Page 9 of Heart Beats

jagger

I’ve doneplenty of crazy shit over the years. Fame and money give you license to do all kinds of stuff. Ditching my band to chase down a woman I met onstage didn’t feel crazy. Now that I’ve found her, it feels like the best thing I’ve done in a hell of a long time.

I don’t know what I expected Maria to be like, but she’s incredible. Smart. Straightforward. Easy to talk to. Easy to listen to. Hell, she gave me a tour of her backyard garden that included technical and personal information about every plant within the private, fenced space, and I hung on every damn word. She’s beautiful. Sexy as fuck. Adorable. Passionate. Confident. Unpretentious. She’s unlike anyone I’ve known. I could stay here indefinitely, and it wouldn’t be long enough.

I didn’t lie when I told her I’m not here to have sex. That doesn’t mean I don’t want to. Goddamn, I want to. My cock hasn’t gone below half-mast since the first time I touched her hand. Inside her house, sharing the minimal workspace in her kitchen while helping get dinner together, my dick turned to full-on steel. Every time she innocently brushed against me, I had to tamp down the urge to press her against the nearest surface and slide my hand under her short, cream-colored dress. To make her come on my hand while I claim her full, tempting lips.

Watching those lips throughout dinner at her small dining table nearly killed me. Since when do I watch someone chew? Or find it a turn-on? Since tonight. Since Maria.

“That was delicious,” I say, following as she takes our empty plates to the counter. “I don’t get many legit home-cooked meals when we’re touring.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed it. Stuffed poblanos are one of my favorites. I make them on Saturdays because my last student finishes at four o’clock, so I have more time for food prep. Monday through Thursday, I teach back-to-back lessons until seven-thirty. Those are slow-cooker meals, or salad days.” She shakes her head, filling mine with the addictive sound of her brief laugh. “More boring information you don’t need.”

“I need all the information about you.” I catch her hands and bring them to my mouth for a soft kiss. Soon, it’ll be her lips. Not yet, but soon. “That’s the third time you’ve described yourself as boring. Whoever made you feel that way doesn’t deserve space in your head.”

“I didn’t mean it negatively. I honestly don’t mind being—” She catches herself before the word slips out for a fourth time, then smiles as she finishes the statement with, “Ordinary.”

“Ordinary?You were a musical child prodigy.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“I know. I’ve already learned enough to know you wouldn’t put yourself in a spotlight, even verbally,” I say, giving in to my need to touch her by cupping her waist, bringing us face to face, sharing personal space. “But you should be in the spotlight. You were certified to teach four instruments by the time you were seventeen. You graduated from one of the most renowned music programs in the world. You had an offer to play with the Toronto Symphony Orchestra. Every one of those things is a fucking extraordinary accomplishment, and you slid them into casual conversation as if you were asking me to pass the salt.”

“The stuffed poblanos don’t need salt. They’re seasoned perfectly; it’s an old, family recipe.” She’s totally serious when she says it. There’s no acknowledgement of my admiration of her achievements. Her pupils are dilated, though, and her pulse is hammering in her delicate, tanned neck. She may not have responded to my awestruck praise, but she’s responding to being close to me.

I could kiss her now, and I’m fucking tempted. But I’m not here to rush her. I’m here to make sure I get to keep her. “I’d love to hear you play.”

“Which instrument?”

“All of them.”

She gifts me with one of her breathtaking smiles and a tease of laughter. “I have nine different instruments in the other room. I don’t think you have time for that.”

“Nine? You said you teach four.”

“I told you I’m certified to teach four. I play nine.”

“Holy fuck, you’re a one-person orchestra. It’s concert time.” I exchange my grip on her waist for holding her hand, then tug her close to my side as I head out of the kitchen.

She didn’t give me a tour of her house when we came in, but you’d have to be blind to miss the baby grand in the room on the opposite side of the entryway. Technically, it’s the living room. Only, there’s no couch, no coffee table, no TV. Just a couple of comfortable chairs, a small side table, a window shelf lined with potted plants, and an assortment of carefully positioned instruments.

“This room is a musician’s dream,” I say, checking out everything from spalted-maple ukulele to the Steinway piano. “May I?”

“Of course.”

I sit and pat the bench, playing a few bars while she settles beside me. “Beautiful sound. I have a Steinway at my house in Missouri, but between touring and recording in Los Angeles, I’m barely there.”

“I can’t imagine living like that. I leave home as little as possible. I only went to your concert because Mya’s friend had to cancel at the last minute, and she begged me not to let the front-row ticket to go to waste.”

Angling my body toward her, I trail my fingertips down her beautiful face, from temple to lips, which I part by running the pad of my thumb along the seam. “I’m glad you came to the show.”

“Me too,” she says, turning her face toward my palm.

Connection rips through me like an electric charge. “I haven’t stopped thinking about you since last night. After you left the stage, then after the concert. I was awake half the night thinking of you.”

“What were you thinking?” From another woman, the question would be flirtation. Seduction. Maria’s not like the other women I’ve been with. I’m not fucking this up by treating her as if she were.

“I was thinking this,” I brush the words across her lips, then sit straight and begin playing.

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