17. Tee
Tee
M y date’s nice.
Really nice.
Hot, too.
And shit, the things she knows about Shostakovich would normally have me creaming my panties.
But my mind’s locked on the song that I began humming earlier, when Cody handed me my bags from his trunk.
“Everything okay?” Millie asks me, her voice nervous.
I know she came out last week, and I feel like shit for being so absent-minded. That’s why I rush to reassure her. “I can’t apologize enough, but my brain won’t shut off.”
Millie giggles. “It won’t?”
The giggle is cute as fuck, but not as cute as Cody’s laugh.
In the strobe lighting from the dance floor a few feet away, she looks gorgeous in a tight camisole that shows off her braless tits and toned abs. She has those pointy nubs at her shoulders, nubs that even dropping as much weight as I did in New York, I didn’t achieve. She’s even wearing a skirt—I’m a sucker for a girl in a skirt.
She’s perfect.
But she doesn’t make music appear in my head.
“No. My thoughts are noisier than usual.”
Usual because the orchestra sucked it out of me like an inspiration vampire.
“Why?”
How do I tell her that music isn’t a hobby for me?
It’s my lifeblood.
Except, it never pays the bills.
People seem to think of it as a hobby when there’s no money involved, but that doesn’t make it any easier for me to focus, does it?
Hell, music is one of the reasons why I can’t hold down a steady non-musician job, because where’s the fun in stacking shelves if a composition comes to me and I have to write it down?
Of course, once I write it down, then I have to tweak it. Then I have to play it. Then I have to perfect it.
Hesitantly, I explain, “I’m...” What? A genius? Okay, Ms. Bighead, tone it down.
This is probably why I like hanging out with Baby Cowboy so much.
Callan’s almost as smart as I am (I will claim that IQ point in victory until the day I die), and we both know how hard it is when your brain won’t shut the fuck up.
“I’m in the middle of composing something,” is what I settle on, but even that’s lackluster.
Millie, because she’s a sweetheart, dives into that conversation with both hands, leaning forward so I can better see down her camisole.
But that fucking song!
I want to scream.
But I don’t.
Because I’d look unhinged.
And while I am semi-insane, there’s no need to terrify the nice lady with the pretty tits.
Instead of screaming, I choose the less violent path—taking note of the chord that’s driving me crazy. Maybe that’ll help me focus on Millie.
As I rifle through my purse in search of a pen, I swiftly realize that I picked up my notebook but the pen was probably amid all the crap I dumped onto the boutique’s floor earlier.
“Do you happen to have a pen?”
Millie’s mouth works in surprise because I knocked her off-topic, but maybe she sees the desperation in my eyes because she reaches for her purse. “I think I have a pencil. Will that work?”
“Sure!” I snag my notepad and grab the pencil. “Thank you. So, you were talking about how A23a is on the move for the first time in three decades?”
The notes tumble from me, chord after chord, as she discusses the Antarctic iceberg.
The relief I feel when I get each one down on paper is immense, obscene really, considering the devastating impact of humanity on the South Pole.
With the notes jotted down, just as I hoped—my focus shifts onto her. Her scent, to be precise.
Light peachy perfume. The tang of something tropical from the laundry detergent she uses.
The booth where we were seated was big enough for four, but that she slid around to be closer comes as a shock.
That’s why I can smell her.
My hand creeps onto the table, fingers curving around the notepad like I used to hide my work at school from Freddy Freece because he was a cheat.
That’s when I know this date, however nice she and her breasts are, won’t pan out.
She’s lovely. Kind. Interested. Sexy. But I can’t share my music with her.
Because I don’t want to be a bitch, not when I’m her first out out date, I force my hand away when it automatically shields my work again.
I flatten the digits against the table, telling myself that she isn’t going to steal them. She might like classical music, but she doesn’t play an instrument. Believing Shostakovich’s string quartets were his most underrated work doesn’t make her a virtuoso…
Tell that to my prefrontal cortex, though.
“That’s what you were humming?” she inquires, staring at the notepad.
(It’s bad that all I want to do is go home and play what I jotted down, right?)
“Yes.” Then I hum it.
“That’s so pretty. What instrument would you play it on?”
Latching onto the question, I murmur, “I think the piano, the violino piccolo, and the oboe.” The sweet but harsh lilt of the oboe would make this more haunting.
