“This afternoon, while I was on a call with the CEO of our insurance company.”
I snort out a giggle. “I’m sorry I couldn’t help out earlier. But Whitney got sick, and I had to cover.”
“It’s fine, Tate. I know you have your own life.”
My own life.
Silence stretches between us. Those few words tell me more than any others could about how Sullivan sees this situation between us. That morning in his kitchen must have been a blip. Something he regrets saying out loud. He can’t take it back, but hecanact like it never happened.
I turn my eyes to the sheet of music I’ve been working on so I don’t have to look at him.
“Tate?”
“Yeah?”
“Stand up.”
I glance at him before doing as he asks. He slides onto the stool behind me and pulls me onto his lap.
“Tell me what to play,” he says softly, resting his chin on my shoulder and pressing a kiss beneath my ear.
Goosebumps run up my spine at his touch and I sink into his hold, unable to stop the way my body reacts to him.
“What do you want to play?” I ask.
“Surprise me.”
I bite my lower lip and picture the twelve paper roses he gave me that now live in my bedroom. He says he knows each classical piece by heart. But there are some especially difficult versions in the bouquet. Ones that even the most accomplished pianist would struggle with.
“How about…” The hairs on my arms prick to attention as his warm breath coasts over my neck with more kisses. “How about Chopin’sEtude?”
“Hmm. Good choice.” He kisses me again, sliding his long fingers onto the ivory keys.
His face stays buried in my neck, and he presses kiss after kiss to my skin, barely concentrating on what his hands are doing. Yet he hits each note with precision, playing the piece more beautifully than I’ve ever heard it. My heart is in my throat as I sit, entranced. When he plays the final notes, I blink away the mist threatening to take over my eyes.
“Moonlight Sonata,” I say, naming another song from the bouquet.
He plays the second song with the same skilled ease as the first, his lips sliding up and down my neck like he can’t bear to let them leave my skin.
The final notes of the song that sounded so beautiful when I heard The Masked Maestro play it in Grand Central Station ring out, just as beautiful. Like a twin echo of that night.
I slide my hands forward, over the backs of his until our fingers sandwich together.
“Will you play one more?” I ask.
I feel his smile against my neck. “For you, I’ll play anything.”
“PlayUnstoppable,” I whisper.
His hands tense beneath mine and he pauses.
“I don’t know that one, Baby,” he says, resuming his kisses.
I swallow, something pulling at my gut. He’s lying. I know he is.
“You know when I went on that date with Vincent?” I ask.
Sullivan grunts. “I recall.”
