I sink into my couch, closing my eyes. I can only ever relax when I'm here by myself, so naturally, I never have guests over. My place is a mess, but what's truly important is that it is mine. I can be myself here and I don't have to be the boss's daughter. There are no expectations.
I open my eyes and look over at the upright piano in the corner of the room. It's my pride and joy. My mother had played professionally. She'd met many famous people, including Senator Norwood, because of her talent with the keys. She was amazing. I remember her giving lessons to neighbor kids and their parent's always being so proud to have been taught by a great pianist. I'm nowhere near that good, but playing it now is my connection to her.
It's just an old upright piano, but I saved and bought it for myself. I keep all my sheet music on a small bookshelf next to it, along with Nan's Bible, just like my mom did. The piano and book make this place really feel like home for me.
I think about playing, but I'm not in the mood. I need an outside distraction. I grab my cell phone out of my purse and hold down the “2” button.
“Hello?” a sleepy sounding voice answers from the other end.
“Sara, it's me! Want to go to the piano bar?”
I hear a big yawn. “Can't. I've got an all-day photo-shoot tomorrow. I'm off the next day, though.”
“Come on, you big baby. I'll make sure you get your beauty sleep.”
“Last time you said that we ended up staying out all night. I could barely keep my eyes open the next day. Besides, the piano bar is more your thing than mine anyway.”
“But Sara-”
“I'm hanging up now. Have a great night.” I hear the line go dead.
I sigh and look over at the piano. I've got a day off tomorrow, and I can sleep until noon. I'm going to have a good time tonight.
The piano bar is crowded, but then every bar is crowded in New York. Live music, well dressed people, expensive drinks, this place has it all. I love that it's fancy here. I feel high class. I grab a seat at the bar as soon as I get inside, letting the music wash over me.
The piano is at the other side of the room, but I can already tell it isn't the usual guy at the piano tonight. Whereas the regular guy typically plays some contemporary hits but mostly “Golden Oldies” from the 60s and 70s, this guy is playing nothing but classical music. I close my eyes and listen to a piece I don't recognize, but I can tell he's pouring his entire soul into it. Either this song means something to him or he's a piano prodigy.
When the music stops and the people around me begin to clap, I clap as well, not bothering to open my eyes yet. When I do, I look at the piano player and find I'm looking into dark and serious eyes. They're attached to a handsome face on top of a tall, muscular frame. He must have noticed me as well, even though I'm dressed to blend in with a conservative dark red, sheath dress with sleeves. He stands up and starts making his way toward me. It takes me several moments, but as he gets closer and closer, I recognize that face.
The photo that Aunt Sophia showed me.
The man who doesn't know we're engaged.
And he's walking right toward me.
I almost get up and rush out the door, but instinct takes over. I smile as he approaches me.
“Did you like it?” he asks.
“Like what?” I ask back, feeling playful.
“My piano playing.”
I laugh. “Do girls often swoon over your piano playing?”
He shrugs. “It's usually a good start. Bartender.” A bartender is right there, quicker than I am ever able to get a drink. “Two of whatever she's having.”
“You sure you can afford it?” I ask, looking over his clothing. He's wearing ratty jeans and a well worn t-shirt. This is the kind of place that requi
res a tie. He is not dressed to be here.
His wry smile never leaves his face. “Maybe I own the place,” he says, completely deadpan. I laugh, but then remember what Aunt Sophia told me. Heir to the Russo family. It's entirely possible that he does own this place. He looks at me and realizes he's said too much.
“Oh really. How can that be possible when I own this place?” I ask, saving the conversation.
He relaxes, then spreads his hands out in front of him in a shrug. “You caught me. I actually just work for the competition.”
“Oooh, a spy,” I say.