by Dana Volney
“Then I definitely want to learn the piano,” she managed to say as she inconspicuously took a couple deep breathes to slow her spiked heartbeat.
He rifled around on the kitchen counter and handed her a lighter. “Would you mind? I’ll set out the food. It’s been a long day. I’m hungry.”
“Sure.”
She found all of the vanilla candles in the living room, tempted to see if he had any in his bedroom. When she moved to the kitchen and dining area he had their dinner plated and sitting on the small, white, round table.
“Shall we?” he asked.
He pulled out a dark wooden chair for her and stood behind it until she sat. Pretty much every man she’d ever dated before meeting Marc sucked—no one had ever pulled out a chair for her before. And, probably more true, she didn’t pick awesome men to date. Maybe Marc would be the exception. What am I doing? This was her M.O.—every time, she dove in too fast and assumed things that weren’t true in reality. Nope. Not this time. Marc would be the exception—she was going to live in the moment.
“Thank you.”
The white plate in front of her was filled with red mashed potatoes, chicken, and a cream sauce that smelled heavenly. She was going to have to start working out if he fed her like this every time the old building lost power. And by working out she meant the sweaty kind that involved Marc and their clothes on the floor.
“We’re having some comfort food tonight.”
“Looks yummy.” She unfolded her napkin in her lap. She was mighty underdressed for linen napkins.
“Thank you.” He sat across from her and took a swig from his bottled water before digging into the chicken breast.
Sophie loaded up her fork. “Mmm, what’s in this sauce?”
“It’s a sour cream white sauce with paprika. A family recipe.”
“Amazing. So … how was your day?” she asked.
“Hectic. Part of I-25 is closed, so my delivery truck is stuck in Cheyenne. Probably until tomorrow.”
“Geez. Do you have backups?”
He looked up from his plate and met her eyes. “Always. That doesn’t mean they’re easy to implement, though.”
“Fair enough. I don’t have cooking skills, but I’ll send good thoughts your way.”
The ends of his lips curved up. “I’d like that. So, what about you? How was your day?”
His sincerity made the ends of her lips turn up. They were talking about ordinary people stuff—like this was their normal and they each cared how the other had fared. Nice didn’t even start to describe their dinner and the warm fuzzies consuming her soul.
“Not as exciting as yours, that’s for sure.” It had been way too long since she’d had this type of normalcy in her life.
“I already know it didn’t involve buying candles or flashlights.”
“No.” She smiled. “It involved cleaning and lyrics mostly.”
“Lyrics?”
“Yeah, I wanted to use my vacation time to write a couple of new songs. I was working on the melody when the power went out.”
“You know, you could continue your work over here if you’d like.” He watched her as he took another drink of water. “I provided the meal, you could provide the post-dinner entertainment.”
What? No. Absolutely not. Any other song, maybe. But the song she’d been working on all day—no. It was about him, for crying out loud.
“I don’t think … I don’t really play for people until I feel the song is complete.”
“Oh, come on. I’d love to hear you play.”
I could play a different song. He’d never know.
“Did you bring home dessert?” she asked.
He shook his head slowly. “Is that a condition?”
“It is now.”
“What would you like?”
“If you don’t already have one … ” Her left hand fiddled in her lap. Having him ask her to play him a song was exciting and scary all at once. What if he didn’t like her music or voice? She loved the roar of applause and looking past the bright lights to see people following along to their songs—especially the ones she’d written. In a crowd, at least a couple of people would like the music; one person was a tougher sell.
“Name any dessert you would like to eat tonight.”
What wouldn’t he be able to make at home? “Crème brûlée.”
“Then you’ll play what you’ve been working on for me?”
She nodded. Oh no.
“You better go get your guitar.” He took a triumphant bite of his chicken.
Shit. “You can seriously make that right here, right now?”
“What kind of master chef do you take me for?”
“Now you’re a master chef?” She giggled.
“It’s not that hard to make.”
“And you have the little torch thingy?”
He chuckled. “I’m a chef. Of course I have a butane torch.”
“I thought you were a master chef.”
“Isn’t that what I said?”
“Alrighty. A deal’s a deal.” What sickness could she suddenly fake that would be believable?
He followed her to his front door after they finished their meal. Before she could ask the question she already knew the answer to, he spoke.
“Dark hallway.”
He waited for her to return before locking them back in his apartment. She wasn’t sold on singing in his vicinity, and she damn sure wasn’t rolling out the new song about him—it wasn’t even finished. She had some good lines, a possible chorus, and half a melody. Maybe he can’t really make dessert. Although, she’d already retrieved her guitar—saying no would be difficult now.
“Let’s see it.” She set her guitar on the couch and followed him into the kitchen.
“Oh, crème brûlée takes three days to set.”
Whew.
“So, it’s a good thing,” he reached into the fridge, “that I happened to have made a batch on Christmas.”
“What are the odds?”
“Slim to none, I’d imagine. These have to set out for about thirty minutes before I caramelize the sugar.”
She stared at the little white cups holding delicious-looking yellow cream. Thirty minutes. I could sing every song I’ve ever written twice and still have time to kill.
