Page 88 of Keep Me Close

I close my eyes and start again, softer this time. Instead of focusing on the technical aspects, I lean into how it feels. The notes rise, and I let them stretch, filling the room until there’s nothing left but the music and the quiet ache threaded through it.

I hold the last note longer, letting it fade slowly into silence.

“Wow. That was amazing.”

I jump and nearly bobble my phone before spinning around, only to find Knox standing near the kitchen, his bag slung over one shoulder.

My heart kicks hard against my ribs. “How long have you been there?”

He shrugs, setting the bag down on the floor. “Long enough.”

Heat climbs up my neck. “You should have said something when you came in.”

His mouth twitches as he saunters toward me. “You were busy and I didn’t want to interrupt.”

I cross my arms, suddenly self-conscious. Singing in front of a crowd is one thing. Singing bare and unguarded is something else entirely.

“It was a little off,” I mutter in embarrassment.

He stops a few feet away before shaking his head. “No, it wasn’t.” His voice dips. “I’ve heard you sing before, but never like that.”

I blink at the admittance. “You have? Where?”

He glances away, jerking his shoulders. “I might’ve watched the show.”

I stare at him in shock. “I’m sorry. Did you just say you’ve watched the show?”

He shifts. “Maybe a few episodes here and there.”

My brows rise as I cock my head. “A few? What are we talking about? One or two episodes? Or one or two seasons?”

His jaw tightens as he admits, “It might have been a couple seasons.”

“Oh my God.” I laugh. “Are you secretly a Cheyenne Benson fan?”

Even though he snorts, color rises in his cheeks. “Guess it’s turning out to be not so secret.”

The pleasure that floods through me is enough to catch me off guard. Not only did this man notice me before I crashed into his life, he was paying attention.

I grin. “Wow. I never would’ve guessed.”

He’s close enough for me to see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw and the last traces of bruising beneath his eye. That bruise should tug me back toward guilt and fear and everything ugly that’s happened lately. But all I can think about is how beautiful he is standing here, looking unexpectedly vulnerable because he admitted one small truth.

“Well,” he says, one corner of his mouth hitching, “guess the cat’s out of the bag now.”

My belly flips.

Before I can come up with a response, he bends down and reaches into his bag. “Oh, I got you something.”

My brows lift. “You did?”

“Yeah.” He clears his throat, suddenly looking less sure of himself, which is very un-Knox like. “It’s not a big deal.”

Curiosity sparks through me as he holds out a crisp piece of blue fabric.

Unsure what it is, I take it carefully, unfolding it enough to see the white lettering stitched across the back. Everything inside me stills.

McNichols.