“Yeah,” he says softly. “That too.”
“Okay, so I got a little…starstruck. But I still think you’re a pain in the ass.”
“Promise?” The worry in his voice, his eyes, has me squeezing his hand again.
“My dad was a studio guitarist,” I tell him. “Played backup in recording sessions for a lot of huge bands in the nineties.” Killian jerks up in surprise, but I forge on before he can speak. “My mom was a backup singer. That’s how they met.”
“Hell, that’s awesome.”
“Yeah, they thought so.” I still do.
The sun rose and set on Mom and Dad. They’d do a duet, and joy would flood me. Music has always been a part of my life. A way to communicate. Silence entered my world when they died.
Emptiness threatens to pull me under. I focus on the present. “Thing is, Dad was always around famous people. He never gave it much thought. It was talent he respected—and a good work ethic. But one day, David Bowie came in for a session, and my dad literally fell off his seat. Couldn’t play for shit, he was so overwhelmed. Because Bowie was an idol to him.”
Killian chuckles. “I can see that.”
“You ever meet anyone you’d been a fan of?” I ask him.
“So many,” he admits. “Eddie Vedder was a big one. I think I grinned like an idiot for an hour. He’s a cool guy. Down-to-earth.”
“Well, there you go. You’re my Bowie, my Eddie Vedder.”
I start to pull away, but he gives my hand a little tug, and I finally see the twinkle in his eyes. “You like me better than Eddie.”
“Whatever you say, hon.”
But he’s right. I’m beginning to think I like him more than anyone.
Killian asks for a second slice of pie as we spread out on the floor and sort through Dad’s old records. I’m determined not to act like a nut anymore.
We listen to Django Reinhardt, one of my dad’s favorites.
“You know he only had use of three fingers on his left hand,” I tell Killian as we bop our heads to “Limehouse Blues.”
“One of the greatest guitar players of all time,” Killian says, then pulls out another album from the stack I’ve set on the rug between us. “Purple Rain. Now, talk about a fucking brilliant guitarist. Prince was a monster, just so…effortless but with such badass soul.”
Resting my head in my hand, I smile up at him. “You ever seen the actual album?”
His dark brow quirks. “No.”
My smile grows as he slips the record out of its sleeve and his eyes go wide. “It’s fucking purple!”
The way his deep voice almost squeaks makes me laugh. “Yeah. I had the same reaction when I was eight and found it. My dad totally yelled at me when he caught me using it as a tea tray for my dolls.”
Carefully, Killian tucks the purple record back into its sleeve. “I think it’s awesome that you grew up with music that way. My family appreciated it, but not with the same consuming love I had.”
I hum an acknowledgement but sorrow holds my tongue. Life has been so silent since my parents died. Too silent. I never really thought about how I turned my back on the simple joy of loving music, and how badly that has affected me.
I’m so distracted by my own thoughts that I don’t see Killian reach for the black file box until he’s already opening it.
“No, don’t—” My words die as he lifts up the battered ream of paper.
His gaze darts over the first page. “What’s this?”
Kill me now. Just take me out back and shoot me. Heat pushes through my flesh with a thick, uncomfortable fist. “Nothing. Just scribbles.”
I make an attempt to grab the stack, but he easily evades me by sticking out one of his freakishly long arms and holding my shoulder with his freakish strength.
“Hold up.” A smile starts pulling at his lips, and he uses a thumb to riffle through a few of the top pages. “These are songs.” Dark eyes flick up to meet mine. A twinkle of surprise lights his expression. “Your songs.”
“How do you know they’re mine—”
“You put your name on the top of each.”
I flop back on the floor and cover my eyes with my forearm. “They were private.”
Silence greets me, but I don’t dare look. I’m so exposed now. Worse than being naked. Getting naked with Killian would at least result in pleasure. This? Torture. I swallow hard and grit my teeth.
The floor creaks, and I feel his warmth. His touch is gentle as he lifts my arm from my face and grins down at me. “These are fucking great. Why are you embarrassed?”
“You just read the equivalent of my diary. Why wouldn’t I be embarrassed?”
“You’re right. I’m sorry.”
“Funny, you don’t look at all sorry.”
He bites his bottom lip, clearly trying to rein in his glee. “Well, when I stumble across a diary like this?” He holds my stack of songs a little higher. “How could I be? It’s like finding a unicorn.”