by Taylor Dean
I can hardly believe I live here, or that this could possibly be my home for a very long time.
It’s early morning and the fog surrounding the Golden Gate Bridge is still lifting. The sun is starting to rise, painting a colorful picture across the sky. It’s such a peaceful sight from Ryker’s sky-high apartment. When I’m down amongst all the traffic, hustle, and bustle, it’s crazy. It’s an escape living up here. I see why Ryker loves it so much. I’ve been here two weeks now and I enjoy living here alone far too much. Not sure what that says about me.
The penthouse is modern and updated. It doesn’t have the popular open concept everyone loves nowadays, though. The kitchen is tucked away to one side with its own breakfast table. But the large wall of windows and the balcony that extends almost the length of the penthouse makes it feel open and airy.
To my surprise, Ryker left his journal on his nightstand, a masculine leather-bound book, made to look old with roughened edges lining the pages. There was a note attached from Ryker stating he’d like me to read it, that it would help me to get to know him better. He said he didn’t want any secrets between us.
I’m touched that he took me seriously when I said I felt like I didn’t know him well. But I can’t bring myself to read his journal. It feels like an invasion of his privacy.
No more wandering thoughts. Back to work. I have six hours of practice to get through before I have to be at the San Francisco Ballet Company for afternoon classes. Most traditional ballet schools still hire live pianists to play for classes and auditions. The pay is excellent, and it keeps me doing what I love.
Then I have practice with the Marin Symphony this evening. Our show will consist of highlights from various concertos, rather than focusing on one in particular for a change. It’s been fun to concentrate on the favorite classical pieces, ones that most people recognize, even if they don’t know their names.
My favorite is Rachmaninoff’s Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini. Everyone’s favorite part isn’t even until sixteen minutes into the piece. I feel like I’m cheating, but it’s nice to cut to the chase and only play the most recognized portion. I’m also playing some Brahms, Vivaldi, Bach, Beethoven, and Mozart. All the classics.
I delve into my warm-ups and lose myself in the piano, disappearing into another place where only the perfect pitch and seamless notes exist. I feel the music and become one with it as it leaves my fingertips and escapes into the air, only to be captured by my ears and embraced by my heart. A continuous ebb and flow.
Two hours into my practice time, my phone rings. I’m ready for a short break, so I answer. It’s Ryker, facetiming me through messenger.
“Hi, sweetheart. You are a sight for sore eyes,” he says, smiling into the camera. “I needed to see your beautiful face and hear your sweet voice.” He’s still in his suit, sitting at the desk in his hotel room, looking mighty handsome with his brown eyes focused on me.
“Hey, Ryker.” I study him closely. “You look tired. Are you okay?”
He loosens his tie and unbuttons his top button, relief evident in his features at the action. “Just a bit exhausted. Nothing a good night’s sleep won’t cure.”
“What time is it there?”
“Eleven at night. If I calculated correctly, it’s eight in the morning in San Francisco and you’re right in the middle of practice. Am I right?”
“Spot on.”
He’s woken me up in the middle of the night a few times. I’m glad we’re finally figuring this out.
“How’s everything?” he asks.
“Just fine. But I have a confession.”
“What’s that?”
“There’s a new love in my life.”
Silence.
“Humor, Ryker. This is humor. Go with it.”
He shakes his head, like I’m silly. “Okay, I’ll bite. Who is the new love in your life?”
“It’s not a who, it’s a what. I’m totally and completely in love with your home. You now have competition.”
He doesn’t smile. “Not really. It’s inanimate.”
So, I’m not a comedian. But I wish I could make him laugh. Just a little. Even a small smile would be satisfying. I think he’d feel more relaxed if he could let loose.
That’s not who he is though.
My gaze ping pongs from him to my lap. I’m unsure of his mood. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Now that I see the face of the woman I’m falling in love with, I am.”
There’s that falling word again. I remind myself that it’s his way of saying I love you and I let it warm my heart. I again attempt to keep the conversation light.
