Chapter 11 #2
She’s like a damn siren. One of those mythological creatures who use their voice to lure people to their doom.
That must be it. That’s why I’m being drawn to her against my will.
I close the door behind me as quietly as I can, and she still doesn’t hear. It’s not until I’m standing behind her and a bit to the side, in her peripheral vision, that she turns her head toward me and startles, hitting a note that sounds wrong before she stops playing altogether.
“I’m sorry,” she says, eyes wide. “Was it too loud? I kept the lid closed, so I thought I could keep the sound down and not disturb anyone. But I shouldn’t be in here, right?”
“It’s fine,” I tell her. Then I shrug. “Or really, it’s not my call, because I don’t run the place. But it sounded good. I can’t see why anyone would be bothered by it.”
She shakes her head, moving to stand. “I’ll stop.”
I step closer and reach out to touch her bare shoulder before I can think better of it, nudging her back down to the bench. “You don’t have to.”
“Are you sure?” she asks, gazing up at me with hopeful, soulful eyes.
Giving her a reassuring smile, I say, “I’d like to hear more. Is it okay if I sit?”
She smiles back at me before scooting over a couple inches and returning her gaze to the piano keys.
I sit down beside her with my legs on the opposite side of the bench, so that my back’s to the piano.
There’s not enough room to leave any real semblance of space between us, but I manage to keep my hip from bumping hers.
I don’t manage, however, to keep from checking her out as she resumes playing. She’s wearing a baby blue sundress with the tiniest little straps and a low-cut, ruched neckline—because she obviously lives to torture me.
I’ve told myself I need to stay away from her.
That we can be friendly without being...
anything else. But honestly, I’m getting tired of fighting this attraction to her.
Of protesting it. Of pretending I haven’t fantasized about sliding my hands up her thighs and dragging her little dresses over her head.
When she finishes singing about being too good at goodbyes, she immediately starts in on a new melody. This time I don’t recognize it, and she doesn’t sing.
“I didn’t know you played the piano,” I say quietly, not really wanting to interrupt her.
She turns her head to smile at me again, her fingers still dancing effortlessly over the keys.
“I took lessons when I was a little kid, before I ever learned guitar. I didn’t retain much of it, though.
And then during the pandemic, when I wasn’t touring and couldn’t go into the studio, I bought a piano and retaught myself. ”
“You don’t play on stage, though?”
Shaking her head, she turns back to the piano.
“It doesn’t exactly fit my music. I’ve played around a bit and made piano versions of some of my slower songs.
But the one time I suggested adding them to my setlist for a tour, my manager warned me against it.
He said that’s not what people expect or want from me. ”
Even without seeing her eyes, I can tell that this upsets her. I can’t imagine not being able to do something I wanted to because I had to live up to what so many other people wanted from me.
Her hair falls into her face again as she leans over the keys. I brush it back over her shoulder, letting my fingers linger for a few extra seconds on the delicate skin where her shoulder and neck meet. She stills, but only momentarily, then she goes on playing like nothing happened.
But something is happening here between us, no matter how hard I try to resist and deny it. If she didn’t like me touching her, she would’ve moved away, right?
“What are you playing?” I ask, when she starts humming but I still don’t recognize the song.
Her fingers stop moving and she angles her body toward me. “Nothing, really. I’m just messing around. I’ve never written a song on piano first. I thought it might be nice to try, even if I can’t use it on my next album. But I don’t have any lyrics yet.”
“Keep going.” The request comes out more reverent than I intended.
Her voice is gently teasing when she says, “Are you going to help me?”
“I’m no songwriter. Afraid I won’t be much help.”
I almost miss her next words, because she turns away again and resumes playing, a bit louder now. But I’m pretty sure she says something like, “You might be the inspiration.”
As she plays, I lean in closer to her, pulled in by the music, by her talent.
By this gorgeous woman with the red hair and the shy smiles.
We’re already so close, I can smell her strawberry shampoo and the perfume she wears that’s also fruity and sweet.
Not for the first time, I wonder what it would be like to kiss her. Would she taste as sweet as she smells?
I’m aware I’m about to cross a line before I do it.
But I have to do it.
This attraction is driving me crazy, and if I can’t make it go away, then I need to give in to it.
I brush her hair back again, leaving her shoulder bare except for the thin blue strap of the dress. She gasps softly as I press my lips to her skin there, but she keeps playing.
And I need more. I need to taste her lips.
So I set two fingers on her chin, silent urging her to turn her face my way. When she does, her lips are parted slightly, and her eyes dart back and forth between my eyes and my mouth. They look more gray than blue today, but that’s probably the low lighting in the room.
Her eyes finally land on mine and hold my questioning gaze.
She still hasn’t stopped playing.
With my fingertips on her face, I lean in. But my lips barely get the chance to graze hers before she jerks away, an unpleasant note ringing out loudly as she accidentally knocks against a key.
As if the moment hasn’t been broken badly enough by her pulling away from me, the music’s abrupt end does the job too. Now there’s nothing but a loud silence, the voice in my head screaming at me that I fucked up.
I read this all wrong. She didn’t want it.
And if all I want is to fuck her and get her out of my system, then why does the rejection make my heart sink like a ball of lead into my stomach?