Chapter 1
David
I thought I was prepared to see him again. But the minute Chris walks into the bar, my pulse kicks into overdrive and the hair on my arms and at the nape of my neck springs to attention. He’s the only guy I’ve ever loved, and he’s here. Our eyes lock when he spots me, and then he’s crossing toward me, my heart hammering with every step he takes.
My fingers stumble on the keyboard of the Steinway baby grand I play every Thursday through Sunday from nine to midnight. It’s not Carnegie Hall, but it pays the bills, at least until something better, like a gig with an orchestra or in a Broadway pit, lands in my lap. Fortunately, most of the patrons are too deep in conversation—or too drunk—to notice my slipup, and I segue seemingly effortlessly into the opening bars of “As Time Goes By.”
“My favorite.” Chris leans against the piano, a hesitant smile briefly lifting the corners of his mouth, and signals for a waitress. “You remembered.”
I did, but I’m not about to admit that to him. This time I’m keeping my emotions under lock and key. Like Fort Knox. “People love it. It’s good for tips.”
As if on cue, a pretty, perky twenty-something—probably a coed from one of the nearby colleges—smiles at me and drops a five into the large brandy snifter I use as a tip jar. I nod my thanks and she goes back to her friends, leaving me free to study Chris as he orders his drink.
My fingers almost stumble again. Damn him for looking even better than he did in our conservatory days. Same intense, enigmatic hazel eyes, more green today than brown. Same aquiline nose. Same strong, square jaw, dotted with sexy, late-night stubble. But now the whole package reads more hot businessman than dancer-in-training. Although I’d bet my Yamaha DGX-660 portable keyboard that beneath his designer duds he’s got the same buff ballet body he did back in school. He’d have to, as a principal dancer for the prestigious San Francisco Ballet.
Maybe it’s the clothes—pale gray, slim-fit button-down shirt, tight, dark jeans, suede oxfords in a soft charcoal—that make this man. Or it could be the glasses. Dark Harry Potter rims that give him an air of maturity.
Then there’s the hair. It’s a little longer than I remember, chestnut strands curling over his collar. I wonder briefly if his wife prefers it that way, then swallow the hard, bilious knot of jealousy that rises in my throat. What right do I have to be jealous? Chris made his choice five years ago. One kiss was all it had taken for me to know how good it could be with us. And for him to run as fast as his feet would take him in the other direction.
His drink comes—an old-fashioned, another thing that’s changed since college, when we downed wine coolers like they were water. The choice of cocktail is like a punch in my gut. It’s the consummate man’s man’s drink. Practically screams, “Sorry, dude. I’m still straight.”
“Any requests?” I ask, determined not to let him see how rattled he’s got me.
“Can you take a break? I’d really like to talk. It’s important.”
It must be—or he must think it is—for him to come all this way after all this time to see me. Still, I shake my head. “Can’t. I just got on half an hour ago.”
“I can wait.” He takes a sip of his drink then sets it down on a cocktail napkin. Not on the bare wood of the piano, like I warned him against at the conservatory more times than I can count. My stupid heart flip-flops. He may have wanted to erase me from his life, but he hasn’t forgotten everything.
“It might be a while before I can get free,” I say, mentally crossing my fingers at the white lie. My sets are only about an hour long, and I usually take a ten-minute break between them.
“I’m in no rush.” He runs a finger along the edge of his glass, then touches it to his lips. The unconsciously sexy gesture makes my damn disobedient dick twitch, and I say a silent prayer of thanks that it’s hidden under the Steinway.
The final chords of “As Time Goes By” echo around us as my brain searches for another song. I don’t usually have this much trouble figuring out what to play next. My repertoire is pretty extensive. Plus, I keep an iPad with my favorite sheet music app handy for any songs I don’t know by memory.
But I’m finding it more than a little bit distracting having the love of my life standing not three feet from me, his mesmerizing hazel eyes tracking my every move.
He gives me a smile that’s incongruously both confident and nervous. “Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, I walk into yours.”
I shake my head and start in on “Fly Me To The Moon.” Can’t go wrong with Sinatra. It’s always a crowd favorite. “Except you’re no Ilsa, and I’m no Rick. You knew I’d be here. And I knew you were coming.”
Thanks to the cryptic Facebook message he sent me last week. What I don’t know is why he’s here. What does he want, after all this time?
It’s a question I’m too chickenshit to ask. So instead I decide to go for the cheap shot. It won’t be my finest moment, but I tell myself it’s his fault for showing up practically out of the blue, after five years of radio silence.
“How’s your wife?” The last word comes out like a curse, leaving a sour taste in my mouth.
A shadow crosses Chris’s handsome face, and I immediately regret the low blow. “We split up. Almost a year ago. The divorce was final in March.”
Holy shit. He and Sonja are splitsville?
My mouth goes dry and my heart free falls to my stomach. It’s official. I’m the biggest douchecanoe on the planet.
“I’m sorry.” It’s not a lie. I am. I don’t wish divorce on anyone. Even the guy who’s the source of the biggest heartache of my 27-year-old life. And the girl he chose over me.
But I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that a small part of me is also curious as fuck. Why did they break up? Was that the reason for his visit?
Chris takes another sip of his old-fashioned. “Truth is, it was over a long time ago, but neither one of us wanted to be the one to pull the plug.”
