We Have Till Monday by Cara Dee (moboreader .TXT) 📕

instead. “This is beautiful.” I ghosted my fingers over the keys but didn’t play them. “Was your mother a musician?” I searched the walls for clues; there were no pictures, but several vintage posters that’d been framed. Promotional posters for burlesque shows, classical concerts, and paintings of great composers. A wild mix.

“Nothing that went beyond singing in her church,” King answered. “But her second husband was a pianist, her favorite uncle toured in a blues band, and her brother—who died in a car accident in his twenties—was a guitar player. It’s his collection on the wall.” He got up from the bench and leaned back against a wall instead. “Will you play something?”

If you want.

I tested the keys, bracing myself for the worst, and was surprised to find the piano perfectly tuned.

King must’ve seen the surprise on my face. “I take good care of everythin’ in here.”

Evidently.

I shifted in my seat. “Sorry about my bitchy outburst earlier, then.”

He chuckled. “You’re protective of instruments. It’s sweet.”

Occupational hazard.

“On that note, I advise you to keep this lid closed when you’re not here.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” He paused before he spoke again. “Do you know any classical music? I loved listening to my stepfather when he played.”

I was happy to be of service. “Do you have a preference?” Since the last piece I’d played was “Für Elise” with James, I tinkered on the beginning for King, knowing it would forever be the most recognizable work.

“Oh, you actually know what you’re doin’.” King looked visibly impressed. “Do you know of Debussy?”

Did I know of Debussy… For fuck’s sake. The question was practically insulting.

Personally, I found his most famous piece, “Clair de Lune,” overrated. And it paled next to the masterpiece that was “Rêverie.”

I eased into the first notes and kept my gaze on the keys, getting to know them, sinking into the music, letting old memories wash over me. I’d obsessed over this piece in college. Nonna had loved listening to me play it too.

If I remembered correctly, it was also the piece that made Nicky vow to become as good at guitar as I was at piano.

He’d succeeded.

“My God, Anthony.” King approached slowly as the song built up toward its rather angsty climax, and he sat down on the edge of the bench.

“Tell me about your stepfather?” I asked quietly.

“In a moment. Please play it again.”

So I did. The dream state-like beginning, how it split and let my hands each tell their own story, one more playful than the other, then how the theme shifted, as if the two tales were in a debate and almost arguing, slowly building up toward an ending that left the listener empty and missing something.

“That was amazing,” King murmured.

“Thank you.” The second my fingers were off the keys, the silence crashed down on me too heavily. There was tension in the air that I didn’t know how to interpret, so I chose to play more. Something else. A mindless tune to keep the tension at bay.

“Damn, boy,” he sighed. “I’m still feelin’ the shivers from your playin’.” He blew out a breath and shook his head, and I kept my face composed. But fuck yeah, that was some raving review. “You asked about my stepfather—not much to tell. A genuinely good man who treated my mama the way she deserved, unlike my biological father, who left us when I was in college. Unfortunately, my stepfather loved bad food almost as much as he loved my mother. It took one heart attack.”

I winced. “Sorry to hear that.”

He shook his head quickly, closing the subject, and checked the clock on the wall. “I can bore you with family deaths another time. Can you play something else before the guests arrive?”

“Sure. More classical music?”

“I’d like to hear what you prefer to play,” he answered. “Do you sing too?”

I smiled faintly. “A bit.”

“Well, then. Don’t be shy.”

I chuckled under my breath. While I wasn’t much for tooting my own horn, I knew my strengths—possibly because they were so few.

I was a damn good musician and a damn good singer. Nicky claimed I had the voice of a dozen tortured angels, and that I defined the whiskey voice. But those were his words. I was humble and would settle for half a dozen angels.

“Has nothin’a do with shyness,” I answered, tinkering on one of the songs I’d be performing with Nicky and the others next weekend. “If you wanna hear me sing, you and Camden should come to the music festival next Saturday.”

King cocked his head at me. “Camden mentioned he was wonderin’ about some of your social media posts. You’d talked about packing the truck for Nashville—and somethin’ about a gig.”

I nodded and gave him the CliffsNotes that’d led up to me joining his online giveaway—since I’d already be in the area around the same time as this food festival. It was a good time to bring up the gift too. As a thank-you for hosting the cooking class and whatnot—and me being raised by a grandmother who told me never to come empty-handed to someone—and, I guessed…just, thanks for everything. It was two tickets to the music festival.

“You’re serious?” he half stated, half asked. “That’s damn sweet of you. Count us in. I’d love to go.”

Cool. I wasn’t going to flip my shit. So what if August King and Camden Adair were going to watch me live? No big deal.

“I’ll get you the tickets later. They’re in my duffel.”

“We’re actually goin’ that way right now,” he said and stood up. “You just decided you wanted to grab a smoke before the ranch turns into a meet n’ greet.”

I grinned and rose from the bench. “Do you want your own smoke, or do you wanna sniff me?”

His eyes flashed with mirth, and he held the door open for me. “I’ll withhold my answer until I’ve made up my mind.”

I knew what I was hoping for.

Fuck. I was probably a complete tool for flirting with him, even if it was playful