“Yes, the woman Geoffrey—” Bo stopped, suddenly aware that Max was listening to her with eyes that were dark, his countenance stormy. “The woman that Geoffrey, umm, loved the most.”
Max cleared his throat, standing abruptly. He went over to the fridge, pulling the bottle of wine out and topping up his glass.
“Are you okay?” Bo asked.
“Yes. It’s just . . . Geoffrey talk. You’re more than aware we didn’t get along.”
“I know, but I don’t know why. He was your uncle and—”
“Can we talk about something else?” Max cut her off sharply. “Geoffrey’s dead, and so my issues with him are dead too. I don’t want to keep harking on about him. I know you loved him, but I didn’t, and I don’t really want to hear any more about him, if I’m perfectly honest.”
“Oh.” Bo swallowed, feeling uncomfortable. “Umm, okay.” Somehow, she didn’t think Max’s issues with Geoffrey were dead with him. She sensed, under Max’s calm and unruffled exterior, a hidden hurt within, and once again wondered what Geoffrey had done to elicit such hatred from a man so unilaterally level-headed as Max seemed to be.
“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” Max said, his voice once again gentle, and it was the closest to an apology Bo had ever heard from him. “I just don’t want to talk about Geoffrey.”
Bo nodded, thinking quickly. “Can I ask you a question then? It’s not about your uncle, I promise.”
“Of course.”
Bo stared at him. “What’s it like? At the piano?”
“What do you mean?”
She swallowed. “I mean, what’s it like to create that kind of music with your hands?”
Max stared back at her. “Bo, have you ever played piano before?”
She flushed. “I may have bashed at the keys once or twice.”
“Come on.” Abruptly, Max put down his wine, taking her hand again without any protest on her part. He led her back through to the study, where he gestured to the stool that sat in front of the grand instrument.
“Oh, no,” Bo protested, as she began to understand Max’s intentions. “I can’t—”
“You can,” Max insisted.
“What if I break it?” she asked desperately, but Max gently pushed her onto the stool.
“Then you’ll owe me eighty-five thousand pounds.”
She looked up at him, searching for the joke in his eyes. He was serious-faced though, and she paled. “Eighty-five thousand pounds?Max, I don’t have eighty-five thousand pounds.”
He gave her a soft smile. “Bo, I’m kidding with you.”
She sagged with relief. “You mean this piano doesn’t cost the equivalent of a house deposit?”
“No, it absolutely does.”
She started to rise from the stool once more, but Max pushed her back. “Look, this piano is insured,” he reassured her. “If in the unlikely event that you happen to have a sledgehammer in your pocket and decide to hack my Yamaha to death with it, I’m covered. Come on, let me show you how to play.” He sat next to her on the piano stool, his thigh warm against hers. Bo felt, inexplicably, a thrill of both desire and excitement pulse through her, and she chewed on her lip.
He’s not even your type. He’s a two, remember?An abrasive two.
He didn’t feel abrasive in the slightest right at that moment though. He felt firm and warm and he smelled amazing, and Bo’s fingers trembled as she placed them on the keys.
“You’re shaking,” Max remarked. “Please don’t be nervous; you really can’t damage a piano just by touching it.”
Bo felt a sliver of relief that he’d so misread the reason for her trembles. Still, she nodded, looking up at him.
“What do I, umm, do now?”
