Page 38 of Protect Your Queen

I froze. “How do you know something’s bothering me?”

“No one stays up this late at night unless something is on their mind.”

I wanted to reach out and place my hands on his bare skin. Would his skin be hot? Would it be smooth against my palms?

“Why areyouup so late?” I stood beside him, staring at the empty space on the bench.

If I sat down, we’d be shoulder to shoulder. Our bare arms would touch. I hated how much I wanted that. How much it enticed me to sit right beside him.

“Because I don’t leave my post until I am relieved.” The movement of his left hand fascinated me. It was so agile. If he added his right hand, then he’d be a force to reckon with… musically, at least. “And that won’t happen until the morning. So… penny for your thoughts?”

I did sit down, after a moment. I found that I did desperately want to talk to someone, even a stranger.

His left arm rubbed against my right. His skin was so warm compared to mine, it almost burned. I wanted to lean into him more and get consumed by his fire.

But I didn’t want to lean on the spiky stitches that protruded from his skin. Was I imagining it, or was he leaning in towards me, too? Was the air crackling between us? Or was I just so fucking lonely, that his chaste touch was making me think of romance?

“I don’t think I have another album in me,” I admitted. He was the help, after all. Anyone who got within five feet of me was forced to sign a Non-Disclosure Agreement. I was sure his contract included an iron-clad one. “None of the songs are any good. Not that any of the songs on my first album were good either, but…”

I stopped when I heard him audibly snort.

“What?” I asked, nudging him with my shoulder.

“Nothing,” he said, shaking his head. “Forget it.”

“What?” I asked, louder, punching him, then flinching when I realized I smacked his stitches. “Sorry. But… tell me.”

“Your first album was a fine pop album.” He smirked, as if he was holding back a much bigger smile.

“You don’t like pop? Or is it my music you don’t like, and you’re trying to be kind?” He was criticizing me, but I couldn’t help but laugh a little.

He wasn’t wrong, after all. The dark always made people more honest.

He let out a long sigh. “I’m not known for kindness. And what I saw in the jazz club was… extraordinary. Really. You had soul… you sounded…”

“It’s not a song for me. The label would never approve it, even if it’s in the public domain.” That was the real kicker, wasn’t it? Dryden would never allow a song like that on one ofmy albums when I was being marketed as some sexy ingénue. “There’s no way to get dancers and fireworks on it. There’s no way to rehearse it to perfection and replicate it every night with the same, reliable energy.”

I watched his right hand. It lay on his black pant leg, the tips lifting and lowering ever so slightly, as if they itched to play on the Baldwin as well.

“That’s what I’m selling, after all, as Miss Idol. I’m selling perfection,” I finally finished.

He grunted and nodded as his melody turned sad and dissonant. When had he changed into a minor chord? Most importantly, where had he gotten this melody? He couldn’t just be improvising this perfection. Surely… no. Because that would be a level of prowess that he wasted as a bodyguard.

Still, I enjoyed looking at his face as he played. He had one of those noses with a ridge down the middle. His brows were prominent, and his eyes were the color of deep moss. His lips weren’t that large – not like us Barkadas. But there was a squareness about his bottom lip that made them look full. I wanted to swipe my thumb across it.

“Have you ever heard of the Köln Concert by Keith Jarrett?” His head tilted slightly in my direction, as we both watched his hand as it traversed down to the lower notes. He had to reach across my lap to do it, and I didn’t move out of the way. I just sat there, letting him reach, as his arm came across my front, lightly grazing the tips of my breasts.

“No,” I gasped. “Should I have?”

Why was that light touch doing so much to me?

“The concert was legendary!” He must have really been a great musician if he was memorizing this kind of stuff. “It came from an incredibly imperfect situation.”

Then he stopped playing. The silence was heavy, like the air had been sucked out of the room. Still, he didn’t move his arm from across my front, and he didn’t look at me. He just kept staring at the keys.

“The concert was sold out, and Jarrett had requested this Bösendorfer 290 Imperial Concert grand piano for his performance. Unfortunately, the opera house staff couldn’t get their shit together and got confused and brought out a Bösendorfer from the back that was a much smaller baby grand. It was out of tune, terrible, barely playable.” He finally lifted his hand away, coming to rest at Middle C in the space between us. “They got a tuner, and couldn’t get another piano in, and it was just a total mess. Jarrett almost didn’t play.”

“How bad could it have been?”

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