Page 11

As soon as my shoes hit the highly polished black and white tiles that make the lobby feel like some kind of magic chess set, I come to an abrupt stop.

I was too tired and preoccupied this morning to notice how beautiful the lobby is. It’s decorated like a white winter wonderland, with trees and branches that stretch up to the two-story ceiling. Strings of lights are twisted around the frosted branches, with golden ornaments and gold painted leaves weaved in among the white, making the whole place feel like I’ve just pushed through a wardrobe of mothballed fur coats, and any minute now, Mr. Tumnus will hop out and offer me candy.

I’m so absorbed by the décor that I barely notice the piano until I’m walking past it. I hear a melody, and the yearning crescendo hits something deep inside of me.

And then I see the man playing.

Mr. ‘Look Out For Cats’ is completely oblivious to anything except the exquisite music that’s emanating from the piano strings, by way of his long, elegant fingers as they sweep across the keyboard. His head is bowed, that thick mahogany hair falling over his brow.

So he works here? I frown, because he never said anything about that. It does explain why he could get somebody to pick up my luggage so easily this morning, though.

I’m not sure if he hears my surprised exhale, but something makes him look up. His gaze settles on me, like he’s not shocked to see me at all.

“Hello,” he murmurs, the music quieter now. “Are you out hunting for cats?”

I roll my eyes at him, walking over to his side of the piano. “You never said you played the piano.”

“You never asked.” He’s not even looking at his fingers as he plays, the show off. Instead, his piercing blue eyes are on my face.

“Funny, because I usually ask everybody I meet. Do you play the piano in The Hunt Hotel? You’d be surprised at how many people say yes.”

A smile flits across his lips. “How’s your head?” He tips his own to the side, his gaze lifting to my hairline.

“It’s fine, thank you for asking. Sleeping for most of the day and night helped.”

The music is faster now, his fingers dancing across the keyboard in a blur. “Jetlag is a bitch,” he says.

“Especially when you travel economy.”

He smiles again but says nothing.

“What’s this piece called?” I ask. Mostly because I want to hear his voice. It’s weird how it thrills me and calms me at the same time.

“It’s a Nocturne by Tchaikovsky. In C-sharp.”

“I’m surprised they don’t insist on you playing Christmas music at this time of year.”

“They?” he murmurs as the music slows down. “Who are they?”

“Your bosses. The people who run this place.”

“Ah.” He nods in understanding, then looks up at me through thick lashes. “Let’s not tell them,” he whispers. “It can be our secret.”

And yet a moment later, as naturally as breathing, his fingers change pace and the soft notes of “Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas” ring out. Damn, this man has talent.

“Smooth,” I say, because it is. I’ve always been impressed by natural talent.

“Thank you.” He tips his head to the side, not missing a beat. “I take tips. Cash, card, Apple Pay.”

I get the feeling he’s teasing me. Mostly because there’s no sign of a tip jar around here. Maybe you’re supposed to add it when you check out. I open my mouth to ask him, but then my stomach gives out the almightiest growl.

This time his lips curl into a smile. “Are you hungry, or do you have a lion in your pocket?”

I wince. “I haven’t eaten since breakfast,” I admit. “Too busy sleeping. I was just heading to the bar to find something to eat,” I tell him, pointing at the door on the other side of the lobby.

“Good plan.” His gaze dips to my mouth again, before he segues into another song. It sounds like a classical version of Last Christmas. “Go feed the lion,” he says.

“Okay.” Like last time, I feel weirdly reluctant to go. “I’d say I’ll see you around, but I’m checking out in the morning.”