Sing to Me (The Highlands Book 1)

by Ali M. Cross

  Nix jumped, swiveling to face her. “Was I lost?” he asked with a grin.

  “Not you—that dog! Is he your dog?”

  Nix looked at Pops and frowned. The dog had barely managed to lift his head when she got there, and now seemed to be fast asleep. “Pops?” Nix asked.

  “Yes, Pops. I thought he was a lost dog or something. I was about to call his owner.” She held up her phone in her hand.

  “Well, no need to call,” Nix said. “I’m right here.”

  “Of course he’s your dog. He’s as impossible as you are.”

  Nix chuckled and Fiona tried to ignore the answering laughter that warmed her chest. “Give me some credit,” he said. “Pops is at least 10% more impossible than me.”

  “Ha.” Feeling as if she’d been made a fool of, Fiona scowled and looked around for a place to put her things. Finally she stacked her books on top of the piano—having to step over Pops to do so—and draped her coat over the back of the one chair in the room.

  Nix ran his hands through his shaggy hair before standing and standing awkwardly beside the piano bench. “I wasn’t sure you’d show up here tonight.”

  “Why?” She moved past him, careful not to look at him. She didn’t dare look at him. As she recalled, it was his eyes that gave her trouble. Maybe if she just avoided them altogether she wouldn’t get all caught up in him. She gathered up his music and set it atop the piano to make room for her own. “I’m fine. And you need an accompanist. You wanted to go over the music, right?”

  “Uh, yeah.” Nix walked back to the chair where a big blue binder sat.

  Fiona placed her hands on the keys, letting them trip over them in a series of scales, getting a feel for the old piano and its sound.

  “Not bad for an old gal,” she said quietly. She moved into Silent Night since it was still playing in her mind, enjoying the piano’s warm, round sound.

  Nix came back to the piano, hesitated, then sat down on the bench beside her. She slid over to make room, tucking her hands between her thighs to hide the way they’d suddenly started trembling.

  “I’ve seen a lot of you today,” he said.

  “Yeah,” she said. “It’s been a weird day.” The words sounded normal enough, so she gave herself kudos for that. She felt anything but normal.

  Nix inhaled, paused, then said, “I’m sorry you got roped into being our accompanist. I know this isn’t what you enjoy doing.”

  That was the snap she needed to remember how bossy this man could be. He didn’t know anything about her.

  She turned toward him, her chin perched atop her shoulder, and pierced him with a defiant glare. “You do, do you? And how is it you know so much about me that you know what I like and I don’t like?”

  “Well, I—” he cleared his throat, “I know you’re a principal opera singer. You should be the soloist, not the accompanist.” His deep dark eyes—those very eyes she’d promised herself not to look into—flicked between hers, searching. She didn’t want him reading any of her secrets there, so she looked away, focusing on the empty music stand in front of her.

  “Is that right?” She removed her hands from the keyboard and fisted them in her lap. She practically vibrated with emotion she barely recognized. She was working to amp up the anger, but it wasn’t cooperating. Mostly she felt pulled toward him, desperate to lean against him, to feel him wrap his arms around her. But she didn’t need an arrogant small-town club owner who thought he was a master musician. She didn’t need any man, let alone this one.

  “Is that your professional opinion? As a master musician.” She emphasized the word master as she turned fully to face him, throwing all the intensity of her confused emotions into her glare. Nix visibly startled, then busied himself with extracting music from his binder. Midway through his rifling, he turned and gaped at her.

  “Is that what has you riled up?” he said after a moment. “I was joking! I thought you’d know I was joking, because obviously I’m not—” he gestured toward her, “you.”

  “You should have known I wouldn’t find it funny. People work hard for that distinction. Even I’m not a master musician.”

  Nix returned to the bench, a sheaf of music clutched in his hand. “Why would I? People make jokes. We’re just talking about a small town choir here.”

