“So soft,” he barely breathed, making me melt at this unseen side of him.
His hand followed my arm down again until he reached my hand. He picked it up and rubbed his thumb over the back of my hand before threading his fingers through my own, holding them there. I wanted so badly to squeeze his grip, to let him know I knew and that it was okay, but couldn’t bring myself to ruin the amazing moment. The moment I discovered Thomas Eriksson was nothing but a fake. His river ran much deeper than I imagined, and I knew this from his careful and remarkably affectionate touch. He was a master at the game of pretend, but I knew all his secrets in this tiny slip of his guard and I planned on disarming him completely...by Paris. Careful, Thomas. I thought. I’ve got your number.
That’s when my eyes closed in sincerity. I’d never fallen asleep so easily and I had Tom to thank for that.
***
“You seem to sleep on me very easily,” Tom said, waking me.
I turned over in his lap and looked up into his face, smiling like I knew something he didn’t. “Good morning?” I asked.
“Yes, but it’s close to eleven now. We’re docking soon. Now, actually. We should be able to get to our car within the next fifteen minutes.”
I sat up and stretched, still smiling. He’d let me sleep on him the entire ferry ride.
“What?” he asked, suspicious.
“Nothing,” I said, checking my stupid grin.
People were lining up at the doors to access their cars and we followed suit. Inching closer and closer as the Dublin Swift’s employees guided everyone to their vehicles. We weren’t allowed to start our cars until they’d opened the lift to the dock so we sat in absolute silence, waiting.
“How long have you played the piano?” Tom asked, drumming his fingers on the wheel of the car.
“Since I was four...so, about fifteen years. My grandmother taught me at first when she lived in Austin, before she relocated back to Jersey.”
“Is that where you learned Cooley’s Reel?”
“Yeah, I know a bunch of silly Irish tunes like that.”
“You’re talented,” he said, making me blush to my toes.
“Thank you, but you don’t have to lie,” I teased.
“I’m not,” he bit out, very serious and startling me. “I’m not,” he repeated, softer. “You’re truly gifted, January.”
“Th-thank you,” I said, staring at him in astonishment. “So are you.”
He scoffed at that. “No, I’m not.”
“Bullshit,” I said.
“Excuse me?”
“Bull. Shit. You are talented. You forget, I knew your band before I knew you. I know who wrote all your songs. It was your name on almost every track.”
“Yeah and a fat lot of good that got me.”
“It may not have gotten you signed, but that’s the luck of the draw in my opinion. You and I both know there are a million bands out there that didn’t make it but are just as, if not more, talented than those who have. Maybe that’s why you’re here, in this car with me, waiting to see five bands in London. You know what talent really is, and you can help push it to the front of the queue with Seven.”
He dragged the side of this thumb across the top of the steering wheel and I accepted that as a form of acknowledgement.
“Besides I’m kind of glad you didn’t make it.”
“Nice, January.”
“No, really. Listen, if you had made it, I’d have never...” kissed you, “met you and wouldn’t have gotten the ultimate lesson in scouting under such awesome tutelage. Call me selfish, but I’m happy to be sitting here with you.”
He looked at me and shook his head, a tiny grin gracing his lips. Bingo.