Chapter
Two
IVY
Afire crackles in the hearth, a warm glow cast across rustic floors and a large burgundy Persian carpet.
Reed mutters, pacing, “Ivy Callahan.”
He stands a good six-two or so. But my first impression is of his hands.
You can tell a lot about a person by their hands. His are lean and long-fingered. The hands of a violinist and pianist—elegant but calloused. No doubt from a life scraped together on this mountain.
He ruffles his dark hair, subtly streaked with silver at the temples, then runs a hand over his well-trimmed beard pensively.
His deep-set brown eyes don’t look like they miss anything. Though he wears flannel and worn denim, he still carries himself like a conductor.
“Yes,” I say, because I don’t know what else will work. His eyes drop then to the bag in one hand and the violin case in the other.
He crosses his arms across his chest, face hard and appraising.
“I didn’t mean my arrival to come as a surprise, but you never answered my letter,” I explain.
His shoulders stiffen. “Your letter?” His jaw tenses, his hand pausing mid-motion.
“Did I say something wrong?” I ask.
He looks away, his face brooding. Instead of an answer, he mutters something unintelligible under his breath.
“The premiere,” I remind.
His eyes flicker. “There is no premiere.”
My cheeks flush.
“At least, not for me.”
I knew he would be resistant. But I didn’t expect him to bethis. A stern wall of muscle, unwilling to bend. Infuriating… and gorgeous all at once. Haunted and brooding, like all the best artists are.
“The Mountain Music Festival begins in five days.”
“I’m aware,” he growls.
“They’re holding a place on the program.”
“For whom?”
“For you.”
“You assume a great deal.”
The air thins slightly in my chest. “That’s why I wrote to you. So it wouldn’t be an assumption.”
“So you say.” His expression remains unchanged, his voice tepid. But he can’t hide the spark of recognition.
I ask, “Why didn’t you answer?”
“I receive a great deal of mail.”