The very thought of it sends a shiver down my spine, and I’m back to scribbling more notes.
They flood out of me.
And every time I finish a line, Cody’s all-seeing eyes pop into my mind.
By the time I’ve finished, my notepad is a quarter full and the winds section is underway.
Lodging a mental reminder to buy another notepad because one isn’t enough for each of the sections the symphony needs, I glance up, aware that Millie stopped talking about icebergs a while back.
Only…
For a moment, I swear to fuck I’m hallucinating.
Then, when I study the person opposite me, I realize it is Cody and not the music bringing him to life. Millie and her breasts are nowhere in sight either.
“Where’s Millie?” I blurt out.
“Millie?”
“Yeah, the woman I was...” I cringe. “Oh, fuck. She left.”
He shrugs. “You were sitting by yourself when I came in.”
“What are you doing here?” I grumble, because being at the center of his attention is making me realize I fucked up the winds section by making it too short.
Shit.
Shit.
Shit.
This is so bad.
I don’t know why, because it’s not like he’s dating someone, but something about him puts me on edge.
Yet, whenever I’m near him, I want to hum.
Unaware that I’m actually humming, I force myself to put the pencil down.
“That’s nice,” he croons, lifting a bottle of something to his mouth, making me realize that Millie not only departed and he didn’t just sit down, but he also ordered a fucking drink and I never noticed.
The urge to palm my face is real, but I don’t. Instead, biting my lip, I shuffle around the booth and do what I couldn’t with Millie.
As I move, my thighs rub together, and the heat that sparks has me stifling a moan.
When I’m sitting beside him, that apple and lime aftershave of his does what Millie’s perfume didn’t.
I swallow and, shyly, show him my notes.
He clears his throat. Is that… C-flat? “I don’t read sheet music. Hum it for me?”
I etch down C-flat as a reminder for myself and do as he asks, suddenly more vulnerable than I’ve ever been in my whole life.
“That’s...” He struggles to find the words once I’ve finished humming the violino piccolo part. “...haunting.”
I gasp at his choice of adjective and grab his arm. “That’s what I wanted. But only for the woodwind section. I was thinking about using an oboe d’amore. I can’t decide if the violino would strengthen the tenor of the symphony or not.”
“It’ll send shivers up and down your spine,” he muses, his thumb snagging the corner of the sticker on his nonalcoholic beer. “What went wrong with the date then?”
I huff out a laugh. “Everything. She was sexy too.”
“And?”
“And, what? I couldn’t stop thinking about this damn movement or what I want for the instrumental soloist.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him it’s his fault but I don’t.
Because that would be dumb.
(And I’m not dumb.)
“She didn’t like you talking about music?”
“No, she did, but I don’t think spending the evening watching me draft the wind section of a symphony in a pocket notepad was high on her to-do list.” I tap my finger against my bottom lip. “I should apologize.”
“You should. Only polite.”
“You didn’t have a problem—” I blurt out. “Not that we were on a date or anything,” I stumble over just as quickly.
He shrugs. “You’re entertaining in your own way.”
Forehead furrowing, I ask, “What are you doing here?”
He rubs his chin. “Had a bad feeling.”
“About?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes, it kind of does—” I break off when my new favorite song comes on and squeal, “You have to dance with me. Right this second!”
His mouth opens, whether in rejection or agreement, I don’t know, but I’m busy prodding and pushing him out of the booth.
I’m well aware that he lets me. Cody’s no lightweight and he laughs as I take off in front of him, snagging a hold of his hand and dragging him to the dance floor.
As “Haunted” plays (so fitting considering our conversation), I entangle our fingers and move to the beat.
My eyes close as I shimmy against him, unaware of how suggestive I’m being as I let the music take over my soul.
Until his hand lands on my hip.
Until his fingers spread over the cutout there.
Until he uses his grip to jerk me closer into him.
My eyes pop open.
He’s there.
So close.
I can feel his breath brushing over my temple, and it sends shivers down my spine.
Blindly, I stare into those eyes that see everything.
For the first time, music doesn’t fill my mind.
His hand cups my nape as the track changes. When he presses my forehead against his chest and his chin rests atop my crown, the strangest urge fills me.
Tears—they soak my eyes, and I clench them closed.
Why does this feel so good?
Why does this feel like...
I don’t know this man.
Not really.
Yet a part of me does, and that part makes no sense.
