Reverse (Bittersweet Symphony Duet #2)

FIFTEEN “Only You Know”

FIFTEEN

“Only You Know”

Dion

Natalie

F or the first few minutes of the drive back to the hotel, I fight the urge to try and extend our time together. Somehow, Easton’s managed to turn another shitty morning into an extraordinary day. An unforgettable day. As hard as I try to muster the courage, I can’t manage to get the words out thanks to the lie I’m continuing to feed into. His effort to give a little background by taking me to the museum to help me with my fictional article hasn’t gone unnoticed.

It’s when the surroundings start to become familiar that the overwhelming urge overtakes me. Just as I go to speak, Easton lifts a finger, asking me to wait. The now recognizable, faraway look in his eye is present as he becomes absorbed in the music. Ears perked, he turns the song up and I quickly pull up my Shazam app to identify it when it doesn’t appear on the ancient truck’s radio display. Seconds later, the title pops up on screen—“Only You Know” by Dion. I look up the year it was released, 1975, and make a mental note of it as we reach the hotel.

Limbs growing heavy with disappointment, I ready my goodbye, but instead of pulling up at the entrance to drop me off, Easton parks and wordlessly exits his truck. In seconds, his warm hand surrounds mine as he pulls me from the cab before turning and stalking toward the hotel, ostensibly on a mission. Instead of questioning what he’s doing, I speed up to keep up with his determined strides. Ambling into the lobby with me in tow, he stops and scans it. Seeming unsatisfied, he continues his search to the adjacent lounge. I nearly collide with him as he pauses briefly when we reach it before making a beeline to the back of the large room. Glancing around, I soak in the atmosphere for the first time since I arrived in Seattle.

I’d picked The Edgewater on a whim after seeing that several known celebrities and musicians have stayed here. Ironically, it was a picture of The Beatles fishing in the Puget Sound from one of the room windows that sold me. One of a few growing coincidences I purposely haven’t pointed out to Easton.

As Easton speed walks through the room with me in tow, I note that the large, clustered seating area is adorned with posh, comfortable-looking furniture. Branches extend from tree trunk-shaped support columns through the space, and much like my room, cemented river rocks make up the massive fireplace to our right. The fireplace currently hosts a low burning flame, making the atmosphere romantic in feel. A large, amber-lit antler chandelier rests low in front of a row of floor-to-ceiling windows. Just beyond one of the windows, a cluster of seagulls dip along the water, leaving it rippling in their wake.

It’s when I peek over Easton’s shoulder that I spot a baby grand that faces away from an amazing view of Puget Sound.

Unclasping my hand, Easton leaves me standing beside the polished instrument, discarding his hat on top before taking the bench seat. It’s then I notice the moisture coating the hand he just released.

He’s nervous.

I barely have time to register what’s happening when Easton closes his eyes. Time seems to stand still as his fingers search for and easily find the keys as he runs down a few chords.

Just after, he begins to play as I stare at him, stunned. Within a few notes of the intro, I pick up the melody, which mimics, note for note, the song we just heard on the oldies station. It’s when Easton opens his mouth and begins to sing that I feel the full gravity of what’s happening.

Easton Crowne is singing, for me , in my hotel lobby. Not only that, but the man’s voice is staggeringly perfect.

As if on cue, the water begins to glitter dramatically with the sun’s descent, the warm hue drenching him in a surreal, golden glow. Rays filter across his dark locks which start to unravel as he plays, the sun casting his features in perfect light as his velvet voice wraps around each lyric with expertise. Within seconds, I’m intoxicated—completely drunk on the sound and sight before me.

Easton moves naturally behind the piano, the scope of his talent no longer a mystery as he breathes new life and soul into a song over a half-century old. His fingers instinctively move along the ivory keys, and his raspy, melodic tone guides it the rest of the way as the song hits its crescendo.

Disbelief clouds me, and my eyes sting in response to the emotion he so easily evokes. Though borrowed, Easton owns every second of the song, the lyrics, and the very essence of the music. Unable to do anything but gawk, I fly over the edge of his mystery into infatuation.

It’s not just the way he plays. It’s the way he deconstructed the song, implementing every instrument while only using the piano. It’s as if he calculated an exact compilation for this very purpose.

But how?

My full being lights up with understanding as he continues to play, entirely in his element as a level of certainty overtakes me.

Easton Crowne is not some budding star. He’s a supernova .

He’s undoubtedly a prodigy—a genius disguised in a beautiful, but highly breakable—human package. At any time in the future, if he so desires, he will become a world-renowned star.

