Page 56 of Whirlwind

He tilted his head, his lips quirking. “Situations, huh? Not relationships?”

“No. I’ve never let it get that far.”

“Like the guy you just broke up with?”

“Hmm.”

“Haven’t met the right guy yet?” His eyes seemed to take on a laser like precision that seemed to be burning holes right through my chest.

I sat up straighter, hugging my knees to my chest. “I don’t believe in the fairy tale of Mr. Right appearing one day and then everything will be perfect and filled with glitter and starlight.”

“Ah, Violet,” he let out a heavy sigh on my name that sent sparks flying through me once again. “I don’t know much about perfect. But rough whispers and deep kisses in the glitter of starlight felt pretty damn near perfect to me.” He held my gaze and I lost my ability to speak, think.

Rough whispers and deep kisses in the glitter of starlight—the most beautiful thing I’d ever heard.Wait—was he referring to our time at the waterfall?

Fidgeting on the floor, trapped between the sofa and the coffee table, I averted my gaze to the heap of thick cut french fries before me.Calm down.

Beck was now in lick his wounds rebound mode after a nasty breakup with one of the most brilliant singer songwriters of our generation. I grabbed a fry and dunked it in the small plastic pot of barbecue sauce. Talk about glitter and starlight, they must have lived it in spades. Now he was putting Band-Aids on the bleeding gashes she’d left behind by indulging in good times with me. That’s what this was. I chewed on the french fry.Ugh.It was cold.

“So you’ve never been in love?” his voice cut through my thoughts.

I coughed, the stuck in the back of my throat. I grabbed my beer and swallowed. “No. Seems like a lot of drama.”

“Not worth it, huh?”

“It’s not a thing for me.” I grabbed a napkin and wiped at my mouth. “Like the bridezillas yesterday? All they talked about was their fiancés, their diamond rings, we this and we that.” I crumpled the napkin into a ball. “Not everyone needs a relationship, and that’s okay, right?”

“I didn’t ask you about relationships, Violet. I asked you about love.”

“Oh. Right.” I sank down into the floor, if only I could melt through the wood and concrete.

His lips pressed into a stiff line as he stuffed one of the paper bags with our the garbage and rolled it tight. “How about we go out? We’re in this amazing city. We should go out.”

“Are you sure? Didn’t you want to stay in?”

“Let’s check out a couple bars on Broadway, the older ones, where it’s just standing room only with loads of bands back to back?”

“I’d love that.”

“I’ll clean all this up, you go get ready.” His attention remained on the mess on the table. The sudden tight tone of his voice made my belly knot up.

I went across the loft to the bedroom area where I’d left my small suitcase. I washed my hands, my face, patted on my moisturizer and changed into my going out at night clothes: an oversized thin velvet black vest with brass buttons showing off my black halter bralette underneath, along with cut off black jean shorts. Taking in my reflection in the large freestanding mirror, I tucked, smoothed, adjusted.

The clear, gentle notes of a piano filled the loft, and my gaze darted to the living room in the mirror. Beck sat at the baby grand playing, watching me, his gaze heavy. A lump formed in my throat as I fastened my long silver earrings.

I swallowed hard and busied myself with my makeup. A light powder foundation, a swipe of bronzer, blush, eyeshadow, dark purple eye pencil and lots of mascara. I buffed on my glowy finishing powder and tucked my lip gloss in my pocket. I took out my long pair of boots from the bottom of my suitcase. The boots Beck had requested.

Boots in hand, I returned to the living room, and Beck raised his head, lips parted, and stopped playing the piano. He let out a deep sigh. “She brought the boots.”

“I brought the boots.” I winked at him.

He let out a soft laugh. “You look great.”

“Why, thank you.” My chin lifted, my shoulders eased. Happy Beck was back. “You play beautifully.”

“Just a little ditty from Chopin. I haven’t played piano in a while. It helps me think. Or stop thinking so much, depending.”

I sat on the sofa and pulled one boot up my leg and zipped. “Which was it this time?”

---