His grin widens, pure trouble. “With a game.” He leans forward. “I’ll suggest activities that’ll push your boundaries, things I think will help you grow. But here’s the catch—you have to consider each one. If it doesn’t feel right, you say no. No guilt, no explanations needed.”
“That sounds… challenging.” Although I said the word challenging out loud, the wordterrifyingis clanging in my head like cymbals.
“That’s the point,” Nyxx grins. “You need to learn to trust your instincts, to figure out whatAnawants, not what everyone else expects of you.”
Butterflies dance in my stomach, but I nod. “Okay. I’m in, but… can I start by asking you to call me Anastasia?”
He looks stunned.
“I thought I was teasing you, Anastasia, but I overstepped your boundaries.” He chews on this silently for a moment, a crease in his brow. “My apologies.”
The simplicity hits harder than any grand gesture. Admit you’re wrong, apologize, and move on. He makes it look effortless. I file the technique away for later.
“Ready?” Nyxx rubs his palms together like a mad scientist. “First challenge: let’s rearrange the living room furniture. Completely change the energy of the space.”
My initial instinct is to refuse. The thought of disrupting the carefully arranged room makes me uneasy. It’s not my space. I paid a security deposit… well I suppose we both did. But as I consider it, a small thrill runs through me. “You know what? Yes. Let’s do it.”
Nyxx’s eyes light up. “That’s the spirit!”
For the next hour, we push and pull furniture, debating placement and laughing at our increasingly ridiculoussuggestions. By the time we’re done, the room feels completely different—cozier, more lived-in. I love the change.
“How’d that feel?” Nyxx asks as we plop next to each other on the sofa that now has an amazing view of the gazebo on the other side of the sliding door.
“I’m embarrassed to admit how good it feels to take charge of my space. I never would have considered it before I met you.”
His eyes narrow as he asks, “Am I mistaken, or did Anastasia Ashcroft just give me a little compliment?”
“You’re mistaken… it was abigcompliment.”
Our gazes meet, and something unspoken hums between us—half amusement, half tension. He doesn’t move closer, but I swear the air does.
“Next up,” Nyxx says, with a mischievous glint in his eye, “how about we prank call that stuffy conductor you complained about?”
My heart races at the thought. It’s tempting—I’ve certainly had moments where I’ve wanted to get back at Maestro Grimaldi for his constant criticisms and nitpicking. But something doesn’t sit right.
Ignoring my urge to comply with Nyxx’s directive, I don’t give an immediate response, giving the challenge ample thought as I consider the possible consequences, weighing the cost-benefitratio. Most importantly, I consult my emotions—something I rarely do.
“I… I don’t think so, Nyxx. It feels mean-spirited. It wouldn’t sit right with me.”
I brace myself for his disappointment, but his face breaks into a wide grin. “Exactly. You thought about it, checked your gut, and said no. That was brave. I’m proud of you.”
The words shouldn’t mean so much, but they do. I’ve been called disciplined, talented, even brilliant—but neverbrave.
For years, I’ve dated men who liked my precision but not my passion. They admired my control, not realizing it was the very thing that kept them at a distance.
Nyxx is different. He moves through life like a storm yet somehow makes room for me to breathe. For all his swagger, he’s taking this slower—and sweeter—than anyone ever has.
And that scares me more than the thought of playing a wrong note in public.
I take a steadying breath, meeting his gaze again. “Thank you. It feels… good to make these decisions for myself.”
“Now for the big challenge.” Nyxx’s tone has turned serious. “I’ve been saving this for last. Do just what you did for the last question—don’t answer right away. Consider it thoughtfully.”
He pauses, giving me just enough time for butterflies to riot in my stomach. “Perform in the town square. Completely improvised. No sheet music, no plan. Just you.”
My stomach drops, squeezing as though it’s caught in a vise. I clap my hand over my mouth to curb my initial impulse, which is to blurt out a refusal. Then I drop my hand to speak anyway. “What?! Nyxx, I can’t possibly—”
He raises a hand. “That’s your instinct talking. Give it a minute.”