“Whoa, keep talking like that and I might hop on a plane and join you.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
I feel myself deflate, releasing a long, low sigh. It’s clear Ryker’s not in a playful mood. He never is, but it’s more pronounced when he’s tired.
“Sorry, Mila. That was humor again, wasn’t it?”
“A poor attempt, but yes.”
“Thanks for putting up with me.” His stony expression battles with his words, leaving me confused.
I watch my lips compress on the screen and I deliberately relax them. “You know what, I’d better let you get some sleep. Thanks for calling. It’s good to see your handsome face. Get some rest.”
“Mila, wait. I’m sorry for being short.” He runs one hand over his face. “I hit the ground running when I arrived, and I think I’m still fighting jet-lag. Can’t seem to catch up.”
I nod. “I understand.”
“Miss you like crazy.”
My heart bursts into a million tiny pieces at the crumb he’s thrown me. I’ll take it. “I miss you too.”
His chest puffs out enough for me to notice his pleased response. “Before you go, will you flip the screen and show me your baby grand in my living room? I’d love to see it again.”
“Arthur will be heartbroken, but okay.” Of course, he never asks to speak with Artie. My little buddy is currently curled up on his dog bed, his ears perked at the sound of Ryker’s voice.
I flip the screen and show him the view of my baby grand sitting in the corner of the living room, with only a wall of glass as its backdrop. It’s an art gallery worthy picture.
He whistles. “That looks incredible.”
“I think so too. It really is an amazing place to practice.”
I flip the screen back to me.
“Hey, don’t forget to put felt pads underneath the legs. I don’t want the floor to get scratched. I ordered some for you on Amazon. Did they arrive?”
I lift a single eyebrow. “No, not yet.”
Every phone call so far has included detailed remarks about how to take care of his home. Wipe the faucets down after using them. Pour bleach down the drains once a week. Use a microfiber cloth to remove fingerprints on the stainless-steel refrigerator. It dominates our conversation. If I’m being honest, I’m annoyed.
His eyes squint as he studies the screen. “Is that a blanket and pillow on the couch?”
I glance behind me, pretending I don’t know they’re there. My soda and popcorn bowl are still on the coffee table too. Should I announce there’s a coaster under my soda can? I return to my piano bench, so the window is behind me. “Movie night last night. I fell asleep on the couch.” My favorite way to relax at the end of the day.
“I don’t usually sleep on my couch. Sounds, uh, fun.”
His tone implies that it’s anything but fun. More like the most distasteful thing he’s ever heard.
Raised by Debra, I remind myself. Over and over. He needs someone to teach him how to relax.
“I’ll put everything away. Don’t worry. I promise not to trash the place like a rockstar in a fancy hotel.” I immediately regret my words. There’s not a chance he’ll find them amusing, even if he found anything in life amusing.
His expression remains blank. “Of course not.”
I take a deep breath and decide to
be blunt. “I’m not a neat freak, Ryker. Is that a problem? If it is, please say so now.”
“I trust you, Mila.”
Somehow that answer makes me feel guilty, like he trusts me to keep his place as neat as he does. That’s not going to happen.
He continues. “I wouldn’t have asked you to live there if I didn’t have faith in you.”
“I guess that’s all I can ask.” I wish this conversation could start over.
He rubs the back of his neck. “I’m beat. Good night, Mila. I’ll call again soon.”
He’s gone before I can say anything else.
“I love you too,” I whisper in the silent room, sarcasm evident in my tone. I turn on the bench and catch my reflection in the window. My eyebrows are deeply furrowed, my lips turned into a frown.
That didn’t go well. My heart is questioning my relationship with Ryker and wondering if we’re really a good fit. The seeds of doubt planted inside me have become climbing vines, reaching up to strangle me.
I’m losing something, but I don’t know what it is or how to define it. And I don’t know how to catch it and bring it back, either.
Arthur whimpers from his dog bed, missing his daddy.
