Chapter 8
Christina
The last few steps to Phil’s cottage feel longer than they should.
Not physically. Emotionally.
Each footstep brings with it a new wave of nervous energy that settles somewhere between my ribs and my stomach, fluttering and restless and impossible to ignore.
I tell myself it’s about the audition. About the fact that I haven’t sung properly in front of anyone in years.
That the Crazy Dogs, despite their deeply questionable name and modest ambitions, still represent something terrifying.
Exposure.
Vulnerability.
The possibility of failing at something that used to be effortless.
But that’s not the whole truth.
Phil is.
Phil, who held my hand this morning with newfound confidence.
Phil, who looked at me across a café table like he was seeing me properly for the first time.
Phil, who had been an absolute disaster the night before and still managed to make me feel like none of it had erased whatever had begun between us.
My stomach flips again.
I tell myself it’s about the singing.
I step through the small wooden gate and onto the narrow stone path that leads to his front door.
The garden greets me first, a deliberate chaos of colour and texture.
Lavender spills into wild grasses. Foxgloves rise confidently between softer blossoms. Bees drift lazily through the warm afternoon air, entirely unbothered by my presence.
At first glance, it looks accidental. Untamed.
But I know better.
Gardens like this don’t happen by accident. They happen because someone cared enough to shape them gently, patiently, over time.
It suits him.
From the outside, Phil looks like someone life happens to.
In truth, he builds it quietly, piece by piece.
I reach the blue front door and pause just long enough to take a steadying breath before lifting the bronze knocker. The sound echoes softly inside.
My pulse answers immediately.
It only takes a second before the door opens.
Phil stands there, framed by warm light and familiar space, and for a moment I forget why I’m here.
He’s wearing a white button-down shirt, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms, exposing skin tanned by mountain air and long days outside. The fabric stretches slightly across his chest when he moves. His dark jeans sit low on his hips in a way that is frankly unfair to my concentration.
He looks… good.
Not dressed up exactly.
Just intentional.
His eyes find mine, and something shifts immediately. Not surprise. Not nervousness.
Awareness.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey.”
I step forward automatically, intending to brush past him into the cottage, but the space between us closes too slowly. My shoulder grazes his chest. His warmth presses into me. The air changes.
He smells like soap and clean cotton and something underneath that is simply him.
Before I can overthink it, I lift myself onto my toes and press a kiss to his cheek.
It’s meant to be casual.
Playful.
Safe.
But the moment stretches.
His skin is warm beneath my lips. Real. Solid.
When I begin to pull away, his hand settles at my waist.
Not tentative.
Not accidental.
Certain.
My breath catches.
I look up at him.
His eyes are darker now, focused in a way I haven’t seen before. His breathing shifts, just slightly. His fingers tighten almost imperceptibly against my side, like he’s anchoring himself to the moment.
He leans forward.
Slowly.
Carefully.
My entire body responds instantly, heat and anticipation and something far more dangerous unfurling low in my core.
But he doesn’t kiss me.
Instead, his forehead comes to rest against mine.
He exhales softly.
Like he’s been holding that breath all day.
The intimacy of it hits harder than a kiss would have. There is no performance in it. No bravado. Just him, exactly as he is, letting himself exist close to me without retreating.
I don’t move.
I don’t want to.
His hands remain at my waist, warm and steady. His thumb shifts slightly, a small unconscious movement that sends another wave of awareness through me.
For once, I don’t need to tease him. Don’t need to push or provoke or fill the silence with noise.
He’s here.
With me.
Eventually, he steps back.
He takes my hand gently, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and leads me inside.
“Do you want something to drink?” he asks, his voice carefully neutral, as though the last thirty seconds didn’t set off a million butterflies in my stomach.
“Water would be good.”
He nods and disappears briefly into the kitchen while I move toward the piano.
It dominates the room, slightly too large for the space and yet entirely at home in it. Like it has always belonged here.
I take the music sheets from my bag and place them carefully on the stand, smoothing the edges even though they don’t need smoothing.
He returns and places the glass beside me, making sure it rests on a coaster.
“What first?” he asks.
“Living on a Prayer.”
His mouth twitches faintly.
“Not exactly written for piano.”
“The Crazy Dogs would be deeply offended if I turned up with Mozart.”
He sits on the stool and studies the sheet music for a moment, his fingers hovering above the keys.
Then he begins.
The first notes are tentative, careful, but the muscle memory returns quickly. His hands move with growing confidence, finding their rhythm.
He looks up at me and nods.
I lift my copy of the lyrics, even though I don’t need them. The paper gives my hands something to do. Something to hold on to.
He starts again.
The opening chords are quieter this time, more deliberate. Not performing. Listening.
Waiting for me.
I draw in a breath and begin.
The first words leave me cautiously, like stepping onto ice without knowing how thick it is. My voice is softer than I remember. Smaller.
For a second, panic flickers.
What if I’ve lost it.
What if this is all that’s left.
But Phil doesn’t look up at the sheet music.
He looks at me.
Not intensely. Not in a way that demands anything. Just present. Steady. His hands move across the keys with careful attention, adjusting instinctively when my timing falters, slowing slightly to meet me where I am instead of forcing me forward.
He’s not leading.
He’s supporting.
The realisation settles somewhere deep in my chest.
I close my eyes.
The next line comes easier.
My voice strengthens, filling the small space between us. I feel the vibration of it in my ribs, in my throat, in the air itself. The years fall away, muscle memory returning in pieces. Confidence rebuilding itself not all at once, but in layers.
