Page 79 of The Painter and His Poet

“They wereplayingtogether? She wassinging?” I ask instead, my voice rising in agitation as jealousy thunders through my veins. I’m both jealous of the fact that Harlow felt relaxed enough to sing and play the piano with Blake-fucking-Black, but also so damn proud that she could. I know how hard it is for her to reveal that side of her. The two warring emotions make my stomach churn.

“Listen. I get it, okay,” Ben sighs, giving me a sympathetic look. “I know how you feel about her–”

“No, you don’t get it, Ben,” I say, pinching the bridge of my nose momentarily. “I can’t fucking breathe when I’m around her. I’ve spent the last four days trying to sort my head out, and the only reason I didn’t bring her tonight was because I knew what would happen if I did. That doesn’t stop me from feeling like a complete fucking shit for leaving her behind though.”

Ben rests his hands on my shoulders, squeezing gently. “You need to think about what would happen if you pursued this and your dad found out.”

“Of course, I have,” I hiss.

“And have you figured out what you’re going to do yet?”

We lock gazes and my nostrils flare.

“I’m going to stay away,” I eventually say, blowing out a shuddering breath.

“That’s tough,” he replies, but despite his sympathy, I see how his shoulders relax and I know he thinks it’s the right thing to do. Which is bullshit given his recent actions offering to pay for time with another man’s wife.

“Yeah,” I agree, knowing that it’s a lie. Knowing that as soon as I can slip away I’m going to go back home and finally claim Harlow as mine.

TWENTY-TWO

HARLOW

Stepping into the parlour, I flip the light switch on, illuminating the room. In the corner, the grand piano commands attention—a beautiful instrument I’ve longed to play since my arrival. Its sleek black surface gleams under the soft overhead light, and I’ve often wondered if anyone in the family can actually play it. I suspect it’s more for decoration, as neither Sterling nor Robert has ever mentioned any musical talent. To be honest, my brief conversations with Sterling have rarely strayed into personal interests. It feels like whenever we're in the same space, the air crackles with tension and an intense attraction. Small talk is the last thing on our minds.

Maybe stepping in here wasn’t the best idea I’ve ever had, but I’ve spent the last four days alone, driving myself crazy thinking about Sterling, and I need a way to channel my frustrations. Playing the piano seems like a better way to do that than going for a swim. I’d rather avoid the temptation of being practically naked in the pool with Sterling again. That’s if he ever decides to show his face.

Besides, writing lyrics and crafting melodies is cathartic for me, and after playing the piano atThe Cosy Chordthe other day, I’ve decided I’m not going to repress that part of me anymore.

As I settle onto the piano stool, my fingers hovering over the keys for a moment, the familiar feeling of anticipation bubbles up within me, providing me with a much needed distraction.

Pressing my fingers lightly against the keys, I start with a gentle melody, something soft and introspective. The sound fills the room, and for a brief moment, I forget my worries, lost so completely to the music.

Then I feel it—someone watching me intensely, and I know without looking up that it’s Sterling.

The same familiar thrill rushes over my skin and my fingers stumble over keys, caught off guard by the way his presence shifts the atmosphere, the connection we share snapping to life as I glance over at him leaning against the doorframe. His arms are crossed as he watches me with a brooding kind of intensity that has my pulse quickening. Dressed in tailored black trousers, a white shirt rolled up to his elbows, with his tie loosened around his neck, he’s the perfect combination of masculinity and effortless beauty that draws me in like gravity, making it impossible to look away. Knowing that the engagement party is tonight, I briefly wonder why he left so early given it’s only just past ten o’clock.

“Don’t stop,” he murmurs.

“But shouldn’t you be–”

“Please, Harlow.Play,” he demands softly, his gaze piercing yet contemplative as he pushes off the doorframe and approaches on bare feet.

The slight creak of the floorboards beneath his weight echoes in the sudden stillness of the room as he settles beside me on the piano stool, our knees nearly touching. I can feel the heat radiating from him as I press my fingers against the keys, forcing myself not to glance at him. I can sense his curiosity in the way he studies me, and it makes my heart race as I play once more.

"What are you playing?" he asks after a while, his voice low and smooth like the melody that lingers in the air between us. I’m acutely aware of how close he is, the scent of his cologne mingling with the fragrance of polished wood and ivory keys. “I don’t know this melody, is this something you wrote?” he asks.

I hesitate, my instinct to retreat kicking in. I’m so used to being belittled by my mother that my immediate reaction is to leave, to protect myself from the pain of being ridiculed for my art. With Blake, whilst still nervous, I’d felt a surprising sense of calm, and that’s probably because he’s a musician too, but also because I’d played a tune that wasn’t mine. This is way more personal since the melody is something I’ve written.

“Harlow?” he insists, reaching for me, his fingers barely grazing against my wrist, before dropping away.

“Yes,” I finally admit, biting my lip. “I wrote this.”

“It’s beautiful,” he replies, his tone gentle as I risk another glance at him, his gaze shifting from an almost pained kind of longing to a curious interest.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

“Will you play some more?” he asks.

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