“Sorry, Artie. He’ll be back, don’t worry.”
chapter six
~
THE ELEVATOR DINGS as I rub my eyes. This day has lasted forever and I’m seeing double. I pull out my key with aching fingers and head for Ryker’s penthouse, my steps slow. The classical pieces I practiced with the symphony are rolling through my head, granting me no mercy. I need a quiet evening to relax and de-stress. Clear my mind.
I received a text from Ryker, asking me to be sure to keep up with cleaning the floor-to ceiling-windows. I’ve been reminding myself all day that I’m getting free rent, so I won’t feel irritated. He said a service comes and cleans the windows once every two weeks, but it’s helpful if someone removes any built-up grime in between cleanings.
No I miss you. No I’m falling for you.
I let out a huge discouraged sigh. I wish I could go back in time and feel the same stirrings he created within me in the beginning. Even how I felt only a few weeks ago would suffice. I think my emotions are stuffed in a lost-and-found box somewhere far, far away.
The first thing that registers as I push open the door is loud music blasting from a music station on Ryker’s big screen TV, Lady Antebellum’s Need You Now. I wonder if I accidently left the TV on. Then I come face to face with a shirtless man standing in the doorway to the kitchen.
Adrenaline washes through my body, erasing fatigue and bringing me to life in an instant. Yet, I’m frozen in place, my hand rushing to my throat in a protective gesture.
He’s barefoot, clothed in only a pair of torn-at-the-knees jeans. His short hair is damp, and a towel is hanging around his neck as though he just showered. He’s holding a cereal bowl, and when he sees me, his spoon, dripping milk, pauses mid-air, like I told him to freeze with my imaginary magical powers and he obeyed.
For several moments too long, we stand there staring at each other, both in shock. It’s as though we’ve turned into an artistic viewing of ice sculptures, a display for the public that captures this blip in time forever.
Frozen encounter.
I hear the music announce that I need you now, and I think to myself, I need someone right now. Someone to help me. Immediately. Move, Mila. Act. Do something. Someone has broken into Ryker’s apartment and made themselves at home. It must be someone who knows he’s out of town. Someone who thinks they can squat without being discovered.
He reacts first by reaching into his back pocket and pulling out the remote to the TV. He quickly mutes the music.
I spring to life, pull my phone out, and stumble backwards. My back hits the front door, latching it closed, effectively barring my escape. It’s a heavy twenty-minute fire door. Can I turn and open it quickly? Nope. “Stay where you are, I’m calling 911 right now.”
“Good. Tell them there’s a strange woman who just busted into my apartment. She looks dangerous too. Tell them I’m scared for my life.”
My trembling finger hovers over the keypad. Joke? Was that a joke? Have I been around Ryker so long that I can’t recognize humor?
My breath comes in short spurts, and my eyes blink rapidly as I try to form a sentence. This man bears a slight resemblance to Ryker. He has the same dark brown hair, the same brown eyes. The similarities between them end there, though.
“W-wait. Are you Zane?”
“My reputation precedes me, I see.”
This is the moment when I should laughingly say, “Yes, I’ve heard of you. Don’t worry, it’s all good, though.” But that’s not the case. It’s been all bad. I have been warned about him. Told to never trust him.
“By the look on your face, I’m pretty sure that’s not a good thing,” he adds, taking another spoonful of cereal.
I don’t confirm or deny.
Zane is slightly taller, more buff, and a bit rougher around the edges. Where Ryker’s face is soft, Zane’s is hardened, as though life has dealt him a few hard knocks. His bare bronzed chest and ripped abs are staring at me and they won’t look away. Don’t they know it’s rude to stare?
Now that the shock of finding a man in the penthouse is wearing off, I’m wondering why I’m so terrified when he’s not threatening in the least bit. What’s he going to do, hit me with his cereal bowl? Douse me with milk? I know I should be wary of Ryker’s mysterious brother, but instead I breathe out heavily with relief and attempt to calm my racing heart.
“You scared the life out of me.”
“Sorry, I wasn’t expecting anyone to barge in, either.”
