I didn't mention it. Felt too private. But I noticed the way he'd positioned it—not displayed prominently, but not hidden either. A reminder he wasn't ready to let go of.
Then I saw the piano.
It sat in an alcove near the windows, a baby grand in glossy black, beautiful and intimidating. "You play?"
"I used to."
"This isn't a 'used to' piano. This is a 'still owns and keeps in pristine condition' piano."
"I don't play anymore."
"Why not?"
He didn't answer. I let the silence stretch, watching him not look at the piano with an intensity that said more than words would.
"Fine." I turned away from the instrument. "Keepyour secrets. But just so you know, I'm judging you for letting a gorgeous instrument collect dust."
"I challenge you to find a single speck of dust on that piano," he returned with a subtle smile because he knew this place was pristine.
I finished my loop, ending back in the living area. "Verdict: your apartment is beautiful and soulless, you need more color and less organizational systems, and the piano thing is going to bother me until you explain it."
"I'll add those to my list of concerns." He nodded toward the hallway. "Shower's that way. I'll find you clothes."
"You have women's clothes just lying around?"
"I have t-shirts and sweatpants. Unless you'd prefer to stay in your current outfit."
I looked down at my coffee-stained, damp disaster of a shirt. "Point taken."
The bathroom was predictably immaculate—white towels, expensive products, a shower with more settings than my car's dashboard. I stood under water that was probably filtered through angel tears and tried not to think about the fact that I was naked in Callum Hayes's apartment.
Didn't work. Thought about it anyway.
When I emerged, wrapped in a towel that was softer than my entire bed, I found clothes folded on theguest bed. Gray t-shirt, black sweatpants, both obviously his. I pulled them on. The shirt hung past my thighs. The sweatpants required rolling three times at the waist and still pooled around my ankles.
I looked ridiculous.
I kind of loved it.
I padded back to the kitchen, where Callum stood at the stove, stirring something that smelled incredible.
"You cook," I said.
He glanced over his shoulder, and I watched his gaze travel down my borrowed outfit before snapping back to my face. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
"I eat. Cooking is a prerequisite."
"I assumed you survived on protein shakes and ambition."
"That's Tuesdays." He turned back to the stove. "Pasta okay?"
"Pasta is always okay. I'm not a monster."
I hoisted myself onto his kitchen island, my butt landing on cool marble, and watched him cook. God, he was hot. The epitome of the sexy bachelor, just doing his thing and being effortlessly delicious while he whipped up culinary greatness for a table of one.
The loneliness of it hit me harder than I expected. Callum sat in this big, beautiful, soulless museum and ate his meals alone. I mean, I ate alone too, but I wassurrounded by chaos, which somehow made me feel less isolated.
"How long have you lived here?" I asked.
