“Romantic? Really?”
“Why do you sound surprised?” she asked, peering up at him.
He grinned wryly. “It’s just not a descriptor I’ve heard applied to me or anything I do much.”
“It’s the right word,” she said simply. “Do you have any recordings of you playing?”
“As a matter of fact I do. We have a couple recording studios at TalentNet.”
“Do you think I could have one?”
“Sure . . . if you really want it,” he said doubtfully.
“I do. I’m not flattering you. I really loved it. It was sort of . . . sweeping, what you were playing, like the score for an epic movie or something. Just listening to it made me—”
She swallowed thickly, overwhelmed for a moment. She’d stood at the bottom of the stairs and listened in awe for breathless minutes, the notes flowing down the stairs carrying her spirit like a rapid stream. A sharp longing had expanded in her chest cavity, hearing him play. She felt it again, lying there while Trey held her.
She felt his fingers beneath her chin and she looked up to meet his stare reluctantly.
“It made you what?” he asked.
“Feel,” she whispered hesitantly, her gaze flickering up furtively to his face.
For a moment, he just studied her soberly. Then he leaned forward and kissed her mouth so tenderly that, to Eleanor, it felt like a silent blessing.
—
After that, they lay quietly for a while, both of them awake, both of them thoughtful. Eleanor grew warm and extremely content in the circle of his arms, inhaling his singular scent, feeling his strong, slow heartbeat against her cheek.
Her stomach growled loudly. Trey laughed and reached down to stroke her belly.
“I knew you didn’t eat enough at dinner,” he said gruffly.
She lifted her head from his chest. “Let’s go raid the fridge,” she proposed excitedly.
“Of Catherine the Great’s feast?”
“We should eat some of it. I haven’t touched any since she gave it to me. She makes enough food for an army.” She threw back the covers. “My mother drives me crazy sometimes, but her cooking makes up for it. And that’s saying something.”
He dragged on his jeans. She threw on the shirt she’d worn for the striptease.
While she heated up the food, Trey wandered out of the kitchen. After a moment, a feeling of trepidation snuck into her awareness. She tried to pin down why she suddenly felt so anxious, and it came to her.
Her living room was dimly lit, but there were some family photos over in the far bookcase by the window. If Trey saw them, he’d probably ask her questions.
She hadn’t ever mentioned Caddy to him. Was that because of everything her mother and Jimmy had insinuated about her recent liberated, bold behavior relating to Caddy’s abrupt death? What if all of it—including this thing she had going on with Trey—was due to her mourning Caddy?
What if she really was, as her mother insinuated, grieving unnaturally? What if she was exhibiting some kind of intimacy issue? She wished Trey had never said that dreaded phrase. It sounded like some kind of incurable, chronic illness.
She wouldn’t let it get to her. She wasn’t ready to broach the topic of Caddy yet with Trey. Not when things between them were getting so amazing. She hastened out of the kitchen, hoping to distract him from the photos by telling him the food was ready. She came to a halt when she reached the living room. Her secret was safe. He hadn’t gotten to the far side of the room, where the photos were. Instead, he was somberly examining the contents of a near bookcase. The dim light from the hallway gilded his lean, cut torso and rounded, dense shoulder and arm muscles. For a few seconds, she just soaked in the miracle of him being just feet away, peering at her book collection.
He glanced aside, noticing her as he pulled a book from the shelf.
“Pride and Prejudice,” he said, walking toward her. “A very well-read copy of Pride and Prejudice.”
“It’s one of my favorites,” she admitted. “I was shocked to see you reading it at the event.”
“Were you?” he asked gruffly, leaning down to brush his lips against her temple. She shivered in pleasure and looked up at him.