Page 7 of The Maestro and the Roofer

Am I so petrified of the piano that I’ve let myself be reduced to some 1950s housewife archetype?

Her feminist sensibilities bristled. But after languishing with nothing to do for days, making the casserole had given her a purpose—albeit a small one. Still, there was no denying that she was stuck in a rut of the worst kind if she preferred the role of merry homemaker instead of award-winning composer.

The Steinway called to her from inside the house, and her hands shook at memories of soft adagios and lively allegros. But instead of telling the men that they were on their own for lunch, she dug her head deeper into the sand.

“It’s a surprise,” she improvised. “I have to run to the market, though. Do you need access to the house?”

Eric and Jerry looked to Travis for an answer, but he shook his head silently. Not without a hint of a lustful smile, of course. With that settled, she grabbed her leather jacket and purse before locking up the cottage. The driveway was wide enough that their vehicles hadn’t boxed in her rental car, and she started the journey to the nearest market.

Downtown Daymont was relatively sleepy for a Thursday morning. The wind persisted after the storm, and brittle leaves crunched under her boots as she strolled down the street. Several storefronts were open for year-round residents—the hardware store, the grocery, the bakery—and many were decorated for Halloween.

One building stopped Mia in her tracks.

Daymont Symphony School.

Music note decals populated the window, although their frayed condition hinted at a long history in town.Music lessons for all ages and abilities!was imprinted between the musical embellishments, the font flourishing and evocative.

Pins and needles pricked her skin, but she forced her legs to move, ignoring the deep desire to introduce herself. Anonymityhad become an anomaly, and it would be foolish to abandon something so rare. So she pushed the music school from her mind and entered the grocery store, focusing on the task at hand.

The crew was hard at work on the roof when she returned, but her nerves spiked at how Travis stomped around up there like he was invincible. As if one wrong move wouldn’t put him out of commission completely. But at the same time, his recklessness was somehow incredibly attractive. That absence of fear. The drive to get the job done, no matter the circumstances.

Lust intertwined with distress in her stomach, a disconcerting combination she tried to shake off as she exited the car and grabbed the grocery bags.

Travis noticed her and called out, “Need a hand?”

“Nope, all good.”

Once in the kitchen, she unloaded the ingredients into the fridge and pantry and then returned to the porch to retrieve the coffeepot and mugs from earlier. But Travis had already descended from the roof and beaten her to the punch.

“You taking a break already?” she quipped.

His devilish grin took center stage. “I’m the boss. I can do what I want.”

“Is that right?” Holding out her hand for the coffeepot, she glowered when he didn’t immediately hand it over.

Instead, his eyes dipped to admire her cleavage, and his strong hand around the carafe’s handle clenched. Her mind exploded with images of that same hand squeezing her breasts, and her nipples tightened at the fantasy. The taut buds were on full display due to her thin cashmere sweater, and his sinful mouth curled at the sight.

He extended the pot, and she reached for it, but the scoundrel had other ideas. With the handle in her grasp, he used the tenuous connection to pull her closer. A tiny gasp lefther mouth as she stumbled forward, somehow stopping herself before colliding into his firm chest—as inviting as it looked.

“Whatcha making us for lunch?” he asked, not even attempting to hide the huskiness in his voice.

Tilting her head, she met his timbre with her own raspy reply. “You’ll have to wait and find out.”

“I like a woman who can cook, you know.”

“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” She stepped back, finally pulling the pot out of his hand. Sarcasm dripped from her words as she gestured toward him. “You give me I-want-my-woman-barefoot-and-pregnant-in-the-kitchen vibes.”

He snorted, glancing away from her as his brows narrowed. “You think that little of me?”

“I don’t know you. We only met yesterday, remember?” she reminded him.

A gust of wind brought a handful of errant leaves onto the porch, dancing around their feet. Silence swirled as Travis considered her words, keeping his gaze on the choppy water in the distance. The carved planes of his profile were as pretty as a picture, and a flash of fantasy invaded—the sight of that arresting face on a pillow beside her, both of them spent after a night of vigorous lovemaking.

His head turned, ensnaring her with a mischievous look as if he’d read her mind. “Oh, I remember.”

Mia rolled her eyes to suppress the grin that wanted to escape. “Look, I appreciate the blatant flirting and all, but I’m thirty-seven. Way too old for bad boys.”

“I like an older woman.”

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