I turn around with a professional assistant’s smile that even Ms. Kim would be proud of. “Yes.” The answer covers what I’m seeing right now, too.
Declan’s in a gray V-neck T-shirt and jeans, his clothes casual but lying perfectly over his wide shoulders and lean physique. His body has gotten even better since he took the photo for the underwear billboard. His face, too. It looks more chiseled somehow, with sharper lines and features.
My gaze drops lower. I know I have it bad when even his bare feet look sexy.
Feet are not my thing. I’ve never, ever looked at somebody’s feet and thought they looked hot. Or had my heart beat oddly like this. But now…
Suddenly feeling warm and ridiculous, I make a big deal out of looking around. The interior of the mansion is sleek, with tons of glass and chrome. High ceiling fans and recessed lights. A chandelier in the dining room. A Steinway grand piano in gleaming white. The furniture is mainly leather and glass and chrome. The interior colors are mostly pale gray and some navy blue. Almost too cool, but it shows wealth and taste in an understated way.
And I approve of the way my body returns to equilibrium. My temperature’s back to normal, and I’m not feeling that weird heart acceleration anymore. Must be first-day job nerves. And not having Ms. Kim and Mr. Choi as backup.
Declan’s phone buzzes. “Excuse me. I gotta take this.”
I nod and sit on a couch. I try not to listen to what he’s saying. If it’s important for me to know, he’ll fill me in.
But I’m fully open to his baritone voice. Smooth with just a hint of rasp, it’s very masculine. I wonder what it would be like to have that tone warm up a little. Like when he likes you on a personal level. Or when he’s attracted to you.
Maybe even turned on.
What kind of bedroom voice does he have? Some men have amazing ones—the male equivalent of a come-hither look. But most don’t…and sound ridiculous if they try. Maybe there’s a way to get Declan to read a hot sex scene from a romance novel. Just to satisfy my curiosity.
I’ll need a scene with lots of dirty talk for the experiment. And it’d be best if it was somehow tied in with work… Hmm…
Maybe he could produce audio books or something…even though that face would be wasted. His appearance is ninety percent of the appeal. It’s the first thing I noticed and probably the first thing everyone notices.
My mouth starts to tingle. Which is weird, because I’m not doing anything to it. I lift my gaze and see Declan staring at my lips, while talking about someone’s weird obsession with Russian art. He’s definitely not looking at them like they’re exquisite murals inside St. Basil’s Cathedral in Moscow. He’s gazing at them the way a man might focus on a juicy peach. Or a ripe cherry.
Shivers start at the base of my spine. The fine hair on the back of my neck bristles, and I have the most absurd wish that he would stroke the spot with his warm fingers until it’s no longer standing up.
Crap. I lick my lips and fidget a little. I’ve dealt with lots and lots of people—and half of them were men. But none of them made me feel this squirmy inside. It isn’t really uncomfortable, but it’s slightly unsettling.
To be a true artist, you must live! Experience life! Fall in love. Fall out of love. Have your heart broken. Have your heart mended. Despair. Triumph! Cry, dance and laugh.
The passionate words of my piano teacher from Curtis, Tatiana Segar, ring in my head. When she said that, I cheekily responded that I’d done all that. But now I realize I haven’t. Not really.
If I had, I wouldn’t be flustered by the way I’m feeling right now.
When Declan puts away his phone and walks toward me, I bite my lip. I need a way to regroup. I flick my eyes around, avoiding the towering, gorgeous man getting closer.
The Steinway!
“Nice piano,” I say, moving toward it to put a little distance between me and Declan.
“It isn’t bad,” he says, taking the couch I just left. He stretches his legs out, his arms resting on the back.
He looks indolent but in control. I could snap a photo with my phone right now and I’d get something fabulous to post on Instagram, no touching up or cropping required. Not that I do social media. Hae Min’s legal and PR teams have strictly forbidden the family from being active on social media. Anything we post could be twisted and misquoted, and the family or the company doesn’t need the baseless scandals that would result.
I open the lid. “Hey, it’s a SPIRIO. I didn’t know they came in white.”
“The color’s custom. Special order. I’m surprised you recognize it. The sales guy said they’re fairly new.”
“I was looking for a new piano a couple of years ago, that’s why. My salesman pushed the auto-play feature hard, although why he thought I’d want that when I can play it myself…” I shrug. “But I liked how it can capture any concert pianist’s performance and duplicate it exactly if you have an iPad with the right app.”
I look and see an iPad resting against the music rack on the Steinway. I laughed when the salesman proudly claimed the piano came with a complimentary iPad. People who can drop over two hundred thousand bucks on a piano aren’t worried about a free iPad.
“It also records and edits,” Declan says.
“I like the recording part, but not the editing part. You should practice until you can play a piece perfectly, not cheat. It’s like Photoshopping to crop twenty pounds off your belly or add twenty pounds to the bulge.”