Page 177 of A Dangerous Kind of Love

Katie notices too, though she doesn’t tense beside me. She glances around the lobby, taking in the marble floors, the champagne trays, the people in evening clothes, and the long staircase curving toward the upper levels. She’s getting more comfortable in this life every time I bring her out with me.

“This building is gorgeous,” she says.

“It is.”

I guide her toward the theater doors with my hand at her back. Inside, musicians are already seated, adjusting music stands and warming their instruments, the separate sounds blending together before the performance begins. Katie slows a little when we step into the aisle, her attention moving over the space.

“This is beautiful,” she says.

I watch her face instead of the room. “I thought you’d think so.”

She gives me a small smile and lets me lead her to our seats. Once we sit, she looks through the program again, then folds it neatly in her lap.

The lights dim a few minutes later, and the room quiets almost all at once. That part has always been one of my favorites, the way an entire crowd can settle because something is about to begin. Nobody asks anything from me in that silence. Nobody needs a decision, a signature, a threat, an answer, or a solution.

Then the first notes rise from the strings. I don’t look at Katie at first. I know if I do, I’ll miss the opening, and I brought her here because I wanted to share this with her. I make it maybe thirty seconds before I glance over anyway.

She’s watching the stage closely. Her attention moves from the violins to the cellos, then toward the conductor. She looks fascinated.

The music builds slowly through the first movement. It starts clean and restrained, then deepens, the lower strings pulling beneath the melody. I feel Katie shift beside me. Her fingers find mine on the armrest between us, and I turn my hand over so she can slide hers into it.

Halfway through, I feel her looking at me. I keep my eyes on the stage for a few seconds before turning my head.

“What?” I murmur.

She leans slightly closer. “You really do love this.”

“I told you I did.” I lift her hand and kiss her knuckles once before turning back toward the stage.

By intermission, she has opinions. I should have known she would. We step into the hallway with the rest of the audience, and I take two glasses of champagne from a passing server before handing one to her. She accepts it, takes a sip, and looks back toward the theater doors.

“The second piece was better than the first.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Was it?”

“For me, yes.”

“Why?”

I love watching her think. She looks away when she does it, searching somewhere in her own head until she finds the words she wants.

“The first one was pretty,” she says. “The second one had more feeling in it. It reminded me of a storm that never actually breaks.”

I stare at her for a moment, and I don’t bother hiding how much I enjoy that answer.

“What?” she asks.

“Nothing.”

“Michael.”

“I enjoy hearing you talk about it.”

She looks down into her champagne for a second, smiling to herself, then takes another sip. I used to spend intermissions speaking to people I barely cared about because that was part of the routine. I would shake hands, accept praise for donations, and listen to men talk about business they hoped I would involve myself in later. Tonight, I stand beside Katie and listen to her explain that the second piece made her think of rain over dark water, and I enjoy the evening more than I have in years.

“My mother will like you,” I say.

Katie’s eyes lift to mine. “Yeah?”