As we two-step to a song I don’t know, a song that you don’t two-step to, eventually, he murmurs, “You ready to go home?”
I shiver at his words.
Acceptance flutters through them. It’s wonderful. As if my place is right with the Korhonens. All of them. Not just Zee. It makes up for him suggesting jobs too.
Nodding, uncaring that I’m probably getting makeup on his shirt, I mutter, “Please.”
We return to our booth and collect our stuff. I grimace when I realize I left my phone on the damn table and my bag on the seat. What a noob move that was!
Relieved they weren’t stolen, I gather my things and shove them in my purse. He stands there, watching me, and I feel the brush of his gaze like it’s his fingers running down my spine.
When I look up, I half-hoped his hand would be outstretched for mine.
It isn’t.
The disappointment that spears me is nuts.
Disproportionately so—my date wasn’t with him, after all.
As we exit the bar, he finally cups my elbow so he can tug me down an alley and guide me toward his truck.
When he opens the door for me, my brow lifts, but before I can clamber in, his hands settle on my hips and, in a controlled launch, he helps me into the front seat.
Cheeks pink, I experience a full-body flush when his arm drags over my belly as he fastens my seatbelt.
I can’t taunt him about it being the new millennium, not when the urge to grab his head and make him suck the nipple closest to him is a strong one.
Zee once told me Colt was chivalrous, but experiencing it for yourself is a whole other thing.
“Who taught you to do this?” I question, because it’d be rude to ask him how he felt about nipple play.
He frowns. “Do what?”
Ah, jeez, it’s instinctual for them.
That shouldn’t be so damn hot, but it is.
Of course , I can open my own door, but why wouldn’t I want a hunk to do it for me so he can watch my ass jiggle as I walk in front of him?
It’s called working smarter, not harder.
“The seatbelt thing.”
“Uncle Clay and then Colt.”
He dismisses it as he closes the door and rounds the fender.
Once he’s situated, he queries, “Music?”
“I’m good with silence.”
As we leave Saskatoon behind, I realize how late it is. I mean, I knew, but there’s knowing and the passage of time registering.
Before Millie abandoned me, it felt like seconds were passing when it must have been an hour minimum.
With that in mind, and guilt spearing me, I find my phone and send her a message.
Me: I’m really sorry about tonight
My thumbs hover, on the brink of asking if she’d like to go on another date with me, but I don’t type the request out.
It has nothing to do with the man at my side.
Nope.
Not even if he’s driving with one hand.
Nuh-uh.
I send the text, and it’s a good thing I didn’t make the offer—two ticks show she received my message but there’s no reply.
More guilt pummels me.
I was the worst first date ever and there’s nothing I can do to make up for it now either. Was I so bad that she’ll reconsider being gay? I didn’t leer at her and my breath didn’t stink of garlic…
I am a thief, though—I stole her pencil.
And it’s not like you can choose to be gay?—
“Why are you so riled up?”
“What if I turned her off women?”
She probably hates me. Thinks that all women will be more interested in work than her!
A cough escapes him. “What?”
“Millie. She only just came out,” I wail. “I was her first date with another woman.”
“I’m not sure sexuality works that way,” he says, his tone suspiciously free from inflection.
“No, but she might give a guy a go because I sucked, and then they might get married because she’s vulnerable, and then she’ll end up leaving him when she’s in her forties because she can’t hide from her sexuality anymore!
“And if they have kids, well, I’ll have fucked up their childhoods, and everyone knows kids blame their parents for everything. They’ll probably never trust their mom and dad again, which will lead to trust issues in their own relationships!”
“That escalated quickly. I’m pretty sure you’re not going to be the worst date she’s ever been on. This was her first date with a woman, but she’s been dating guys. Trust me, she’s had worse.
“Sure, you were disinterested and ignored her, but you weren’t cruel. She’ll probably avoid musicians for a while, not all women. And that whole stuff about getting married and causing her kids to have trust issues? I think that’s pushing things too far.”
“You do?” I plead.
He clears his throat. “I’m pretty damn sure. On the plus side, she might have been a serial killer and you broke free of her clutches so?—”
I gasp. “She carried a pencil in her purse.” (One that’s in mine now.)
“And?”
“Pencils are good for pushing into eyes.”
He snorts. “Pens are better.”
“Ever tried?”
“No, but physics is on my side.”
