"Right, King." He smirks, his eyes turning sad. "The mystery man who texts you constantly and knows all your favorite things."
"You sound jealous."
"Yes, I am." He sets his fork down, turning to face me fully. "I don't like the idea of you with someone else, even if you've never met him."
My heartbeat spikes. "Declan..."
Standing, he holds out his hand. "Come here. I want to show you something."
I take his hand, and we walk past the black and gray furniture and minimalist art hanging on the wall until we get to a gorgeous grand piano near the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. Its black surface gleams under recessed lighting.
"You play?" I ask as he leads me toward it.
"My mom insisted on lessons from age six until..." He trails off.
I remember. His parents died when he was nineteen.
"You don't have to..."
"I want to." He sits on the bench, patting the space beside him. "Sit."
I settle next to him, my thighs pressed against his. His shoulders brush my arm when he lifts his hands to the keys, sending thrills through my body.
Then he plays.
The melody is hauntingly beautiful. He plays with reverence and a tenderness I didn't know he possessed. His hands move across the keys with the same precision he uses on the ice. Butseveral emotions flow across his face as he plays: happiness, pain, sadness, satisfaction, and desire.
This is the real Declan Hawthorne.
And he's breathtaking.
The final notes fade. That's when I realize I'm crying, silent tears tracking down my cheeks.
"Ivy." He turns, concern etched across his features. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing is wrong," I say, burying my face in his shirt in embarrassment.
His hand wraps around my back as my head rests on his chest, my body getting warmer.
"That was beautiful," I say quietly. "You're beautiful."
He leans away from me, his eyes searching mine.
"You're the beautiful one. Don't you know that?"
"I'm not."
"You are." His breath is warm against my skin. "Brilliant and stubborn and so beautiful."
He brushes my hair back with his hand softly.
"Can I touch you? Really touch you?"
My mouth goes dry. "What do you mean?"
"I want to make you feel good."
I shift nervously. "I actually don't think I'm ready for sex, Dec."
