Page 2 of The Maestro and the Roofer

“No, I’m not a teacher,” she answered, pursing her lips.

Mere minutes with this man, and she’d reverted from a thirty-seven-year-old woman into a cranky teenager. But when his attention returned to her mouth, she struggled to pull air into her lungs, and her annoyance evaporated as he licked his plump lips like he wanted to devour her for breakfast. The silence lengthened, tension brewing as the wind whistled and the water lapped on the rocks.

“You got a name?” he asked, the pitch of his voice impossibly deep.

“Sure do.”

A husky laugh bubbled from his throat at her refusal to elaborate. Behind her, the screen door hinges squeaked, and she glanced back to see Eric the foreman. Relief washed over her that this seduction game would cease—mostly since she was a stone’s throw away from bursting into flames.

“There you are,” Eric said to the latecomer. “Wondered when Boss Man would show up.”

Boss Man.

Mia’s jaw dropped, and her head jerked back toward the unnamed man. He held her stare in a brazen challenge, daring her to say something. But shock rendered her unable to string a sentence together, and his eyes delivered a clear message.

Don’t underestimate me.

His gaze remained on her as he answered Eric. “Got held up.”

A splash of disappointment trickled through Mia when he broke their staring contest, stepped past her, and entered the house.

Maybe I should geta hotel room for a few nights.

The unreasonable thought tugged at her brain, her pride still wounded from the earlier encounter. But there was no point in wasting money if the home was perfectly livable, especially when Leslie had already texted with an update. After a full inspection, the crew estimated that the roof would take two days to repair, and then these men would be out of her life forever.

Surprisingly, Mia grew accustomed to the heavy hammering, the sound of power tools, and the men’s colorful shouts from outside. After several days of total isolation, the cacophonywas oddly soothing. But boredom persisted, and an itch to do something productive burrowed beneath her skin as the morning progressed. Instead of grabbing the blank manuscript sheet music still stuffed away in her luggage, she made a casserole.

Between the cardigan and the casserole, I really am channeling Granny.

The recipe had been a staple of her grandmother’s kitchen and one of Mia’s favorites growing up. Thankfully, the instructions were simple and straightforward, and her overwrought mind quieted as she got lost in the monotony of chopping broccoli, boiling chicken, and grating cheddar cheese. In the silence of the kitchen, Leslie’s words skipped back into her brain.

“Get out of the city and focus on yourself for once. Rediscover your love of music. Make something great. You’re way too fucking talented to let the last few years define your legacy.”

A casserole probably wasn’t what her agent had meant when she told Mia to make something great. But damn, she couldn’t deny how good it felt to create something.

A light knock on the back door extracted her from the musings. “Come in,” she called out, grabbing the potholder and removing the casserole from the oven.

The door squeaked open, and Eric stepped into the doorframe. “Just a heads-up that we’re breaking for lunch.”

“Oh. Well, if anyone’s interested, I made this.” She pointed to the dish on the stovetop. “It should be edible. At least, I hope so.”

“Hey, it’s free,” Eric replied with a laugh. “That’s all we care about.”

She barely had time to prepare a plate before they barreled into the kitchen like eager school children dismissed for recess. Hyperaware of the Boss Man’s continued presence, since histruck remained in the driveway, she escaped down the hallway before he appeared, her bare feet skidding along the runner carpet.

Her distracted mind brought her to the parlor instead of the den, and her hands shook as she laid eyes on the gorgeous baby grand Steinway piano she’d been ignoring for days.

The immaculate instrument was polished to perfection. An absolute sight for sore eyes.

It made her sick to her stomach.

She was no stranger to pianos. From the light-up Fisher Price keyboard her grandmother had purchased for her first birthday to the Yamaha upright piano at her elementary school to the wide range of options at Juilliard—she’d mastered them all.

A prodigy, they’d called her. Maestro Mia. There wasn’t a music award she hadn’t won, wasn’t a grand stage she hadn’t performed upon to a sold-out audience. And then her passion project—the musical she and her ex-husband first brainstormed during their freshman year at Juilliard—went into previews off-Broadway. Over ten years of dedication and workshopping paid off. Buzz grew and interest increased, and it was fast-tracked to the Lunt-Fontanne as a certified smash hit. Before she knew it, they were household names. The next Rodgers and Hammerstein.

But the higher you rise, the harder you fall.

Because, despite the success and accolades, she couldn’t bear to sit at the piano in a quaint beach house in Connecticut.

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