of all he has felt and all he has experienced. He may be playing music composed almost three hundred years ago, but this is his interpretation, and it is an expression of this very moment. It makes me imagine things most would deem impossible, and that’s why it reassures me. I glance down at the hand resting on my lap and smile. One of those diamonds that fell from the sky outside the tattoo parlour that time made friends with some eighteen-karat gold and found its way onto my ring finger.
Standing at the very edge of the stage as the piece come to its dramatic finish, Shane is watching me still.
I hope he never stops.
***
A single raindrop falls on my head, but I don’t wipe it away. Statues can’t wipe away the rain, after all. A light shower came down, covering my body in a delicate coat of water. No matter. The sun is peeking its face out over the clouds. If I stand here long enough, I’m sure it will dry me off.
Clink.
Somebody drops a few coins in my hat and walks away. A pity they were in such a hurry to move on, or I might have bestowed them with a precious blue feather.
I decide it’s time for a change of position as I slowly raise my arms into the air. I hold them out on either side of my body, like I’m mimicking the branches of a tree. It’s a difficult position to hold for very long, but the best for getting dry.
Earlier today I got a surprise to find Patrick sitting in my living room. Alec had let him in. We hadn’t heard from him since I sent him off to rehab, and to be honest, I had no clue whether or not he stayed the duration or quit. I decided to avoid calling to check up on him, because the responsibility was on him to get better. In the back of my mind I never thought he would actually stick it.
As I joined him on the couch, I marvelled at his well-put-together appearance. I mean, it actually looked like he’d been showering regularly. His complexion was brighter than I’d ever seen it, and his eyes weren’t as dull as they’d been before. We talked for a long time, him telling me about his journey to sobriety and how he stayed away until he knew he was on the straight and narrow. He’d been on the housing list for a while but finally got allocated a small one-bedroom apartment in Harold’s Cross. I did my best not to well up when he took my hands in his and told me it was all my doing. If I hadn’t told it to him straight that night, he probably never would have realised he needed to make a change.
Alec was unusually silent throughout the exchange, too shocked at his father’s dramatic turnaround to speak. Avery, who’s been a regular visitor to our house in recent months, stood by his side, holding his hand. Seeing my brother happy is the greatest gift in the world.
It seems it’s true that leopards can change their spots. Not too long ago I’d considered Patrick a complete and total lost cause. Now look at him.
Rays of sunlight shine down, breaking through the clouds, the warmth caressing me in my damp costume, drying the sodden feathers of my wings. Somewhere on the street, music trickles its way into my consciousness. A lullaby in strings. It’s the song Shane heard in his head as we made love, so sweet and soft yet full of unspoken declarations.
Out of the corner of my eye I notice a bird land on my outstretched arm. I’ve been so still that it must have thought I really was a tree and not a human at all. Too curious, I turn my head to the side and gasp in surprise. Sitting happily on my arm is a blue sparrow, a bird that must be rare because I’ve never actually seen one in the flesh.
Oh, wow. I don’t think I ever want to move again.
The bird flaps its wings and takes flight, sailing off into the great big sky. I imagine it’s an incarnation of my Sparrow, flying happy and free under the golden sun. Reaching around to my wings, I pull a feather out and make a wish that one day she’ll get born into a happy life with a happy ending while I seek my own in this one. Somewhere, someday, Sparrow will die an old lady surrounded by the ones she loves. I release the feather and it floats away. I keep watching it until it’s nothing but a speck of blue far, far, in the distance. Now I’m still again, never moving, not an inch. Come and see the Blue Lady — you’ll get a feather for your trouble.
Shane’s violin plays on and I savour the melody. I wonder if I have taught him something about life like he wanted me to. All I know is that I’ll never let him try to silence his music again. Looking off into the sky where the blue sparrow has now disappeared, I wrap this one moment in a box and stick it with a label.
It reads, “The Most Beautiful Way to Live.”
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Read on for an excerpt from L.H. Cosway’s newest romance, Six of Hearts.
Six of Hearts Excerpt
Making my way down the narrow staircase that leads out of the building and onto the street, I bump into a tall man with golden-brown hair. I wouldn’t normally notice a man’s hair so specifically, but this guy has some serious style going on. It’s cut tight at the sides and left long on the top, kind of like a sexy villain in a movie set in the 1920s. I stare up at him, wide-eyed. He’s wearing a very nice navy suit with a leather satchel bag slung over his shoulder. Even though it was the first thing I noticed, his hair pales in comparison to the wonder that is his face. I don’t think I’ve ever been up close to such a handsome example of the male species in my life.
Why can’t men like this write to me online? I ponder dejectedly.