  “Exactly!” Fiona said. “You’re a—” she waved her hand in the air around her, indicating the room, the building, the church, “a church choir leader. You run a bar.”

  “A variety club.”

  “Whatever. All of that hardly qualifies you for the title of master musician. The masters are legendary. There are books written about them, documentaries, they have plaques and awards displayed in famous concert halls around the world.” She thought of the portraits of all the greatest musicians hanging in the gallery at the Met. “They’re not leading choir in Podunkville.”

  “You sure about that?” he asked, his voice a low rumble. That got her attention. His eyes, so open and inviting before, now seemed as closed off as she felt.

  She narrowed her eyes at him, and he returned the look. They stared, each trying to win the battle. With a downward twitch of her lips, Fiona was the first to turn away. Let him think he’s won this petty little game, she thought. I’m an actual professional.

  With quick, precise movements, Fiona grabbed up the first set of sheets from his pile and set them in front her. While she played through the arrangement, Nix worked to gather himself. This wasn’t how he’d wanted things to go. Not at all.

  “Not that one,” he said, reaching out to pluck the music from the stand. She leaned forward and lifted her right elbow as if to block him.

  “Beautiful arrangement,” she said with a small smile. She closed her eyes while she let the notes on one chord linger in the air for a moment, then opened them to continue playing.

  The music was Silent Night. One of the simplest Christmas hymns, next to Away in a Manger. As soon as he became choir director Nix knew he wanted to do Silent Night, but he wanted something unlike anyone had heard before. He listened while Fiona worked through the first few stanzas, her playing easy and sure. Until everything fell apart.

  “Where did you get this?” she asked. “It’s like the arrangement isn’t even finished—or at least not finished well.” Of course it isn’t any good, since I wrote it, he thought sourly.

  Steeling himself against her criticism, he said, “It’s my arrangement, and it’s not finished yet.” There might have been some bite in his tone, but she’d just have to forgive him. She hadn’t exactly created a friendly atmosphere here. Not that he’d done anything to help on that front. He didn’t think he’d ever felt so many different emotions in one day—or felt so unsure of himself around a woman—in his entire life.

  She played a chord with loud confidence, letting the discord ring out like she had the sweet tones a moment earlier. “Wow. For a master musician, you’re a bit of a letdown.”

  His hackles rose. He knew the section was rough, hence the rehearsal. If the piece was perfect, he wouldn’t need help, would he?

  “Listen, I know what I’m doing. I’m just having trouble with this section.” He worked hard to keep his tone even, but she must have read the anger in his face because he watched as her body stiffened and her eyes grew steely.

  “What?” she asked in mock humility. “You want help? From little ol’ me? What could I possibly have to teach a master musician like yourself? Especially one with such a unique—” she played the next four bars of the arrangement, proving with every note that he had no business at all composing, “ear.” She ended the last note hard and angry, turning to glare at him.

  “You have no idea—” he started, then stopped himself. He wasn’t ready to tell her his story. Not like this. He’d kept the secret for almost ten months—he wasn’t going to spew it out here and now. Not to defend himself from this snotty little diva. He wouldn’t tell anyone unless he could guarantee they’d keep his secret, and Fiona MacDonald was not t
hat person. He stood and paced the room.

  “You have no idea—what?” Fiona pressed, standing and planting her hands on her hips.

  “So you went to a fancy school and sang at a fancy opera house,” Nix blurted. He strode over to her until his face was inches away from hers. “I grew up in music. I learned to play before I walked. I’ve performed all over the world. I’ve got so many platinum albums, I could cover an entire freaking wall with them.” He was shouting now, watching her eyes for some sort of acquiescence, but she stood straight and immovable, her eyes as cold and judging as before.

  “I thought you’d be different.” He stepped even closer. “I wanted you to be different. But you’re just like every other back-stabbing ladder-climbing musician I know. It’s all about you. All about you. You never stop for one second to think about anyone else. About the people around you. About your own family. Well take it from me—you’ll be sorry one day. You can sing your fancy music all you want, but one day you’ll be all alone and then you come talk to me. Let’s see how full of yourself you are then.”

