Page 3 of The Maestro and the Roofer

She should’ve course corrected to the den, but running scared from the big, bad piano was too pathetic to stomach. So she parked her tush on the love seat and tucked into her meal—delicious. Granny would be proud—while eavesdropping on the conversation in the other room. The men were a bunch of gossips, and she smiled at their lively chatter. Apparently, someone named Dennis Coates was rumored to be in poorhealth, although the family was trying to keep it hush-hush. Nothing quite like small-town life.

Once she finished her meal, she placed the empty plate to the side. The Steinway called to her like an old lover she no longer trusted.

Sit down. Start playing. You know what you’re doing.

Peeved at her own foolishness, she stepped toward the bench and sat, her backside sinking into the plush leather cushion. An overwhelming sense of familiarity surrounded her, and a complicated mix of emotions lodged in her throat. If she didn’t know any better, she could’ve sworn her grandmother stood behind her, wrapping her frail arms around Mia’s shoulders. That small comfort provided enough fortitude to place her fingers on the keys, her foot following onto the sustain pedal.

But something prevented her from pressing down and letting the music flow.

“Do you play?”

An unladylike yelp burst into the air, and she almost jumped off the seat. Whirling around, she found Boss Man leaning against the doorframe, his stance the epitome of casual seduction, although true sincerity was laced into the question.

“Yes—no! I mean—can I help you with something?” she sputtered.

His tawny brows narrowed at her curtness. “We finished lunch. Loaded the dishwasher. Just wanted to let you know.”

“Oh. Thank you.”

She cringed internally at the unintentional haughtiness, his jaw clenching at her apparent dismissal. Instead of exiting in a huff, he grabbed her empty plate and, with one last weighted look, left the room. Soon after, the men’s chatter faded, the screen door slamming as they returned to work.

Alone in the cottage, Mia fled the parlor, caught off guard by her reaction to the piano. Lord knows she wasn’t ready tounpack every intense feeling—how the shiny ivories felt beneath her fingers or how her body had naturally melted into the bench’s cushion.

But equally concerning was how a private part of her reveled at the idea of performing for the man who’d interrupted the intimate moment. Clearly, he considered her a stuck-up city girl, and she secretly wished to humble him with the force of her talent.

All the more reason to stay away from him.

Reality television was always a reliable distraction, so she headed to the den to rot her brain for several hours. A streak of sunlight filtered through the open blinds later that afternoon, illuminating the room and pulling her from a trashy TV coma. The persistent clouds of the past few days hadn’t helped with her already downtrodden mood, so she rushed onto the porch to behold the warm glow.

The salty sea breeze whipped her curly tresses like a twister, and she propped her hip against the cedar porch railing, but the sun reflecting off the water didn’t transfix her for long. The men were packing up for the day, and the tool kits crashing onto the flatbed stole her attention. Boss Man barked orders like a natural leader, but he wasn’t afraid to get his hands dirty, evident in how he hauled the ladder atop the truck with ease.

From a distance, he almost looked ordinary. But the nape of her neck tingled when he caught her watching, and there was no mistaking the man’s true nature. His powerful stare summoned a whirlwind of unrest in her, but she averted her gaze, keeping it on the water’s horizon until the trucks departed.

TWO

The Daymont Tavern was one of the few establishments open year-round. Many of the restaurants and lounges lining the coast were seasonal, closing at the end of September and reopening in early May. But the Daymont Tavern—or the DT, as it was known by many—was the place for townies. Those in a certain socioeconomic bracket, at least. The wealthy locals imbibed at the Club House located in the exclusive members-only Daymont Yacht Club, but the working-class residents drank at the DT.

Since she lacked a guest pass to the yacht club, the DT was her only option for a night out. The roofing crew’s departure had left her feeling strangely bereft, and cabin fever had commenced. Eager to get out for a while, she showered, dressed, and then drove the short distance over to the DT.

A compact and unassuming one-story brick building, the tavern contained a weathered green awning boasting the name and date established:Daymont Tavern. Family owned and operated since 1919.A battered sign announced more parking in the rear, but a lone spot was free up front. Mia parked her rental car and walked to the entrance.

Inside, the DT was no different from any other pub in America. Soft and soulful yacht rock played over the soundsystem, the tunes blending into the lively chatter. The bar was modest, with only ten rickety stools, and several high-top tables were indeterminately placed around the room. A pool table sat in the back right corner, with three dartboards affixed to the nearby wall. The floor was sticky, and the place smelled like fried food and cheap liquor, but an undeniable homelike quality filled the air.

Heads swiveled to appraise her where she stood at the entrance. Although she’d dressed down—jeans, slate-gray sweater, and white sneakers—she still stuck out like a sore thumb. This place catered to regulars, and she hadoutsiderwritten all over her.

Her heart bounced frantically at the sight of one particular regular.

The roofer. Boss Man.

He stood at the dartboards with a buddy, his hoodie draped across the nearest high-top table. A plain black T-shirt encased his torso, and a tattoo peeked out from under the sleeve on his left arm, although she was too far away to decipher the design.

His eyes immediately found hers, but she deflected her gaze before the moment transformed into something more. Sadly, it wasn’t quick enough to stop her libido from rearing its ugly head, and a dull throb emerged between her legs.

Focus, Mia. You’re here for dinner and drinks, not roguish men and bad decisions.

Holding to that resolve, Mia sat at the bar. An older woman in her fifties was slinging drinks for customers. Between her frizzy bleach-blond hair and leathered skin that hinted at a youth sans sunscreen, it was evident this woman was a no-nonsense broad. One perfectly penciled-on eyebrow rose as she approached Mia, throwing the food menu onto the sticky wooden bar top.

“You new around here?” the woman asked, pulling no punches.

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