“Wood is wood.”
“Metal is metal.”
“You’re right.”
“About metal being stronger than wood?”
“More tensile,” I correct. “And no, I could have had a great escape tonight.”
“There we go,” he murmurs.
“You don’t think she was a serial killer, do you?”
“Anything’s possible.”
“You’re right. And I met her on a dating app. You know that’s where predators hunt.”
His lips twitch. “You were on a dating app too.”
“But I’m not a serial killer. Unless you count plants. I murder a lot of them.” I tap my chin. “Anyway, who leaves without saying goodbye to someone?”
“Someone won the jackpot on the slot machine and made a whole lot of racket and you didn’t look up, Tee.”
“I didn’t?”
“Nope. But she could have waited. I did.”
He did.
I watch the lights from the car on the opposite side of the road illuminate his face.
Damn, he’s pretty.
Brooding, too.
I nibble my lip. “You’re...”
“I’m…?”
“There’s something about you... It feels like I know you, but we barely talked when we were growing up.”
“I didn’t talk to many people when I was a teenager.” His smile is lopsided. “Trust issues from a dysfunctional relationship with my father.”
“You talked to Bast Frobisher,” I accuse. “He’s a moron.”
He entwines his pointer and middle finger together. “We’re also like that.”
“No accounting for taste. You can’t deny he’s an idiot.”
“He has his strengths.”
“Which are?”
“He’s loyal. Good at keeping secrets. Mean shot. And he’d take a bullet for someone he loved.”
“He didn’t show any of those qualities when we were in school.”
“Why would he? He was on the hockey team.” He crows. “He didn’t need to do anything else to be cool.”
“Ugh, boys suck.”
“Yes, we do.” His arm scoots behind my headrest.
My lips part at the gesture.
That’s a move, right?
“So, you’re gay?”
I pause. The question on its own is one thing, but with the shift of his arm, it’s another.
“No. I’m pansexual.”
He hums.
The sound trips something in my brain, which is used to doing the humming, never mind hearing it.
Especially in C-flat.
What the hell is it about this man?
(And why do I want to climb him like he’s a tree?)
Before I returned to Pigeon Creek, my muse was in a chokehold. Playing for the orchestra, even one as prestigious as mine, seemed to suffocate my creativity, but since that coffee morning with Nonna, I can’t stop it.
“Remind me. Being pansexual’s where you like...?”
“Everything and everyone. You like the person, not the physiology.”
“Like or love?”
“Either or.” I frown. “Why?”
“Just curious. You eaten?”
“I snuck some of Zee’s trail mix. Why?”
“Want to grab some takeout?”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Why?”
“Because you need food? Me too. I skipped dinner.”
“Okay then.”
“You good with junk?”
“Always good with junk. Junk is my fourth BFF.”
“Know what I learned today, aside from the fact you’re pansexual?”
“That the world wants to fuck you in your fighter jet?”
That has him grunting as he pulls off at the next exit, looking for the takeout restaurant. “Aside from that.” While he turns into the drive-thru, he states, “My brother’s running a sanctuary, and my sister-in-law works for outlaws.”
A sanctuary? “Zee doesn’t work for outlaws. Her boss is legit.”
“Legitimately getting criminals off of serious crimes. You do know I’m a lawman, Ms. MacFarlane.”
The twist to his lips has me biting mine.
“Fried chicken for me.” Food is safe.
“Fries?”
“For future reference, you never have to ask. Fries are God’s food.”
“Thought with your family, that would be pasta. Especially after that whole thing your nonna put me through.”
“She was testing your stomach.”
“Did I pass?”
“You know you did,” I grumble crossly.
“Figured as much when Zee nearly shit a brick at the dinner table.”
As he places our order, I fall into silence, but I don’t pick up my phone to flick through my notifications. Why would I when he’s far more interesting? Instead, I watch him.
He pays without complaint, and I don’t think that’s because of our whole ‘not working’ conversation, but because that’s who he is.
A gentleman. Much like his brothers.
(God, that’s so hot. Like Cary Grant with a Stetson.)
But as he collects our food and charms the attendant, a thought occurs to me.
“Why are you here?” I ask softly when he parks us in a space beyond the small restaurant.
His hands freeze mid-delve into the paper bag. Then, his gaze clashes with mine. “Tee, if I had an answer for that, I’d give it to you.”