“Ryker felt sure you wouldn’t show up on his doorstep.”
He brings another spoonful of cereal to his mouth. “And yet, here I am.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Gonna be home for a while.” He shrugs nonchalantly, leaving me wondering at his evasive answer.
Ryker said he was a bit of a nomad, always wandering the globe. It appears he was right. I notice there’s a pile of suitcases stacked in the middle of the living room. One is open, the contents spilling out onto the floor, as though he’s been rummaging around in it.
“You can’t stay here. I’m staying here.” I point to myself. “I’m the caretaker of Ryker’s apartment while he’s gone.” I hate being called the caretaker, but I guess that’s what I am, essentially. Might as well accept it, earn my keep. And get busy cleaning the windows.
“Ryker’s gone? Where is he?”
“In Japan for three months on business.”
“Ah, I didn’t realize he’d left already. Way to go, Ryker. He knows how to rep-re-sent. He’s a shark when it comes to business. He’ll do well for Dad.”
My features squint, baffled by Zane’s complimentary tone. Ryker does not return the favor toward him.
Ryker’s voice is ringing in my ears saying, Don’t trust Zane, Don’t trust Zane. I straighten my shoulders to hide my wariness. “Like I said, you can’t stay here.”
“There’s three bedrooms. Plenty of room.”
“That’s not the point. I live here.”
His stance is wide, confident. But I notice the brief unsure glance he sends me. “Great. So do I. There’s room for everyone.”
I cover my face with my hands, exasperation quickly replacing caution. I’ve known Zane for five seconds and I already know he’s nothing like Ryker. He’s far too casual and unconcerned.
Arthur approaches on shaky legs, looking between us.
“Artie, you’re supposed to be protecting me,” I tell him. “Intruder alert. Sick ‘em!”
“Really?” Zane says. “I’m shaking in my boots. If I was wearing any, that is.”
Artie obeys me by approaching Zane and licking his bare feet.
“Help me. I’m so scared.”
His deadpan tone makes me bite my lip to hide an emerging smile. “Hey, be careful. Dogs can se
nse fear. Just saying.”
“I’d rather not suffer death by lick.”
That breaks the ice. We both chuckle lightly.
Zane has a great smile, open and friendly. “I’m sorry I scared you.”
“I apologize for the frosty reception. You took me by surprise, that’s all. I’m Mila. Mila Westerman.”
“Mila,” he nods. “So, you’re the caretaker while Ryker’s gone, huh?”
Ugh. “Well, I mean, yes . . . but I’m also Ryker’s . . . girlfriend.” Why do those words bumble out of my mouth?
His head pulls back, like someone slapped him. He conceals his reaction quickly, but I know I surprised him and I wonder at his response.
He clears his throat. “Why the hesitation?” he asks coolly, acting as though he didn’t react to my words.
Did I imagine his physical shock? Of course, I did.
He’s perceptive and I’m far too transparent. Does everything I do and say scream uncertainty?
Because it’s true. I’m uncertain of Ryker and I hate that the tiny seed of discontent is there, like grit in my eye.
“There was no hesitation. It’s just a little complicated,” I lie.
“May I ask why?”
“It’s always complicated when a couple is talking marriage.”
No physical reaction this time. As a matter of fact, he could be made of stone. “Is it?”
“Of course. It’s a huge decision, one that effects the rest of your life.” Why am I explaining myself?
His eyes drop to the sparkly ring on my finger. His eyebrows shoot into his forehead, a small pierce in his emotional armor. “Hold on. You’re engaged? To Ryker?”
I let out my breath and it emerges as a bit of a huff. This has turned into a sore subject. So many people I work with have asked me if I’m engaged because my ring is sitting on my left ring finger, exactly where Ryker placed it. It’s embarrassing to explain the details every single time. I’ve been thinking about changing it for days.
Now is the time.
I remove it and place it on my right ring finger. “It’s a promise ring. We’re not engaged yet,” I say, subdued.