  He spun around and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

  FIONA COLLAPSED ONTO THE BENCH, STUNNED BY NIX’S outburst. What did her singing fancy music have to do with him being a master musician? What did he mean about performing all over the world? What did any of it mean?

  She considered what to do, whether she should go after him or leave herself, but she didn’t know where to find him and she wasn’t in a hurry to get home. Lindsay was the only one there and she was in full mom mode, baking and cleaning and snooping. She kept pushing and pushing for Fiona to talk about New York, the Met—Nix. Apparently it hadn’t escaped anyone’s notice that she’d invited him to lunch the other day.

  Besides, Nix was obviously coming back because he’d left his dog here. She leaned around the piano to get a better look at him. As far as she could tell he hadn’t even twitched during all the drama—but his chest was rising and falling in a steady rhythm, so she supposed that was a good thing.

  “Well,” she said to Pops. “Guess we’ll wait for him, then.”

  She finally turned to face the piano and worked on the Silent Night piece. The beginning truly was beautiful. She especially loved the way he’d written the duet. Instead of two harmonizing voices, one voice wove around the other like a vine, singing a lullaby, while the other created the original imagery the song had long evoked.

  The problem came in the bridge where the music rose and became exultant. Nix had tried to create a joyous rise, but it didn’t match what he’d already written, which was sweet but a little melancholy. It was like he’d taken two different pieces and smashed them together; even the key change didn’t work.

  As she sat there, hands on her lap, considering what to do, the answer came sweetly into her mind. She began to play, making note of her changes on a fresh sheet of staff music. She worked for an hour and Nix never returned. Finally she stood and stretched her back. She started to pack up Nix’s music, too, then decided that was presumptuous. She’d have to take it to him, or he’d have to come get it from her—and she wasn’t sure she wanted to see him. Or for him to see her. She had no idea how they were going to work together.

  So she left his music, including the sheet with her changes. She hesitated as she considered what to do with Pops, but when she opened the practice room door, he bolted past her in a blur of brown and black. “Whoa,” she said. She hadn’t even seen him move before he was streaking by at full speed.

  She turned off all the lights as she left the building. She couldn’t lock up, but she figured Nix would be back. She didn’t know much about him but she didn’t peg him for the kind that would leave the church building unlocked all night.

  She was worried about Pops though. She called his name and waited by her car for several moments and he didn’t show up, so she got into her car and started for home.

  As she approached Variety, she slowed. She felt really bad about Pops and worried she’d somehow done something wrong by letting him get out—not that she’d have been able to stop him even if she’d tried. Except for the lights illuminating the parking lot and lighting up the fancy Variety sign on the front of the building, the place seemed deserted. She knew Nix had an apartment above the club, but from the road you’d never know it.

  She pulled slowly into the parking lot, not at all sure she was doing the right thing. If it hadn’t been for that darn dog this whole night might not have happened. And now, after all that, she had to face Nix—again.

  She left the car running, parked so its headlights illuminated the rear of the building. Nix’s car was there, so at least she’d be able to tell him about Pops—though now she was wishing she’d just called him. Lindsay would have had his number.

  But she was there and a dog was missing and who knew what creatures were roaming around in these mountains that could tear him apart? She knew full well there were mountain lions—and it was not too late in the season for bears. In fact, they’d be busy bulking up these days and would probably just love a big ol’ dog like Pops.

  So she squared her shoulders and marched up the stairs leading to Nix’s apartment. She knocked without hesitation and a moment later the porch light flicked on and Nix was there—with Pops sitting right beside him.