If she looked at the situation logically, there was no way Marc would realize she’d written a song about them should she throw it in the mix. Songs could be about anything, and people interpreted them differently depending on their experiences. So what if maybe a tiny part of her wanted to play the song for him—a small, minuscule part was even excited? She kind of hated that part of her right now. It was annoying and would probably have consequences that weren’t fun—like him asking if it was about their evening and her not having a lie ready.
“Sophie?”
“Yeah?”
“Are you okay? I asked if you wanted a glass of wine.”
“Oh, ha, I’m fine.”
“You look a bit pale.”
She shook her head and took a deep breath. “I’m good. And yes to wine.” She was going to need to wine it up if she was so nervous she was turning paler than her already fair skin tone.
She sat in the same spot on the couch as the previous night and set her guitar on her lap, strumming to make sure it was still in tune. Marc sat in his spot close to her and crossed his legs, ankle to knee. He held two glasses of wine and offered her one.
“Or, I can hold it.” He motioned to her guitar.
“Let me take a drink first.”
“Cheers. To the end of a year that brought new starts into our lives,” he said.
New starts? I’ll definitely drink to that. “Cheers.”
They clinked glasses, and she drank a couple gulps, which turned into draining the entire glass. She handed it back to him with a sheepish grin.
“You don’t have to be nervous,” he said. “And, really, if you don’t want to play, then please don’t. We’ll still have the
crème brûlée.”
Candlelight lit the room around him, and she focused on other items in her line of sight, like the TV and the loveseat—anything but him.
“I play for tons of people all the time.” Which is way better than only one person. Especially when that person was adorable and so very kissable. “I’ll play you a couple of different songs.” A good compromise, she thought, as she cleared her throat.
The first song was set in C minor, and she started the simple repetition of four notes. She looked at him but only briefly met his bright blue eyes.
“This song is called ‘Lovestruck.’” She’d composed it about three years ago, and it remained one of her favorites.
Singing about heartache and heartbreak was always emotional. She’d read somewhere that emotional pain could be remembered with more intensity than physical pain. When a person remembered emotional trauma, they could feel the sensations and loss all over again, whereas memories of physical hurt lessened over time. If this song went well, and she possibly had another glass of wine, maybe then she’d sing the song about him. If she removed herself enough from the lyrics and didn’t look him in the eyes, she could get away with it.
• • •
Sophie’s rich voice reminded him of a cross between P!nk and Kelly Clarkson. Marc resisted the urge to close his eyes and let her sound wash over him—she might perceive his action as rude. Her words were pointed and sad. Had she written the song from personal experience? Had her heart been broken so horribly? He wanted to gather her in his arms and kiss away her past. The fact that her words also reminded him of his own heartbreak wasn’t as easy to acknowledge.
He wasn’t sure what to say when she finished. Her face was solemn, like she felt every word.
“Beautiful,” quietly slipped passed his lips. Not the manliest statement he’d ever made, but her song truly embodied the sentiment.
A tentative smile tightened her lips. She looked back down to her guitar and started her next song. The melody was noticeably different—higher notes and slower. He closed his eyes momentarily to let the rhythm carry him.
The lights flickered, my heart fluttered
There you were
You watched me with curious eyes
That’s how I knew
This is the start of something new
When he opened his eyes to watch her, there was a familiarity he couldn’t quite put his finger on.
Surrounded in darkness
You are my light
The world through your eyes is where I want to live
Candlelight conspires with you
Take me away
Her body language was shy as she flirted with him through her song. The scene in front of him was damn near the sexiest he’d ever seen. The way her head moved invited him to touch her—a notion that hadn’t left his mind since yesterday.
How is this stunning woman sitting in my living room singing to me right now?
Was her song about them? Nah, that’s ridiculous. Fear threatened to creep in, but he squashed the insecurity. Sophie was curvy in all the right places; he’d be crazy not to see where the night would take them. Not every woman was a Felicia. Fear may have stepped in for the last year, but it would no longer have a hold over him. Sophie’s voice trailed, ending the song, and neither spoke.
“You’re very talented.” Marc finally found his voice.
“Thank you.”
He wanted her to explain the song, to talk about her music. She dropped her head but didn’t start playing. He didn’t know enough to ask an intelligent question; he only knew he appreciated what he’d just heard.
“Did you write both of those songs today?”
“No.”
He ignored the stab of disappointment at her curt word. “They’re very good. I don’t understand why your music isn’t more popular.”
“We do well for ourselves around here.”
“Have you tried to get an agent or something?”
“No. I also haven’t thought about moving to Nashville or California, and I don’t want to sing without the girls.”
“All right, all right, so you have thought it through.” He sipped his wine. He’d forgotten it in his hand—it was a miracle he hadn’t dropped it while she sang.
“I like Casper and my life here. This is home.”
“I’ve noticed a nice sense of community. And people seem to know each other quite well.” Something he’d have to get used to. “Your music tonight is softer than most of the eighties-era stuff. What type of music do you prefer?”
“I really love covering the songs of the eighties—there was just something about those power ballads and the emotion of the lyrics, ya know?”
He nodded and watched a smile start to tug at the ends of her lips.
