“I don’t anymore,” she said. “I had Lasik done a couple of years ago. That picture is old.”
“That would explain why you look about twelve years old in it.” The braids on either side of her freckled face didn’t make her look any more mature.
She stuck her tongue out at him, and he chuckled.
“You still look twelve when you do that.”
“I feel twelve sitting up here on the counter while you put Band-Aids on my booboos.”
“It says not to bandage it,” he said as he slopped on the baking soda paste he’d mixed.
A relieved sigh escaped her.
“That feels much better,” she said. “I don’t think he got me very good.”
“If I hadn’t upset you, he wouldn’t have gotten you at all.” He looked up from the white, goopy mess on her ankle and held her gaze. “If you don’t want to talk about what happened earlier, we can ignore it. I’m really good at ignoring things that bother me.” At least outwardly. Inwardly, his little slip would continue to eat at him for as long as the situation remained unresolved. He had hoped not to continue to make the mistake of internalizing his troubles while he was with Dawn. He wanted an open, honest relationship with her. He longed for the feelings developing between them to flourish and to last, but he did find it easier not to put all of his thoughts out in the open. “But I don’t think we want this to stand between us.”
“Are . . .” She pulled her gaze from his and stared over his head. “Are you going to do anything about your attraction to him?”
His attraction to Owen was one of those things Kellen had been ignoring—and denying—for a couple of years now. He was certain that Owen was just being Owen and trying to help out his mixed-up, celibate friend with the occasional hand job, and Kellen didn’t want to upset their friendship by putting his attraction—an attraction Owen did not share—out in the open. Kellen thought plenty of women were sexy, but that didn’t mean he had to act on those attractions. So he didn’t have to act on the strange desire he had for Owen either. Wanting someone was not the same as actively pursuing that want.
“No,” he said. “You’re the only person I’m going to do. I’m the most faithful man you’ll ever know.” He’d been faithful to Sara even years after she’d passed. Being faithful to the beautiful, delightful, sexy, and very much alive Dawn O’Reilly would be easy in comparison.
“But you’ll tell him about your feelings, right?” she said. “What if he’s attracted to you too?”
“It doesn’t matter. Nothing of a serious romantic nature will ever progress between Owen and me. Not ever. You have my word.”
She didn’t look convinced.
“But if you’re hung up on him, like you’ve been hung up on Sara, you won’t be able to concentrate your full attention on me. On us. There is an us, isn’t there?”
Her hopeful expression made his throat tighten. He rose from his crouched position at her feet and shifted between her splayed legs, wanting to be closer to her. He couldn’t stand that there was any distance between them, physical or emotional.
“There’s an us,” he said. “There’s definitely an us. And it’s wonderful.”
Her smile was a little hesitant, but she didn’t resist when he leaned in and stole a passionate kiss from her soft lips.
“It’s getting late,” she said. “Do you want to go out for dinner or stay in?”
“Will you make me French toast?”
“I think I can handle that.”
“Then I definitely want to stay in.”
“I figured you’d want a corn dog from the gas station.”
He curled his lip in disgust. “I’d rather eat sand.”
He helped her off the counter, stealing another kiss before he let her go, and then joined her in the kitchen. He secretly wanted her recipe just in case she decided he wasn’t worth the trouble and he was forced to live without her. He imagined he’d spend the rest of his life putting on the pounds as he ate her French toast and reminisced about their time together.
“What are you thinking about?” she asked as she searched her collection of homemade bread for a mold-free loaf. “I’m going to have to make some bread,” she said as she discovered all loaves but one were inedible. “Unless you’re taking me out for breakfast in the morning.”
“I’d like to watch you bake,” he said. That was his stomach talking.
“And I’d like to watch you grill. Do you barbeque?”
“I do at home.”
“Which is next door,” she said. “You have a grill under the deck. I saw it.”
Next door. He’d almost forgotten it existed.
“We can go grocery shopping tomorrow morning. I’ll grill steaks. Do you like steak?”
“I love steak.”
This felt like making future plans, and he had to admit looking forward instead of backward felt good. And maybe they’d dine at Sara’s house—his house—and he wouldn’t feel like he was desecrating a shrine.
Chapter Ten
Pulled from a wonderful dream by the ring of her phone, Dawn lifted the annoying device and scowled at her caller ID. It was barely Sunday—wasn’t she allowed an entire weekend off? She’d met her deadline, what more did Wes want from her? She considered not answering, but couldn’t help but wonder what the movie studio thought of the song. It was probably too soon for them to have an opinion about “Blue,” she told herself, still not sure if she was answering on the third ring. Maybe the fax of the music scores hadn’t gone through or . . . .
