Listening to her more sensible self, Bo pulled out one of her least revealing dresses. It was a simple summer cotton in a dark grey —because this isn’t a date —and after zipping the dress at the back, she pulled her hair up and out of the way, pinning it in place. She applied a scant layer of make-up, the barest amount just to accentuate the blue of her eyes and the fullness of her lips —even though this isn’t a date —and then, before she could think the better of it, she sprayed perfume on her wrists —even though it definitely, absolutely and completely isn’t a date.It was a lightly floral scent that her sister had chosen for her, sweetwithout being cloying, and Bo could smell it as she walked up the garden towards the house.
She stopped at the sliding doors of the kitchen though, abruptly feeling unsure. When it had been Geoffrey’s home she’d always just walked in, kicking off her shoes by the welcome mat and making herself comfortable. She couldn’t very well do that now that it was Max’s home though. So, she tapped quietly on the glass doors, hoping Max would hear her and let her in. She wanted him to see that she could respect the professional boundaries between them; wanted him to see that she knew when a line had been drawn in the sand and that she understood not to kick at it with her feet.
Max didn’t answer his door though, and nor could Bo see him through the glass in the kitchen. Frowning, she tapped again, louder this time, but still there was no response.
Well, this is awkward.You’re standing here in a dress, with perfume and make-up on — even though this is one hundred per cent not a date — and even if it was a date, the man in question doesn’t appear to be home. He’s clearly forgotten about you and gone out.
Trying the handle, Bo found to her surprise that it was unlocked, same as it had been when Geoffrey was still alive. She slid the door open warily.
“Max?” she called out, but from the kitchen there was quiet. “Max, are you home?”
The kitchen looked untouched. There was no wine open on the table — because it wasn’t a date — and no cutlery or plates laid out either. Bo felt the stirrings of worry within her, and she glanced at the home screen of her phone, just to make sure she had full reception and could make an emergency phone call if necessary.
Oh God, please don’t let him have fallen in the bathroom or fainted in the bedroom or tripped over one of the boxes ofGeoffrey’s books in the hallway,she prayed.I don’t want to go back to Cavendish, Crags and Clerk for another will reading. They’ll all look at me suspiciously and nickname me the Black Widow of Orchard Drive or something.
Before Bo’s imagination could really run away with her though, she heard it. In the distance, the sound of piano playing. The study, she realized. Max was in the study, playing his piano. He wasn’t dead on the bathroom floor or prostrate with twisted limbs over a signed copy ofThe Downing Street Yearsby Margaret Thatcher. Relief poured through her as she tiptoed towards the music, uncertain again as to whether she should disturb Max or let him carry on. Was he one of those tortured genius types, wedded to his art? Bo wasn’t sure. She didn’t want to antagonize him though. She just wanted to get through dinner and then their happily complicated arrangement for the next few months without making a total nuisance of herself. She’d already deprived Max of half his inheritance; a situation out of her control, true, but still. She had no desire now to rob him of his privacy, which was something she could control.
The door to the study was open, and Bo blinked to see the room empty of all but Max and his piano. Piano, however, felt like an inadequate term for the instrument that had been squeezed into the space. It was massive, at least four foot high and six foot wide, beautifully polished and impressive even to her untrained eyes. The study had felt big when it just contained Geoffrey’s desk and shelves of books, now, the room seemed tiny, dwarfed as it was by the piano that now sat in pride of place in the middle.
There was no time for Bo to feel regret for Geoffrey and his books again though. She was hardly in the room for a second when her attention was taken away from the size of the piano to the music Max was creating on it. She watched, thunderstruck, as Max’s hands moved deftly over the keys, long-fingered, sureand powerful, creating the most insanely beautiful music Bo had ever heard. Her mouth was open, just a breath away from calling out his name, but she closed it slowly, unwilling to break his concentration and thus the sound he was making. She crept into the room quietly, her back to the wall, where she sank to the floor, wrapping her arms around her knees, content simply to listen. Overwhelmed by the music playing and the feelings it stirred within her, Bo wanted to be as small as possible. She wanted the notes to sweep over her body like the wind swept across a field of flowers, moving them but not disturbed by them. It was insanity, but she felt like one of the flowers in Geoffrey’s garden, petals furled against a coming storm, ready to blossom when it passed.
Bo wasn’t sure how long she sat on the floor, curled up against the wall, but when at last the room fell silent there were tears on her cheeks. For a time, there was quiet, and she watched, fascinated, as Max drew in shaky breaths, his neck glistening with sweat. When at last he turned, his eyes meeting hers, there was no surprise in his gaze.
He knew I was there the whole time,Bo realized.
“Max,” she whispered, unable to say another word, and he sighed.
“I wanted to check her tuning,” he explained, running a hand along the polished casing. “You have to be careful when moving a piano. The slightest knock can throw out a key and then destroy a whole concerto.”
“No. It was beautiful.”
He shrugged. “Not beautiful enough. I told you I occasionally murder Beethoven. Normally I don’t let people listen to my private rehearsal, so there can be no witnesses to the crime.” He paused, looking at her for a long moment, something intense and searching in his gaze. “So, what should I do with you, now that you’ve seen me at my worst?”
Thiswas his worst? Bo was genuinely floored. If this was what he considered failure, she wasn’t sure she was emotionally prepared for whatever he thought success sounded like.
She shifted on the floor. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I mean, the door was open, and I followed the sound and . . .” she stopped, shaking her head. “I’m so sorry.”
He stood though, shaking his head. “It’s fine. I knew you were there. If I’d wanted to stop and throw you out, I would’ve done.” He walked towards her, offering her his hand.
For a moment Bo stared at his fingers. Now, having seen him work, she knew why they were so long and strong, so intensely powerful. Abruptly, she recalled the feeling of his fingers deep inside her, remembered how they’d probed out of her the most intense of orgasms.
His hands create beauty,she thought, once again feeling ridiculously overwhelmed and not knowing why.
“Bo?” Max asked, looking concerned, and she shook herself back to the moment, taking his hand and letting him help her from the floor.
“Umm, you said that was Beethoven?” she queried, desperately trying to halt the blush that she knew was creeping across her cheeks.
“Yes.”
“I’ve never heard it before. I don’t really listen to classical music.”
He nodded, leading her back through to the kitchen, still holding her hand as though it meant nothing.
It does mean nothing,Bo lectured herself.This isn’t a date, and you need to get it together. I don’t care how attractive his hands are, just try and be a rational person for the next two hours at least.
“Why not?” he asked, taking her to the table and nodding her towards a seat. He released her hand finally, and she tried andfailed not to miss the feel of his skin next to hers. “What music do you listen to?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I don’t really listen to music.” She felt awful admitting it. Max was a musician, and here she was, admitting that she didn’t listen to the thing he clearly loved best. She cleared her throat, wanting to explain more. “When I’m outside, working in the garden, I like to hear the birds and the planes and the city. Music would get in the way of that.”