If I take advantage of this knowledge—and my current position—and write this story, an exclusive with him could very well kickstart my career and get my name out of the grey and into a bolder black. Even so, no part of me wants to share this moment with anyone in any capacity . More than anything, I want to cling to his star as it burns the brightest—if only to be with him for a little longer. If what Easton said is true, and we live in echoes of defining moments, I want to remain in this one for as long as I possibly can.

When Easton finishes the song, he glances up, his eyes focusing on me as if he’s coming out of a trance. A blooming smile slowly spreads across his gorgeous face as though he’s surprised himself. Unable to help it, I take another dangerous step with the edge of gravity continually urging me toward him. Thunderous applause explodes from adjacent rooms, along with those he drew into the lounge. The sound of their cheers snaps me from my dreamlike state into the present as Easton gives them a brief dip of his chin in a silent thank you. His eyes remain fixed on me and my reaction to him.

I interrupt my own applause by wiping an errant tear, feeling a pride I have no business feeling.

“I was close to begging,” I whisper hoarsely, “and Jesus, Easton, I should have. That was . . . fucking incredible .” I shake my head, completely bewildered. “You memorized that song after hearing it once , didn’t you?”

He slowly nods, his hazel eyes sweeping my face, soaking in my response as if he wants to remember it. Undeniable warmth bounces between us as I laugh at my continually watering eyes, my voice hoarse as I step up to him. When he clears the piano and peers down at me, his jade eyes gleam with what can only be perceived as happiness.

“Easton?”

“Yeah,” he rasps out, his gaze penetrating mine in a way I could never look away.

“Can your first fan buy you dinner?”

Shortly after, I run up to my hotel room to shower and change while Easton has a beer at the bar. We end up dining at the hotel restaurant, Six Seven, tucked away at a comfortable corner table—both of us severely underdressed. With the sun absent, soft amber light filters throughout the restaurant, making it feel unavoidably intimate.

We’ve been drinking dark beer and taking bites from each other’s plates since we sat down, and I felt another shift between us.

A soft glow from the candle licks along Easton’s profile as he bites on rare steak and shiitake mushrooms, his eyes scanning the eatery occasionally for prying eyes. Surprisingly, I’m at ease. We’ve been out and about for days without encountering paparazzi, but I’m no stranger to the game. I know the rules, as does he. “Paps aren’t allowed inside.”

“Like that will stop them,” he huffs in disgust.

I can’t help but feel the threat of that truth and glance around briefly. If anyone should be nervous about getting caught on the opposite side of a lens with Easton Crowne, it’s me . Even so, I ask a question that’s come to mind more than once, as casually as I can muster. “Do you have a girlfriend?”

He pulls on his Smoked Porter, shaking his head. “No.”

“Is it purposeful? Do you fuck for sport?”

He pauses his fork halfway to his mouth, his eyes flaring at the invasion.

“Off-record, of course,” I add.

“Women aren’t a sport for me,” he says, bracing his forearms on the table and leans in, his whisper loaded, “so I fuck because it feels good.”

Heat covers me at the suggestive implication in his voice as I press my lips together before replying. “Well, that’s just as good of a reason as any, I guess,” I hold up my dwindling beer to our waitress, signaling for another before eyeing him, “and practice makes perfect.”

Stop flirting with the supernova, you idiot!

“You haven’t mentioned one either,” he says, wiping his perfect mouth with his perfect hands as his perfect eyes continue to poke gaping holes in my rapidly disintegrating resolve. According to my third dark beer, the truth is that I’m already missing the feel of his hand as I try to push down thoughts of what his skilled fingers are capable of.

If I’m reading him right, he’s been mentally undressing me since we took our seats at the table. The buzz that’s been brewing between us since we met is now palpable and moving rapidly in a dangerous direction.

Shut it down now, Natalie.

“I have no man to speak of at the moment.”

Idiot!

“Dated a guy—Carson—in college for a year and a half until we graduated. He took a job in New York, which ended us. That’s about the extent of my serious dating history. I’m at that ‘career comes first stage’ anyway.”

He lays his knife and fork on his plate and tips back, his posture screaming ‘bullshit’ before he calls me on it.

“So, that’s what you’re telling yourself.”

“Damn, and here I thought you were going to make it a whole day without going A-side asshole.” I flash him a sarcastic grin.

“Okay,” his shoulders go rigid as he tosses his napkin. “If we’re blowing smoke up each other’s asses, I guess I can give you the, ‘I’m a guy who has to be careful because I have famous parents and am about to start a music career, so it’s not an optimal time to have anything serious going on’ spiel.”