  Nix had spent the last hour sitting inside his nearly dark apartment, feeling like the biggest jerk on the planet. He couldn’t explain his anger toward her, and though he was very familiar with the self-loathing that clung to him now like horse snot, he had no clue why he’d blown up the way he had. He’d gone for a drive and ended back at his place, expecting he’d go back to the church any second—but he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

  Instead, he’d spent the time talking to God and trying to reason out his feelings for Fiona.

  He cared about her. A lot. She was a walking contradiction: wild and free, elegant and restrained. She did a fine job of appearing as rock solid as the mountains they lived on, but when he’d held her . . . there was a softness in her, a pliability that had surprised him. She was all these things and he hadn’t been able to shake her since the day he’d found her in his parking lot. It wasn’t just that he’d never felt this way before. It wasn’t just that he thought he understood her and knew what she needed. It was something more. Something he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, name.

  He thought God had brought her home because she needed to be here. She was being given a chance Nix hadn’t—the chance to reconnect with her family before it was too late. She needed to know she was loved. She needed to realize how much she loved and needed her own family. Even if she went away again—she couldn’t go without knowing. Nix thought he was supposed to teach her these things since the day he’d gotten her hot chocolate at the lodge. But now he thought not only that, but maybe she was supposed to be his connection. His . . . family.

  And here she was, standing on his porch step.

  He wasn’t ready to face her. He hadn’t figured anything out yet. But he stepped aside anyway and asked, “Would you like to come in?”

  She stared at him with a shocked look on her face before she asked, “How did he get here?” She pointed at Pops, who groaned and turned away. And farted.

  “Ew!” Fiona exclaimed.

  Nix chuckled and stepped out onto the small deck beside her, closing his offensive dog inside the apartment. “Sorry about that,” he said. “He got home a few minutes before you got here.”

  They looked at each other, the awkward silence thick and heavy between them.

  “Look,” Nix started, running a hand through his already tousled hair. “I—”

  “Well I’m glad he’s here safe,” Fiona said, cutting him off. “I couldn’t lock up, so—you might want to go do that.”

  “Right.”

  She watched him—waiting for something? Too many somethings crowded around his head for him to grab hold of any one of them. Should he apologize? Tell her he didn’t want to fight with her? Tell her
he wanted to be her friend—no more than her friend because what he really wanted was to kiss her.

  “Well, night,” she said, and she turned and started down the steps.

  Wait, Nix thought, but it didn’t come out of his mouth. Instead he stood there until he heard her car door close and her engine move away.

  The way she’d looked just then on the doorstep—so open and vulnerable—it wasn’t anything like the woman he’d seen in the music room with her cold arrogance. She’d reminded him of all the years dealing with people who were only using him, only looking for that leg up so they could climb on his back and stand taller. He laughed at himself and shook his head. Thing was, he was pretty sure he’d bend over backward for Fiona. He’d carry her on his back the rest of his days if that’s what it took. But he’d do it because he cared for her and he wanted her to reach her highest, happiest point—not because she needed his failure to earn her success.

  Fiona wasn’t like that though, was she? He honestly had no idea what she was like since he’d seen so many parts of her in the few times they’d met and only caught glimpses of the real her—or so he thought.

  Eventually he went back inside, grabbed his keys from the hook by the door and stuffed his bare feet into his boots. He didn’t bother with a jacket, figuring he’d be back before he got too cold. He’d better get to the church and lock it up. There wasn’t much crime around here, but churches always seemed to be targets for the nefarious and he didn’t want to be the one responsible for it getting vandalized. He already had enough to atone for.

  As he flicked on the light above the stairwell to the basement music room, he thought about how Fiona had stayed at the church for quite a while—another reason to be angry with himself for not going back—which meant she might have tried playing his music. He wondered if she’d left it or taken it with her. If she took it, he’d have a reason to go see her. He stopped in the doorway. Did he even want to go? What would he say? I’m sorry I was such a jerk, but you’re a jerk too? He shook his head. This was impossible. He couldn’t decide if he hoped his music was there or not.