“Hello,” she answered.
“Hey, kiddo. Sorry to bother you at this hour, but I need you to come back to L.A. before you head to Prague on Wednesday.”
“I leave for Prague on Wednesday?” That was too soon. She’d been so busy enjoying Kellen that she hadn’t even practiced her program. Shit!
“Actually, you leave Tuesday night. Your performance is Wednesday.”
Double shit!
“My flight is out of Houston, isn’t it?” She wasn’t even sure. She really needed to hire a good personal assistant. Especially now that her thoughts were muddled with great sex and magnificent company. Kellen stirred beside her, his hand reaching across the bed to rest on her bare thigh, but he didn’t open his eyes. After they’d finished their French toast, he’d seemed determined to demonstrate that he’d only be calling her name in ecstasy from that night forward.
“Why do you need me in L.A.?”
“The movie executives listened to your song and want to meet you in person as soon as possible.”
“Oh,” she said flatly. They must have thousands of ideas on how to improve the score and as she was under contract, she was obligated to alter the song to suit their needs. It was the worst part about getting paid for her music, second only to those dreaded deadlines.
“They loved it, by the way. Don’t sound so discouraged.”
“If they loved it, why do they want to meet in person?” A movie executive had never asked to meet her in person. She’d never even met the producer or director of Ashen Falls until after she’d won the Grammy for the closing credits song.
“Because you’re a star, sweetheart. Everyone wants to meet stars.”
Dawn snorted. “Me? A star? I might be sleeping with one, but—”
Wes’s bark of laughter cut her off. “When are you going to figure this out, kid? You are a star. You might not be in the spotlight, but your music is known. People will hear it and think of you and not even know who they’re thinking of.”
“Right. So I’m not a star.”
Wes sighed so loud, she couldn’t help but chuckle.
“Will you just get your ass to L.A.? I’ll have Glenda rearrange your travel plans so you can make your flight to Prague on time.”
“Fine,” she said. “I suppose I won’t be able to catch the Sole Regret show on Monday night, then.”
Now it was Wes’s turn to chuckle. “You really are a band groupie, aren’t you?”
She stroked a long lock of silky black hair from Kellen’s bronze shoulder. “Just for their guitarist.”
Wes laughed again. “Good for you.”
“And, Wes?”
“Yeah, kiddo?”
“You wouldn’t happen to have my program for the Prague show, would you?”
“You haven’t been rehearsing?”
Her face went hot. She should have been practicing for the past few weeks, but first her writer’s block had interrupted her schedule and now she had much better prospects taking over her time. “Of course I have,” she lied. “I just want to make sure I’ve been practicing the right pieces.”
“I’ll have Glenda email it to you in the morning.”
“Probably best if I get that email tonight.”
“You haven’t been practicing at all, have you?”
“I’d planned to rehearse this weekend, but I’ve been preoccupied.”
“With that guitarist.”
Dawn ran a finger along Kellen’s shoulder. He was definitely a preoccupation.
“Yeah.”
“Is he what got you over your writer’s block?”
“Yep.”
“Then I won’t scold you, but you’d better start practicing.”
“I know every note,” she said. Chopin was her favorite composer. She’d played every piece of piano music he’d ever written hundreds of times. But she could definitely use a refresher. She loved Prague and wouldn’t want to disappoint her fans. She laughed at herself for even thinking of them that way.
“Do you still want your career divided into performances and composing? Because if you want to give up performing to concentrate on—”
“No,” she blurted. She needed to perform. She needed the attentive audience and the applause. She didn’t get that from composing. “Performances pay my bills.” They did, but that wasn’t really why she needed to perform. “I can’t say the same for my composing.”
“You might think differently come Monday evening. You know I’m here to guide you, whatever you decide.”
Her heart thudded and began to race. “What are you saying, Wes? What’s this meeting about?”
“Your future. If you so choose.” Wes chuckled. “I promised not to spill the beans—what few they gave me—so I’m hanging up now.”
“Wes?”
“I’ll email the set list to you.”
“Wes! What’s the meeting about?”
“Get your fill of that guitarist,” he said. “You might be too busy to see him for a while.”
The phone went silent as Wes disconnected.