“But,” she continued, “my favorite to write is the slow, tugging-at-your-heartstrings kind. Putting words to music that speaks to people at a different time in their life, tells a unique story, and evokes emotions is hard but one of the most powerful things a person can do, I think.”
He fully agreed—he was feeling his own emotions summoned by Sophie, and they were powerful indeed. The glimmer of her wide, brown stare as she looked straight into his eyes slowed his breath.
“What kind of music do you like?” she asked.
“I go in for a mix of types.”
“You mean you don’t just listen to Bach, Mozart, and Geminiani?”
“Oh, I go in for Baroque now and then.”
She laughed. “Someone is knowledgeable on classical styles of music.”
“I’m going to ignore how surprised you are.” He grinned. Never thought orchestra would help me impress a girl. He’d save the fact that he was decent at playing a violin for a later date. “I favor classical, yes, but also R&B, rock, and the occasional nineties jam. No country, though.”
“Then we have a problem, because some of my up-tempo songs have a definite country twang.”
“Then maybe I’ll change my mind.” He was going to have to be careful. Sophie might have the ability to change his mind about a lot of things.
“I’m trying to write a full set of music, actually. I’m a couple songs in anyway.”
“All of what you sang should be on there.”
“You’re too kind. I don’t think they’ll all make it.”
Man, he could kiss her right now. She practically glowed talking about her music, and her entire face was a smile. There was something extremely sexy about a woman who knew what she wanted.
“I should check on the crème brûlée,” he said and carried his wine glass with him into the kitchen. The servings were ready for the vanilla sugar and torch thingy, as Sophie had referred to it. She followed him and stood so close he had to focus on why he was in the kitchen in the first place as he fumbled in a drawer, finally finding the torch.
It sparked, and she jumped. He held in a laugh. She was so damn cute.
“Want to try?” he asked.
“Of course.”
Marc layered the vanilla sugar in one white ramekin dish and set it on the counter.
“You’re going to want to hold the torch about three inches from the top and move it back and forth. Don’t stay too long on one spot or it’ll burn. I’ll tell you when to stop.”
She did as he instructed, and he watched her eyes focus and the smile leave her face. He lined up another dessert on the counter. What would she do if I kissed her neck right now?
“Great work,” he said when she’d heated the crème perfectly.
He turned off the torch, set it on the counter, and his hand slid around her waist. He pulled her into a side hug. He intended to let her go, but she twisted toward him. Her brown eyes sparkled in the candlelight.
His lips met hers, and it piqued urges deep down in his belly. Every touch of her finger tips excited his skin, every breath drugged him with her sweet scent, and every moan put him on the verge of losing control. Her deep kisses stirred emotions he didn’t think he w
as capable of having again.
But he could let himself have one night.
• • •
Marc kissed Sophie’s jawline all the way to her ear. When she reached for the waistband of his jeans she heard him groan into her neck. His hot breath on her ear combined with the want in his tone made her sizzle.
“I can’t promise you anything,” he whispered into her mouth, then kissed her top lip.
I don’t care. I’m going to enjoy you for the moment, Marc. “Good. I don’t want anything.” Those weren’t the sexiest words to say, albeit, but they were as true as she could make them. She kissed him lightly on the ear and whispered, “Well, after tonight.”
In an instant she was off her feet, in his arms—taking the opportunity to nuzzle his neck all the way through the small apartment. He fumbled with the bedroom door handle, finally pushing through, and she heard the door bang against the wall. Hello, mystery room.
He laid her down on a soft comforter and wasted no time rolling with her so that she lay on top of him. The room was dark and still; they were the only two people in the world. Her hands were at the hem of her shirt to pull it over her head in a flash, and he took the cue to shed his at the same time. She could barely see his silhouette now that the bedroom door had nearly shut again. His fingertips felt their way around her body. Every caress burrowed into her skin and settled into her core, relaxing and enlivening her all at once.
He rolled them again, stripping them both of the rest of their clothes, then he was on top, kissing her neck, which—damn—sparked her sensitive pulse. Her ears started to buzz with excitement; every inch of her tingled with anticipation. Marc’s lips and palms traveled down, licking her nipples. He nibbled and sucked, and she could feel his nose push into the top of her breast. She wanted every bit of him close to her.
His kisses trailed down her belly to her swelling need for him. He licked into the center of her clit, and she moaned. He moved his hands to her hips and butt, pulling her closer as she ran her hands through his thick head of hair. She arched her back from the pleasure, moving her hands up to reach above her head. Then, without warning, he moved away from her to stand at the foot of the bed. She didn’t have time to voice a question, because he pulled her toward him to the edge, and she heard a condom wrapper ripping. He grasped her hips, and she wrapped her legs around him, pulling herself closer. He rubbed his thumb in circles on her wetness; she bit into her lower lip and felt her body flush in anticipation. He shifted away then filled her in one fluid motion. She closed her eyes at the welcome, intense sensation. Marc set their rhythm, and with every thrust he drove her wild. She could hear his breathing intensify as hers did too. Her mind shouted more and faster. Though the words never made it out of her lips, his body responded in kind.
