“My sock drawer is a work of art.”
“I’ll bet it is.”
The familiar, very masculine voice doesn’t belong to Denice. Now my fingers don’t just slip. They stall, and the music stalls with them. I look up from the keyboard to see Chris, lounging against the piano like he’s about to belt out a torch song.
“Chris. You’re . . . here.”
Real smooth, ex-lax.But it’s the best my mouth can manage. Hell, I’m shocked it managed that. Chris is back. Looking motherfucking mouthwatering in slim-fit jeans and a lavender polo shirt that brings out the green in his hazel eyes. It’s enough to render a man speechless.
He flashes me a thousand-watt smile, making my already dry mouth feel like the Sahara. “Surprise.”
“You can say that again.”
His gaze darts down to my hands, still motionless on the keyboard, then back up to my face. “Shouldn’t you be playing something? I don’t want to get you in trouble.”
“Right.” And now that the shock of seeing him is wearing off and my brain is starting to function again, I know just the song.
“‘As Time Goes By.’” He nods, somehow fitting his hands inside the pockets of his tight jeans. “Excellent choice.”
Score one for the piano man. My mouth may have dropped the ball, but I can always count on my fingers to do the talking. “Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world. . .”
“I walk into yours.” His eyes flick to the other side of the room, where my boss is glaring at us from across the massive mahogany bar. “Can we talk?”
The three most ominous words in the English language. Does anything good ever come after them? I’m hoping whatever Chris wants to say is the exception and not the rule.
Either way, I need to know. But now’s not the time. I need this job. My rent won’t pay itself.
I shake my head. “I’ve got to finish this set.”
“Consider it finished.” This comes from Denice, who’s materialized from who knows where at Chris’s elbow. She gives him a quick once-over and shoots me a not-so-subtle thumbs-up from behind his back. “Take a break. I’ll run interference for you with the evil overlord.”
“Are you sure?”
“Sure, I’m sure. I’ll tell him hottie here”—she pats Chris on the arm, and I swear her hand lingers a little too long so she can cop a feel of his beefy biceps—“is your long-lost cousin. Or a process server. And if he gives you any grief, I’ll threaten to call the health department about the rat problem.”
Chris’s eyes widen. “You have a rat problem?”
“No.” She winks at him. “But the health department doesn’t know that.”
“Thanks. I owe you one,” I tell her as I rush through the final chords of what I’ve come to think of as our song. Time to go somewhere more private, where I can have Chris all to myself and find out what he flew all the way across the country to get off his chest.
“Just give me a raincheck for Macho Taco. I have a feeling you’re going to be otherwise occupied tonight. And you’re buying.” She glances around the bar, then points to an empty table in the back. “Table six is open. I’ll bring you a couple of vodka and sodas.”
“Make his an old-fashioned.” I stand, putting a possessive hand on Chris’s shoulder. Stupid, I know. Denice is my friend. And it’s not like Chris is going to be interested in her. At least, I don’t think he is. But jealousy is a green-eyed monster, and it’s not always rational.
“You got it.”
Denice heads for the bar to get our drinks, and Chris and I slide into the dimly lit corner booth she directed us to. I wait until after she’s dropped them off to ask the question that’s been burning a hole through my brain since I looked up and saw my boyfriend—if that’s what he is—leaning against the piano like he’s Michelle Pfeiffer inThe Fabulous Baker Boys.
“What are you doing here?” I realize almost immediately how shitty that sounds. Like my heart didn’t skip ten beats when I saw him, which couldn’t be further from the truth. “I mean, I’m glad you are. But I thought you had commitments back in San Francisco.”
“I did,” he says, his tone turning tentative. “But I don’t anymore.”
Okay, color me confused. I frown at him over the rim of my glass. “What about your job?”
He lifts his own glass and sips. “My job is here. Or, at least, it can be, if I want it to.”
I almost drop my drink, barely managing to set it down on the table with a shaking hand. “Are you serious?”
