Page 28 of Saving Stella

“Go and take care of your stuff,” he urged. “I’ll take care of things here.”

“Thanks, Cliff, you’re the best. Enjoy the dinner, by the way. Bye!”

Lowering his phone to his side, Cliff let out a groan. After the tour, he was supposed to bring her to Petite Louve, a French Restaurant in Soho helmed by a Lycan chef.

Fuck me.

With a huff, he spun around the bench so he faced the piano, planted his elbows on the upright piano’s lid, then buried his face in his hands.

It was bad enough he had to follow her around for the last hour or so, but now he had to take her to a restaurant, just the two of them, like it was a romantic dinner? How was he going to get through it?

Lifting his head from his hands, he placed his palms on the piano’s lid. He smoothed his fingers over the surface. The smell of polish and the feel of the shiny wood under his fingertips reminded him of when he was a child. His mother, of course, had insisted he take piano lessons when he was younger, which he did for two years between the ages of five and seven, but stopped when he had his first judo lesson. Evie never resented her son’s loss of interest in the instrument as it was obvious he much preferred going to the dojo than to music class. But he often wondered if his mother had been disappointed he didn’t stick to it.

Slowly, he lifted the lid and placed his fingers on the keys. The weight of the ivory felt much lighter now under his large fingers, and the C note came down with a loud twang. Flexing his fingers, he tried again, trying not to press down too hard. He hadn’t sat down in front of a piano in more than twenty years, so he wondered if he could still remember how to play.

Searching his mind, he recalled one of his favorite pieces. The title escaped his mind, but the melody lingered somewhere deep in his brain. The first note was C, then an E.

His fingers tripped over the keys as they remembered them to be much bigger and farther apart. After a few tries though, he managed a few bars, but couldn’t remember the rest.

“You play?”

His forefinger hit a sour note when he heard Stella’s voice, then he slammed the lid down. “I … a long time ago.”

“Minuet in C by Mozart. That was at least a grade one exam piece.” She appeared by his side. “How long did you take lessons?”

“I dunno. Two years? My mom made me take them.”

“Your mom—oh.” She covered her hand with her mouth. “I’m so sorry.”

Glancing up at her, he saw genuine embarrassment on her face. “Sorry? What for?”

“Er, what I said earlier. About this being boring for you and implying you didn’t know anything about classical music.” As her cheeks pinkened, she covered her entire face with her hands. “Your mom is Evie King, your sister told me. You’ve probably been here dozens of times.”

The corner of his mouth tugged up. “Only twice.”

She groaned and turned to face away from him. “Oh Lord. I’m so embarrassed right now.”

“Hey …” Standing up, he placed a hand on her elbow and gently turned her around. “No need for that. It’s fine, really. You’re right, I do find this classical music shit boring. I haven’t sat in front of a piano for more than twenty years.”

Lowering her hands, she glanced up shyly at him, those sky-blue eyes piercing right into his soul. “Really? But you sounded good. For someone who hasn’t played in a long time, I mean.”

He laughed. “Thank you. My hands kinda remember where to go, but my fingers think I’m still six years old.”

“I understand,” she said with a soft chuckle. “I think it’s great your mom started you out early. The younger you are, the more you remember.” Reaching over to the piano, she lifted the lid. “I bet you could finish the whole piece, it’s only one page.”

“I don’t think?—”

“C’mon.” She flashed him the brightest, most arresting smile he’d ever seen, and he found himself unable to protest or resist as she sat him down. “Just give it a try.”

“All right, but don’t blame me when your ears start bleeding.”

A small laugh escaped her lips. “You can do it. I believe in you.”

Once again, he placed his hands on the piano keys and played the first few bars. There was a particularly tricky section of arpeggio notes that he kept messing up. He tried three times, but his fingers refused to follow his brain’s directions.

“Don’t stress. Do it slowly a few times first, then try it in tempo.” She placed a hand on his shoulder. The touch was gentle, but it had his fingers tumbling once again, though for a different reason.

Concentrate on playing, he told his brain, fingers—and dick.