Thousands of thoughts swirled through her head as she waited for Wes’s email. Maybe he’d offer her further clues about the upcoming meeting with the movie executives.
Movie executives? She couldn’t begin to fathom why they’d want to meet with her in the first place. And what had Wes meant about her being able to choose between performances and composing? Composing took forever and the payoff was small in comparison to her performances, which took little time and had a huge payoff. If she could make a living at composing would she want to stop performing? Not entirely, but maybe she’d accept fewer invitations. And, and how could Kellen sleep at a time like this?
She grabbed a pillow and hit him in the back. He squeezed his eyelids tighter and rolled from his stomach to his side.
“Hey, sleepyhead, my agent just called. The movie executives liked the song.”
“Of course they did,” he mumbled. “It’s a masterpiece.”
“But they want to meet with me tomorrow. Why do they want to meet with me?”
“Because you’re a star. Everyone wants to meet stars.”
Dawn rolled her eyes. “You sound like Wes. I’m not a star. You’re a star.”
“I’m a flicker to your supernova.”
She squeaked in surprise when his arm looped around her belly and he pulled her down onto the mattress beside him. “Come here, supernova. I’ve got the sudden need to be caught in your explosion.”
She laughed. “Sometimes you say the corniest things.”
Chapter Eleven
Kellen woke to the beautiful sound of stirring piano music. He rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling, his gaze unfocused as he let the sound wash over him. It wasn’t an original Dawn O’Reilly composition—the sequence of notes wasn’t arousing enough to be hers—but she was the one playing the piano piece that filled the house with music. He’d know that tone, that skill, anywhere, even if he’d had to pick her playing out of a thousand virtuosos. He could tell it was her by the aggression of her playing, the way one note blended seamlessly into the next, and the way shivers raced down his spine each time she transitioned into a new stanza. She was a rare artist. He could have listened to her play all day or all night. The inky darkness outside gave no hint to the time, but it had to be either very late or incredibly early.
When the music ended, he took a deep breath and held it, anticipating more. Longing for more. When the first note of the next song greeted his ears, a spasm clenched his abdomen and he released a tortured gasp. Lord, what her playing did to him. He’d never been a huge fan of classical piano until Dawn.
At the end of the next song, the piano fell silent and he waited in breathless anticipation for the next to begin. When it didn’t start at once, he sat up in the bed. When minutes passed and he heard nothing but the muted sounds of the crashing waves outside, he climbed from the mattress and padded to the upper landing, straining for sounds of her. He took the steps slowly, one at a time, listening. When an almost imperceptible tinkling of the piano keys greeted his ears, he paused about halfway down the stairs. He stood there for a long moment, letting the slowly building music wash over him, and when the bones went out of his legs, he sat right there on the stairs, closed his eyes, and relaxed into her sound. Rock music invigorated him, and he’d always be a fan, but this . . . this music, this sound, made him feel something deeper, something magical, some connection outside of himself.
He almost wished he wasn’t currently on tour so he could follow her to Prague and watch her perform. Would it be difficult to sit among an audience who would be as enraptured by her as he was? Or would it make him proud that she’d chosen him? That he knew her. That he’d touched her, kissed her, made love to her.
When that piece ended, he heard her sigh.
“Again, Dawn,” she said, as if coaching herself. She played the same piece over from the start, and if it was any different from her first run-through, his ear wasn’t trained well enough to pick up any variances. She paused about halfway through a particularly rapid series of notes and played the same measures again and again before finally moving on. She was trying to improve upon perfection, he realized, when as far as he was concerned, no improvements were possible.
At the end of the piece, Dawn grumbled, “Stop thinking about him and focus, Dawn.”
Kellen grinned—hoping the distraction she referred to was himself—and rose from the steps, hurrying to make it to the piano before she started playing her next piece and made him weak in the knees once more.
He paused behind her bench, and her body stiffened. He knew he hadn’t made a sound as he’d crossed the tile floor barefoot, but she obviously sensed his presence since she turned.
“Did I wake you?” she asked, the low light of a nearby lamp casting gold over the deep red waves of her hair. “What am I saying? Of course I woke you, banging on the piano at four a.m. I’m sorry. Maybe you should go to your place to sleep. I really need to practice.”
“I’d rather stay,” he said. “If it won’t disturb you.”
“Disturb me? I’m the one doing the disturbing here.”
He smiled. “That’s not the word I’d use for what you were doing. Entertaining. Enchanting. Enrapturing. But not disturbing.”