Because men like this don’t even know the meaning of the term “socially awkward,” my brain answers.
My five-foot-something stares up at his six-foot-whatever, and I think to myself, what’s a prize like you doing in a dive like this? Actually, now that I’m looking at him, he does seem vaguely familiar, but I can’t put my finger on where I’ve seen him before.
Probably on the pages of a fashion magazine, if his looks are anything to go by.
If it hasn’t already been deduced from the fact that I can’t even find a date using the romantic connection slut that is the Internet, then I’ll spell it out. I’m useless with men, and I’m talking all men. Even the nice approachable fellows. And I’m not looking at a nice approachable fellow right now. I’m looking at a “chew you up and spit you out” tiger.
Rawr.
Since the entrance to the building is so narrow, we have to skirt around each other. I give him a hesitant smile and a shrug. His eyes sparkle with some kind of hidden knowledge as he lets me pass, like beautiful people know the meaning of the universe and are amused by us ordinary folks who have to bumble along in the dark.
I’m just about to step out the door when the tiger starts to speak. “I’m looking for Brandon Solicitors. Do you know if I have the right place?”
I step back inside.
He sounds like Mark Wahlberg when he’s letting his Southie roots all hang out. His deep American accent makes me want to close my eyes and savour the sound. But I don’t do that – because I’m not a complete psycho.
“Yeah, this is the place. I work here, actually. I’m the secretary slash receptionist slash general dogsbody. It’s my dad’s firm,” I reply. Too much information, Matilda. Too. Much. Information.
The tiger smiles, making him better-looking, if that’s even possible. And thankfully, he doesn’t comment on my fluster. “I have an appointment with Hugh Brandon at nine. I’m Jay,” he says, and takes a step closer to hold his hand out to me. My back hits the wall, his tall frame dwarfing mine. I don’t think he realises just how narrow this space is, and now I can smell his cologne. Wow, it’s not often that I get close enough to a man to smell him. And Jay Fields smells indecently good.
“Ah, right. Jay Fields. Yeah, I have you pencilled in. You can go on upstairs, and Dad will take care of you,” I reply, shaking his hand and letting go quickly so that he doesn’t notice my sweatacular palms. “I’ve got an errand to run.”
He stares at me for a long moment, like his eyes are trying to take in my every feature, but that can’t be right. When he finally responds, it’s a simple, “I won’t keep you, then, Matilda.”
God. Why does the way he says “keep you” in that deep voice have to make my heart flutter? It’s been literally thirty seconds, and I’m already well on my way to developing a crush.
He makes some keen eye contact with me, then turns and continues up the stairs to the office. I’m already on the street when I realise I hadn’t offered my name, and yet he knew it.
Buy Six of Hearts:
Books by L.H. Cosway
Contemporary Romance
Painted Faces
The Nature of Cruelty
Six of Hearts
Urban Fantasy
Tegan’s Blood (The Ultimate Power Series #1)
Tegan’s Return (The Ultimate Power Series #2)
Tegan’s Magic (The Ultimate Power Series #3)
Tegan’s Power (The Ultimate Power Series #4)
Crimson (An Ultimate Power Series Novella)
About the Author
L.H. Cosway h
as a BA in English Literature and Greek and Roman Civilisation and an MA in Postcolonial Literature. She lives in Dublin city. Her inspiration to write comes from music. Her favourite things in life include writing stories, vintage clothing, dark cabaret music, food, musical comedy, and of course, books. You can contact her at [email protected].
She thinks that imperfect people are the most interesting kind. They tell the best stories.
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This Time
Book Three, The Moments Series
Marie Hall
Dedication
To all of you who fell in love with my boys from Austin. This one’s for you guys…
At the door of my soul she is standing,
So sweet in the gleam of her garment…
Her footfall awakens a fury,
A fierceness of love that I knew not…
13th Century Viking Warrior Poet, Kormak~ Tor to Jamie
Tor
I saw her crossing the club floor, walking on stage and heading behind the curtains to the area where only the band was allowed. She shouldn’t have been back here, but she didn’t seem to care. Jamie was determined to get to the exit and away from people in general.
Athletic, slim legs strode quicker than her short legs should have allowed, but she seemed hell-bent on getting away.
I’d noticed Jamie Sullivan for years, ever since Zoe started working at The Garage.
Problem was in all the years I’d noticed her, Jamie had been dating Angel—a.k.a. guy who didn’t deserve her, a.k.a. guy I wanted to break his legs for making the vivid blues of her eyes always seem a shade too sad. And in all the years I’d noticed her, she’d never once noticed me.
Rockers After Dark: 6 Book Bundle of Sexy Musicians Page 55