10 #3
Rhett snapped off a salute. "Meteorologist Rhett Davis at your service, sir." She dimpled at his confusion. "It's a by-product of living in Texas for any amount of time. If you do decide to stay here, you'll be rattling off the warning signs of a tornado before you know it."
"I'll just take your word for it." Rhys set the cooler on the floor just inside the door which Rhett shut behind him. "As long as whatever's headed our way isn't one then I'm good. Even though it did fuck up our listening to the rain fall."
"This one's just a thunderstorm. But I am sorry it cut your sweet surprise short." She ran her hands through her wind-blown hair and looked around the living room. Rhys rushed her through it so fast before that she hadn't had a chance to really see it.
The first thing that struck her was how large it was.
It stretched along the entire length of the condo, and the furnishings were placed to break it up into three distinct seating areas.
The second thing she noticed was the lack of color.
Everything was beige, cream or white, and while it made the space airy and bright it all came off a little dull.
No wonder it hadn't made an impression earlier.
Even the baby grand piano set in a recessed area on the far wall was a gleaming white. She did a double take.
"How in the hell did they get that piano up here?"
"I've wondered that ever since I moved in, and I still don't have a clue." Rhys crossed the room and sat down on the piano bench. "There must be some sort of freight elevator around here somewhere, because I can't imagine them hoisting it up this far on cables."
"That'd be a disaster just waiting to happen.
" Rhett came to a halt beside the instrument, delighted with the liquid notes that poured from it as Rhys ran his fingers over the keyboard.
Balled up pieces of paper littered the floor around the piano, along with a couple of notebooks in varying degrees of decrepitude.
A thrill shot through her at the realization that these things were part of Rhys's process while writing.
It was almost like being a part of Illicit for minute, and she couldn't stop her inner fangirl from coming out.
"Will you play something for me?"
Rhys looked up at her from under his lashes. "I will if you'll come sit beside me."
There was no resisting that look or that smoky voice, and Rhett slid onto the bench next to him.
"Much better." Rhys continued to play, and Rhett caught bits and pieces of different songs, like someone spinning the dial on a radio. "Any requests?"
She shook her head. "No, just whatever you want to play."
"Hm." His fingers stilled on the keyboard as he turned toward her.
Those dark blue eyes traveled from the top of her head on a slow, maddening journey downward.
As she sat there being perused, Rhett knew exactly what a deer in the headlights felt like.
Nervous and unsure, she wanted to flee, but she was caught by that gorgeous face in such close proximity, and by the heat of his thigh pressed against hers.
So she just sat there frozen as his gaze moved over her face and down her neck.
Even the warmth in his eyes wasn't enough to thaw her out enough to move.
When his gaze reached her thighs, barely concealed by the frayed strips of ripped denim, he smiled and turned back to the keyboard. His hands began to move again, and Rhett recognized the opening bars of "Tiny Dancer."
"So, um..." She had to stop and clear her throat. "So, you like Elton John?"
"His earlier stuff, yes," Rhys replied, still looking at the piano keys. "I'm not too keen on anything he's done past about 1980 or so, though."
"Me either. It all got kind of synthesize-y, and...and..."
"Bubblegum," he finished for her.
"Yeah, that's it. Too pop." She waited for him to start singing the lyrics, but he continued to play the opening bars over and over. "Are you going to sing it for me, too?"
A slow smile curved his lips. "Only if you'll sing with me."
The heat of mortification flooded her cheeks at the thought of singing in front of anyone, especially Rhys James. "Oh, I can't sing."
Strands of sun-kissed hair fell onto his shoulder as he tilted his head toward her. "Can you carry a tune?"
"Well, yes, but—"
"Then you can sing." His face scrunched into a mock-wounded look. "C'mon, Rhett. It's no fun singing by myself all the time. Sing with me. Please? Or I'll just sit here playing this same stanza over again until we run mad."
That mischievous twinkle was back in his eyes, and she couldn't help but laugh. "All right. But you'll be sorry. You start, though."
As he began to sing the song in that sultry voice that was one of the biggest reasons Illicit rocketed to the top of the charts, Rhett sat mesmerized, unable to believe she was actually sitting next to him as he sang.
Because the moment he started to play the piano, he transformed from Rhys Collinsworth to Rhys James.
A couple of words in, he glanced over at her with eyebrows raised in expectation, and she remembered she was supposed to be singing, too.
She joined in with the most tentative voice she could muster, almost a whisper. Halfway through the first verse Rhys glanced over and said "Louder," so she tried to up the volume while still keeping it as soft as possible.