“Makes sense,” I concede easily.

His eyes flare in warning, and I harden my stare in return.

“No, it fucking doesn’t. You don’t deny yourself anything you want in life because of timing . That’s a coward’s excuse.”

“I disagree. But you might want to watch yourself pointing out bravery as a barrier.”

My remark cuts both ways as his eyes fill with fury. Regret saturates me, and I instantly backpedal. “Easton, I didn’t mean—”

“So, I hit a nerve, a big one , apparently,” he delivers smugly, pinning me with his hardening gaze, searing me. “What was it exactly?”

“This is nice,” I sip my beer. “I’m having a good time. Let’s not fuck it up with brutal honesty.”

“It’s the only way I function,” he delivers with a harsh bite before turning and glaring out of a nearby window for several seconds. Seconds that don’t tamp down any part of his anger before he flicks his furious gaze back to mine. “You’re really going to check out on me now ?”

“What do you want from me, Easton? I’ve been a train wreck since I got here.”

“And so . . . what? You don’t have to go into hiding now.”

I glance around because his bark isn’t light. Seeing the warning consume his posture, I lean in.

“Look, I’m just trying to keep things profess—”

“Oh, hell no,” he says, pulling his wallet from his back pocket and tossing his card on the table. “Fuck this.”

“Easton,” I fumble for the right thing to say to start damage control. “I told you I’m paying for dinner.” Definitely not the right thing to say. “It’s the least I can do.”

Way to go, Natalie. You might as well have punched him in the dick.

He silently glares at me as he tugs at his beer. Panic starts to set in as I realize he’s probably weighing his decision to stay or go.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. You’re right, and I had no right to turn what you told me in confidence against you. It’s unforgivable, but please try, if you can, to forgive me. I’m projecting. I’m the asshole, okay? But like I told you, you’re freer than you think.”

“And that trap is in your mind ,” he hisses, “you’re doing it right now.”

“I envy you, truly, the way you—”

He snaps to his feet, decision made, patience evaporating as I grip his arm to stop him. “Easton, I have my reasons. Please don’t be upset.”

“Fuck that, Natalie. I’m not going to watch you build a wall between us after I—” b ared myself to you .

Even though he doesn’t say it, it’s heavily implied truth. He has bared himself, and I’ve done nothing but play into my lie, giving him nothing concrete. He fists his hands at his sides, his patience long gone as my window to come clean nears an inch from slamming shut.

“Easton, as much as a hypocrite as you think I may be right now, you have a public persona too.”

“I didn’t create it, and I sure as fuck don’t feed into it,” he spits, animosity radiating from him, putting purposeful space between us. It’s surprisingly painful, and while I hate it, I understand his anger.

“No, you don’t feed into it, which makes you braver than most—than me . I’m not denying that, but we all can’t walk around running rampant with our feelings. It’s exhausting.”

“Have you ever once stopped to think that’s maybe why you’re exhausted?”

“Jesus, it really is all or nothing with you, isn’t it?”

He gives me a dead stare because the question is redundant. I knew within five minutes of meeting him that he despises a disguise or even a thin coat of armor.

“I’m sorry,” I repeat, knowing I made the wrong call as he stares down at the hand still clutching his arm, nostrils flaring. He’s holding back wrath I deserve, and for that, I’m thankful.

“Just so you fucking know, that was my first time playing in public,” he delivers to my heart which explodes into a chaotic rhythm.

“Ever?” I ask, gaping up at him. His silence has me sputtering as I realize just how much of himself he’s bared to me. “Easton, oh my God, Easton, I’m so sorry. I’m honored and . . . f-flattered and completely unworthy. Jesus,” my eyes water with guilt as I make my decision. “You’re right. You deserve better. So much fucking better.”

The side of his jaw ticks as he flicks his gaze back to mine, trying to get a read on me.

“Will you take a walk with me? Please. Before you leave pissed and decide you hate me, at least let me give you a better reason to.”

He remains silent, his jaw like granite as I stand.

“Take a walk with me, Easton, please.”

He gives me a cautious, slow nod as our waitress walks over and grabs his credit card. Eyes on Easton, I raise a hand to stop her. “Please charge it to my room, 212. Natalie Butler.”

Pocketing his card, Easton pulls out a large bill and hands it to her for a tip. She takes it with thanks, failing miserably at concealing a flirtatious grin. “You two have a great night.”