He plays softer.
Giving me more room.
The restraint in it is almost unbearable.
I open my eyes.
He’s still watching me.
Not the way men usually look at women when they sing. Not with calculation or evaluation or thinly disguised distraction.
With wonder.
His gaze flicks briefly to my mouth when I shape the next word, then back to my eyes when I notice.
I nearly miss the next cue.
He compensates immediately, stretching the chord just long enough for me to catch it.
Our eyes meet.
He gives the smallest nod.
You’re okay.
I am.
By the time we reach the chorus, I’m no longer thinking about the audition. Or any of the doubts that followed me here.
There’s only this room.
This moment.
His hands.
My voice.
The way the air between us feels charged with something fragile and growing.
When the final note fades, the silence that follows feels louder than the music did.
Neither of us moves.
Neither of us speaks.
His fingers rest lightly on the keys, no longer playing but not pulling away either, like breaking contact would end something neither of us is ready to lose.
“You have an amazing voice,” he says.
The words settle into me more deeply than any applause ever has.
I smile, suddenly shy.
“Thank you.”
He hesitates.
I can see the thought forming before he speaks.
“Do you trust me?”
The question is simple.
But it isn’t.
He isn’t asking about the music.
He’s asking about him.
“Yes,” I say.
He begins again.
Slower this time.
The familiar song transforms under his hands, shedding its bravado and urgency. The chords stretch wider. Softer. More intimate. He isn’t playing the version everyone knows.
He’s playing it for me.
Understanding dawns slowly.
He’s creating space.
Inviting me to step into it.
When I sing this time, I let myself fall into the music completely. My voice lowers, warmer, closer to the truth of how the song feels instead of how it’s meant to sound.
The room seems to shrink around us.
Every breath. Every note. Every movement carries weight.
I become acutely aware of everything.
The quiet creak of the piano bench when he shifts slightly.
The steady rise and fall of his shoulders.
The way his gaze never leaves me now.
Not even for a second.
Heat spreads through my chest, my stomach, my core.
Not overwhelming.
Just undeniable.
The last note fades into silence.
Neither of us breaks it.
He turns slowly on the stool.
I step forward without thinking, drawn by something I no longer have any interest in resisting.
I move between his knees.
His hands settle at my hips automatically, like they’ve been waiting for permission.
My fingers lift to his face, tracing the line of his jaw.
He inhales sharply.
His eyes search mine.
Still asking.
Still giving me the choice.
I lean forward and press my lips to his.
And this time, he doesn’t stop himself.
His lips are warm and softer than I expected, and the stillness between us feels less like hesitation and more like reverence. Like he understands, instinctively, that this is not something to rush.
Then his hands tighten at my hips.
Not possessive.
Anchoring.
He exhales against my mouth, and the breath shivers through me.
I shift closer without thinking.
The movement breaks whatever fragile restraint he was holding onto.
His lips press back with quiet certainty, answering instead of questioning now. His fingers spread along my waist, steady and warm, holding me in place like he’s afraid I might disappear if he loosens his grip.
My hands slide from his jaw into his hair, softer than it looks, and he makes a sound low in his throat that sends a dangerous pulse of heat straight to my clit.
The world narrows.
There is no Fellside. No shop. No audition. No past versions of ourselves that didn’t know how to stand here without armour.
There is only this.
Only him.
He shifts slightly on the stool, drawing me closer between his knees, and the new proximity sends a fresh wave of awareness through my entire body. I can feel the strength in him, carefully controlled, like everything he does. Nothing rushed. Nothing careless.
The kiss deepens, not in urgency but in confidence. In discovery.
He tilts his head, adjusting instinctively, learning the shape of me the way his hands learned the piano keys earlier. His thumb moves in small, unconscious circles at my side, and the tenderness of it undoes me far more effectively than anything rough ever could.
My heart is racing.
Not from nerves.
From recognition.
This isn’t reckless.
This is chosen.
I shift my weight, and the movement brings us impossibly closer. He inhales sharply again, the sound barely audible but unmistakable.
His forehead comes to rest against mine when the kiss finally breaks.
Neither of us pulls away.
Our breathing fills the small space between us, uneven and shared.
His eyes open slowly.
There’s wonder in them.
And something else.
Something steadier.
“Christina,” he says quietly.
My name sounds different in his voice now.
I run my thumb lightly along his cheek, feeling the faint roughness of stubble beneath my skin.
“You didn’t run,” I whisper.
A small, almost disbelieving smile touches his mouth.
“No,” he says.
His hands remain at my waist, but his grip softens, no longer holding me in place but resting there because he wants to.
Because I want him to.
For a moment, neither of us moves.
There is nowhere else to be.
Nothing else to prove.
Outside, somewhere beyond the walls of the cottage, a bird calls into the late afternoon air. The sound feels distant. Irrelevant.
Everything that matters is here.
He exhales slowly, like he’s settling into himself.
“I’ve wanted to do that,” he admits.
The words are quiet.
Honest.
They settle deep inside me, in the space where doubt used to live.
“What stopped you?” I ask softly.
He hesitates.
“I didn’t think you’d want me to.”
I let out a small laugh, unable to help myself.
“Phil,” I murmur, “I’ve been practically throwing myself at you for weeks.”
His cheeks colour faintly, but he doesn’t look away this time.
“I know,” he says. “I just… didn’t trust it.”
Trust.
The word hangs between us, heavier than everything else.
I understand it.
More than he realises.
I lean forward and kiss him again, softer this time.
If he needs proof that I want this, I’ll give it to him.