“Pretty much.”
“Can I just say something?” she asked.
“Has anybody ever asked that question and not just said what they wanted to say anyway?” I tweaked her chin as I grinned.
She ignored me and pressed up on to her arm. There wasn’t a ton of room to maneuver so she sat up a bit awkwardly. Regardless, with her dark hair flowing around her and the satisfied glow to her cheeks, she was breathtaking.
“What’s the worst that could happen? So you were a teen pop star? So what?”
“Let’s not talk about this right now.” I tugged at the end of her hair.
“I’m not trying to ruin the moment. I’m just saying I bet nobody would really care. You don’t have to scare people to get respect. If anything, they’d think your background was cool.”
“Nothing about my time as a pop star was cool. I was thrust into a world I hated. I was used up by people who couldn’t have cared less about me and after about a year of undeserved fame, I fell off the map. I was dropped like that.” I snapped. I heard the tension amping up in my voice. “All my years of musical training, all my credentials and supposed gifts for instruments and composing, all forgotten. I was and will only ever be Erik Jones, one-hit wonder. That person is gone. Evaporated into anonymity. Devlin, at least, is known for musical composition and talent.”
“I just think—”
“I appreciate what you’re saying, but please drop it,” I said.
My hand itched to push her off me and leave the room. The anger was bubbling up. Why would she take this amazing moment we’d shared and ruin it?
She looked like she was about to spit venom but then she closed her mouth. A little crease formed between her brows. “Earlier. You said that sometimes you get angry when you can’t find the right words. Is that what you’re doing now? Getting mad at me because it’s easier than talking to me?”
My heart hammered against my chest. Her face was soft but determined. Sleepy but focused. “I don’t like to talk about this.”
“Clearly. You wear a mask to avoid connection with people. I just thought after we—after we shared so much, you’d maybe loosen the reins a little.”
I let out a breath and studied the ceiling. “There isn’t anything to talk about. People find out who I am, and they freak out.”
“Is that what happened with the other symphonies? You got fired when they found out who you were?”
Her gaze pierced mine as I held it. I chewed my lip before saying, “Yeah. Pretty much.” I was so close to telling her the truth. I hadn’t been fired—I’d quit. Because every time they’d found out who I was, they’d wanted to exploit me. They’d wanted me to sing Can’t Look Back as though they had any right to it.
“I’m sorry that happened. You’re so good. You are so, so good. It blows my mind a little. It’s hard not to put you on this pedestal because of your accomplishments.”
“I’m just a man.” My thumb tugged at her bottom lip.
“Oh, I know.” A slow smile spread on her face. Her hand moved up and down my chest. “Trust me.” She let out a breath and it tickled my nipple. “Still. It must be really frustrating to be judged by one thing you did a long time ago,” she said.
“Yes.”
“I wouldn’t know anything about that.” She smiled so big at me I couldn’t help but return it.
My God, if the symphony could see me now. If they knew what a sap I was for this woman, how she destroyed all my defenses with a single smile, I’d have no career left.
“Let’s not talk about our pasts anymore.” I pulled her back to my chest to kiss her lightly.
“You’re right. Let’s just be here now.”
I wrapped the blanket around us. We would have to face the real world tomorrow, but for now, we were here.
Chapter 32
Get out of your head.
KIM
Sunday evening when I returned home, I was surprised to find the house quiet. Usually there were a few stragglers leftover from my parents’ Saturday night festivities that often merged into Sunday brunch. I was glad to be alone for once. I floated on a cloud of ecstasy from the weekend and didn’t want to have to explain my good mood to anyone. Or worse yet, explain my relationship with Devlin. Which would be really difficult, because we’d never really gotten to that point. I wasn’t about to bring it up.
I just wanted to lay in bed with my few hours of free time and replay the highlight reel from the past few days. I’d had a breakthrough, I’d had some sexual experiences that rivaled walking on the moon, and I had found a sense of yearning to play my instrument again that I hadn’t felt in over a decade. Things were coming up Kim.
I had just passed the dining room when my mom called out, “Sweetie, can you come in here?”
Mom and Dad sat on a leather sofa with a small stack of papers, magazines, and books between them. My mother had her legs tucked under her—looking more elegant at close to seventy-five than I had in all my years on this planet. She had an arm around Dad. He took off his “readers” and placed them on the stack.
“Hey,” I said.
My mother wore a large loose-necked cowl sweater dress and black leather leggings. My father was wearing brown loafers with fancy little tassels. I noticed all this because I couldn’t quite bring myself to make eye contact with them. Could parents sense when their child had had mind-blowing orgasms? Lord, I hoped not. Why did it feel like suddenly a sign flashed above my head saying, “Your daughter got freaky this weekend!”
“Sit down, sweetie,” Dad said. “Let’s have a chat. Catch up. What’s going on with you?”
I sat in the armchair across from them, sliding in the leather as I tried to find a position to get comfortable. I ended up tucking my knees under my chin which made me feel even more like a child under interrogation. Nothing good ever followed a forced attempt to have a casual conversation. I was reminded of the ease I witnessed between Devlin and his family, of how they laughed and shared and spoke with the familiarity of long-time friends.
“Sure.” I settled on a vague, less was more response. “I’m good. How are y’all?”
My mother hummed a sigh and shot a look at my father.
“Best to just put it out there, Meredith. You know these things are worse if we build them up.”
An icy dread had me squeezing my legs tighter to my body.
She patted his head before picking up the glasses he had just laid down. They perched on her nose as she picked up one of the papers and began to read. “‘Devil of the Symphony makes more outlandish requests.’ Are chair auditions really that bizarre? It goes on. Yellow journalism, for sure, but here: ‘His muse and prized pupil, Christine Day, has moved quickly up the ranks as the new conductor seems to have taken a liking to her. Rumors of walkouts abound over the perceived favoritism.’” My mother put the paper back down, carefully folded up the glasses, and set them on top.
People were going to walk out over this? Devlin was supposed to be working toward bringing us together as a symphony. I was distracting him. I was causing this. I tried to clamp down on the wayward thoughts, but they ran wild with my heart rate.