He winks. “A surprise.”
My insides flutter as he handles the record like it’s more precious than Hercules. He slides the vinyl out from the cover and gently places it atop the turntable, and with precision, he lowers the needle to the surface.
The sound is scratchy, but when the trumpet begins, my insides immediately melt. “‘La Vie en Rose.’”
“Nothing says jazz like Louis Armstrong,” Stone agrees.
He has quite possibly picked the most romantic song on the entire wall, and my brain screams,This is dangerous.I need to shut the moment down, pull the record from the player, and find something else to listen to—Charles Mingus, for instance.
Stone extends his hand. “Dance with me?”
Heat pours over my body, spilling down my hands and feet. “To this?”
“Humor an amnesiac who’s holding his life together with rope and a lambicorn.”
A throb of guilt hits me. “Do you really feel that way?”
He gives me his best puppy-dog eyes. “If you dance with me, you’ll find out.”
“You, sir, drive a hard bargain.”
“And you, madam, aren’t driving at all.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I have no idea. It just came out. Dance. Please. Humor me.”
“Okay.”
I slide my hand over his and experience an entire line of small explosions dancing across my flesh and up my arm as he pulls me to him.
I keep a good two feet of distance between us.
“You’re supposed to relax,” he murmurs.
“I’m relaxed.”
“Okay, sure. Listen, if I can relax and I can’t even remember two weeks ago, then you can relax.”
Guilt drills into me. “I’m so sorry about your memory.”
“It’s not your fault,” he says, which feels like I’ve been punched in the throat. “Besides, I’m not sorry.”
Wait.“What?”
He hitches one shoulder to his ear. “I’m not.”
“Why?”
“In a second.” Stone cocks his chin, and I expect him to say something about his amnesia. But what comes out is completely different. “You never wear your hair down.”
Talk about conversation whiplash. “Yes, I do.”
“Not often.” His gaze scours my face, questioning, wondering. “Will you let it down?”
“Um . . .”
“Please?”
