And Another Epilogue
Sloane
A few months later
I pour a glass of champagne and bring it to the couch, tucking my feet under me.
Malone settles in at the baby grand, exactly where I want him.
“Champagne, you, a little music,” I say, a smile on my lips as I take a drink.
“What could be better?” he muses as he locks his gaze with mine. “Wait, should I join you on the couch?”
I huff. “Stop teasing me.”
“But I thought you liked me next to you.”
I narrow my eyes and point to the piano. “I want my special preview.”
“Are you sure?”
I laugh. “You’re such a tease. Just play.”
“Just one song?”
I shake my head. “You’re giving me a preview of the whole album, mister.”
In a few days, Malone is headed into a studio to record an album of old standards. I might have been instrumental in encouraging him to do it. Sometimes he needs a little push from me, and I’m all too happy to give it to him. This is one part of him I don’t mind sharing.
“If you insist,” he says, then taps out a few notes.
“‘The Curse of an Aching Heart.’ Play it for me.”
“As you wish.”
He sings it for me, and the song weaves its way through my body.
I clap when he finishes, leap up from the couch, and give him a kiss. “It’s so sad, it kills me.”
“Some of the best songs are the sad ones.”
“It’s so true. That’s why we connect with them so much—somehow the music makes an aching heart better.”
“Your heart better not be aching.”
I run a hand through his hair. “Mine is full. It’ll be even fuller if you play me the next one.”
“Anything for you.”
I return to the couch, savor another sip of champagne, and then give him my full attention as he plays “After You’ve Gone” just for me.
When he’s done, I wipe a rebel tear from my cheek.
“Did it make you cry?”
“A little.”
He shoots me a devilish smile.
“That makes you happy, you cruel man?”
“It means I’m doing my job.”
“You are definitely doing your job. You’re making me cry and making me swoon at the same damn time.”
“Let’s see if I can do it once more, then.”
“I have no doubt. What’s the next one for your album?”
“Just a little song that I’m pretty sure made you fall for me once upon a time.”
“Is that so?”
“If memory serves, you heard me sing it to a cat.”
“Ah! Yes, I do recall you charming that pussycat with ‘Baby Won’t You Please Come Home.’”
“I’m pretty sure it worked on you too.”
“Is that so?”
“Let’s give it a shot and find out.”
And he’s right. His latest rendition does the trick.
I’m leaning on the piano, moony-eyed, heart pitter-pattering, ready for him. “It worked.”
“Don’t you want to hear the rest of the songs for my album?”
“Later. I have other plans for you now.”
“Far be it from me to withhold your satisfaction.”
* * *