CHAPTER ONE
Beethoven would count out exactly sixty coffee beans each time he had a cup.
SAMANTHA
The whir of the espresso machine lures me downstairs.
I’m not naturally an early riser, especially on a Saturday, but Liam always waits for me. The food could get cold, but he’d still be there, with his newspaper and his endless patience and his deep green eyes.
He gives me a small nod in greeting.
Only the sound of foaming milk breaks the morning quiet. There’s avocado toast with walnut oil and fresh lemon juice at my place. On the other side of the table, scrambled egg whites and steamed broccoli. A ritual we’ve shared for the past six years…
And it’s going to end in a matter of weeks when I graduate high school.
When I turn eighteen. When I leave for the music tour that will take me around the country and across the globe… away from the man I’ve come to need more than I should.
“The interviewer from Classical Notes should be here at noon,” he says, handing me a steaming mug with Earl Grey and lavender and a liberal splash of cream. He would never use anything as sweet and unnecessary as cream in his own drinks, but thankfully he’s never controlled what I eat. He only controls everything else.
The reporter is doing a profile on me for the magazine. The famous child prodigy. Ugh. That’s the last thing a seventeen-year-old girl wants to be called—a child.
I’m almost an adult now, but the label follows me around.
I take a fortifying sip of the hot liquid, closing my eyes against the burn. When I open them again, Liam looks at me with a strange expression. That’s when I realize I let out a moan of pleasure. “Sounds good,” I say a little too brightly, trying to cover my embarrassment.
He clears his throat and takes a seat at the head of the table. “Right. Well. I doubt the interview will take very long. I’ll let him know you need to practice.”
A strange thrill moves through me. Defiance? Not exactly, but I feel energized all the same. He doesn’t have to protect me anymore. And soon he won’t have the right. The tour is going to change everything for me—and between us. I look forward to it as much as I dread it. “I do need to practice, but you don’t have to rush the interview.”
“Remember,” he says as if I hadn’t spoken. “You don’t have to answer anything you don’t like. If a question gets too personal, I’ll step in.”
My cheeks heat. Of course I know why he’s being so protective. There were some disastrous interviews when I was six, seven, eight years old. Daddy didn’t care to be in the room with me. Some of the questions would be inappropriate or downright aggressive. The classical music world is basically a viper’s nest, and child prodigies are regarded with a mixture of awe and distrust.
And then there was the interviewer from a national newspaper. He had been ushered into the drawing room and left alone with me for thirty uncomfortable minutes, where he coaxed me to sit on his lap and nuzzled my neck. Daddy’s aide found me crying in a closet hours later.
All of that is in the past. I’m no longer a scared little girl.
I shrug as if it doesn’t bother me. “These classical music reporters ask the same questions. Who’s my favorite composer? Who do I want to play with in the future?”
Liam’s stern expression doesn’t waver. No doubt he remembers how I had trembled before the first interview, shortly after he got custody of me. I’d brokenly shared the story with him. At the time I was too afraid that he would give me away if I didn’t tell the truth, to make anything up. So I told him about the reporter who held me on his lap. From that moment on I never did an interview alone. Liam is always there, always protecting me.
“Who do you want to play with?” he asks, his tone mild. As if he hasn’t heard me wax poetic about my favorite violinists and maestros for years.
“I should say Harry March.” He’s the celebrity tenor headlining the tour. The rest of us have notoriety only in the classical music world. Harry March, with his crossover pop songs and playboy lifestyle, is basically a household name.
“You should say whatever’s the truth,” Liam counters.
“Well, I am excited about the tour.” And I’m aware that the only reason I got the soloist spot is because the famous solo cellist on the Billboard Top 100 was Harry March’s lover—until their dramatic breakup that was covered by TMZ. “It’s an incredible opportunity, especially considering I haven’t been touring.”
My cheeks flush because I hadn’t meant to say that. It sounds like an accusation, even though it isn’t. Well, not exactly.
Liam is the reason I haven’t been touring.
“Because you wanted a well-rounded education,” he says.
“Right.” The word comes out hollow because it doesn’t really matter what I think. Or at least it didn’t matter for a long time. If Liam had said I wanted to be a circus clown, I would have gone along with it as a scared twelve-year-old girl. All I’d wanted was a place to call home.
Liam gave me that, which means more than he can ever know.
Soon I’m graduating from that well-rounded education. I’m going to turn eighteen. And then I’ll leave on the tour, walking away from the only home I’ve ever known.
LIAM
The doorbell rings at exactly noon. I like punctuality, but I’d like it even better if members of the press never spoke to Samantha Brooks again. I’ve limited their access to her greatly—maybe even to her detriment, considering press helps her get concert invitations and recording contracts.
I never planned to have children, and at the age of twenty-eight I had hardly been in a position to be the father of a twelve-year-old girl. That’s exactly what happened when a judge signed the papers giving me guardianship of Samantha. Her mother had been long gone. Her father had just died. Her brother had no interest in a sister he’d never known.
Somehow the two of us, complete and utter strangers, became a family.
The sweet strains of the violin follow me downstairs. She practices every day before school. Every day after school. Every weekend. It’s become the dew that coats every part of my life, a fresh breath of daylight in a world of dark.
It’s hard to believe that in only a few weeks the house will be silent. I steel my expression into remoteness. It isn’t the stodgy old reporter’s fault that I resent the tour that will take Samantha away from me—and the press that’s naturally a part of it.
“Hello.” A woman in a sleek suit gives me a slow smile. “You must be Liam North.”
My eyebrows rise. This isn’t an aging gentleman with white hair and a plaid sweater vest. Maybe the magazine thought a woman would be able to connect better with Samantha. The thought gives me pause. Maybe she’s been missing a female influence in her life.
Dating has been the last thing on my mind the past six years.
“That’s me.” I shake her hand. “I’m going to sit in on the interview.”
She purses ruby-red lips. “Why?”
Already this interview is going differently than the last one. The older gentleman had spent more time reminiscing about meeting Fritz Kreisler to ask too many questions. When he remembered to do the actual interview, he asked the kinds of standard questions Samantha remembered at breakfast. What routine do you have to warm up? What’s the hardest piece you’ve played?
The man hardly noticed that I was in the room except to send me a reproving glance when he asked about her schooling. Why not attend a performing arts school? Did she want to move to New York City or London where she could have more exposure to professional musicians?
“Because I’m her legal guardian,” I say, not bothering to hide the steel beneath the words.
“Does that mean she isn’t allowed to speak her mind?”