Logic told me I shouldn’t engage with Isabella any more than necessary. It was inappropriate, considering her employment and my role at the club. I also had the unsettling sense that she was dangerous—not physically, but in some other way I couldn’t pinpoint.
Yet instead of leaving as my good sense dictated, I closed the distance between us and skimmed my fingers over the piano’s ivory keys. They were still warm from her touch.
Isabella relaxed into her seat, but her eyes remained alert as they followed me to her side. “No offense, but I can’t picture you in a nightclub, much less a neon anything.”
“I don’t have to take part in something to understand it.” I pressed the minor key, allowing the note to signal a transition into my next topic. “You played well. Better than most pianists who attempt the ‘Hammerklavier.’ ”
“I sense a but at the end of that sentence.”
“But you were too aggressive at the start of the second theme. It’s supposed to be lighter, more understated.” It wasn’t an insult; it was an objective appraisal.
Isabella cocked an eyebrow. “You think you can do better?”
My pulse spiked, and a familiar flame kindled in my chest. Her tone straddled the line between playful and challenging, but that was enough to throw the gates of my competitiveness wide open.
“May I?” I nodded at the bench.
She slid off her seat. I took her vacated spot, adjusted the bench height and touched the keys again, thoughtfully this time. I only played the second movement, but I’d been practicing the “Hammerklavier” since I was a child, when I’d insisted my piano teacher skip the easy pieces and teach me the most difficult compositions instead. It was harder to get into it without the first movement as a prelude, but muscle memory carried me through.
The sonata finished with a grand flourish, and I smiled, satisfied.
“Hmm.” Isabella sounded unimpressed. “Mine was better.”
My head snapped up. “Pardon me?”
“Sorry.” She shrugged. “You’re a good piano player, but you’re lacking something.”
The sentiment was so unfamiliar and unexpected I could only stare, my reply lost somewhere between astonishment and indignation.
“I’m lacking something,” I echoed, too dumbfounded to dredge up an original response.
I’d graduated top of my class from Oxford and Cambridge, lettered in tennis and polo, and spoke seven languages fluently. I’d founded a charity for funding the arts in underserved areas when I was eighteen, and I was on the fast track to becoming one of the world’s youngest Fortune 500 CEOs.
In my thirty-two years on earth, no one had ever told me I was lacking something.
The worst part was, upon examination, she was right.
Yes, my technique surpassed hers. I’d hit every note with precision, but the piece had inspired…nothing. The ebbs and tides of emotion that’d characterized her rendition had vanished, leaving a sterile beauty in their wake.
I’d never noticed when playing by myself, but following her performance, the difference was obvious.
My jaw tightened. I was used to being the best, and the realization that I wasn’t, at least not at this particular song, rankled.
“What, exactly, do you think I’m lacking?” I asked, my tone even despite the swarm of thoughts invading my brain.
Mental note: Substitute tennis with Dominic for piano practice until I fix this problem.I’d never done anything less than perfectly, and this would not be my exception.
Isabella’s cheeks dimpled. She appeared to take immense delight in my disgruntlement, which should’ve infuriated me more. Instead, her teasing grin almost pulled an answering smile out of me before I caught myself.
“The fact you don’t know is part of the problem.” She stepped toward the door. “You’ll figure it out.”
“Wait.” I stood and grabbed her arm without thinking.
We froze in unison, our eyes locked on where my hand encircled her wrist. Her skin was soft to the touch, and the flutter of her pulse matched the sudden escalation in my heartbeat.
A heavy, tension-laced silence mushroomed around us. I was a proponent of science; I didn’t believe in anything that defied the laws of physics, but I could’ve sworn time physically slowed, like each second was encased in molasses.
Isabella visibly swallowed. A tiny movement, but it was enough for the laws to snap back into place and for reason to intervene.
Time sped to its usual pace, and I dropped her arm as abruptly as I’d grasped it.
“Apologies,” I said, my voice stiff. I tried my best to ignore the tingle on my palm.
“It’s fine.” Isabella touched her wrist, her expression distracted. “Has anyone told you that you talk like an extra from Downton Abbey?”
The question came from so far out of left field it took a moment to sink in. “I…a what?”
“An extra from Downton Abbey. You know, that show about the British aristocracy during the early twentieth century?”
“I know the show.” I didn’t live under a rock.
“Oh, good. Just thought I’d let you know in case you didn’t.” Isabella flashed another bright smile. “You should try to loosen up a bit. It might help with your piano playing.”
For the second time that night, words deserted me.
I was still standing there, trying to figure out how my evening had gone so off the rails, when the door closed behind her.
It wasn’t until I was on my way home that I realized I hadn’t thought about the CEO vote or its timing once since I heard Isabella in the piano room.
ISABELLA
“Mom asked about you the other day,” Gabriel said. “You only come home once a year, and she’s concerned about what you’re doing in Manhattan…”
I frowned at the half-empty page in front of me while my brother rambled on. I already regretted answering his call. It was only six a.m. in California, but he sounded alert and put together, as always. He was probably on his office treadmill, reading the news, replying to emails, and drinking one of his hideous antioxidant smoothies.
Meanwhile, I was proud of myself for rolling out of bed before nine. Sleep proved elusive after last night’s encounter with Kai, but I’d thought that maybe, just maybe, the strange experience would be enough to jar a few sentences loose for my manuscript.
It wasn’t.
My erotic thriller about the deadly relationship between a wealthy attorney and a naive waitress turned mistress formed vague shapes in my head. I had the plot, I had the characters, but dammit, I didn’t have the words.
To make matters worse, my brother was still talking.
“Are you listening to me?” His voice was laced with equal parts exasperation and disapproval.
The heat from my laptop seeped through my pants and into my skin, but I barely noticed. I was too busy devising ways to fill all that white space without writing more words.
“Yes.” I selected all the text and cranked the font size up to thirty-six. Much better. The page didn’t look so empty now. “You said you finally consulted a doctor about a sense of humor implant. It’s experimental technology, but the situation is dire.”
“Hilarious.” My oldest brother had never found a single thing hilarious in his life, hence the need for a sense of humor implant. “I’m serious, Isa. We’re worried about you. You moved to New York years ago, yet you’re still living in a rat-infested apartment and slinging drinks at some bar—”
“The Valhalla Club isn’t some bar,” I protested. I’d endured six rounds of interviews before landing a bartending gig there; I’d be damned if I let Gabriel diminish that accomplishment. “And my apartment is not rat-infested. I have a pet snake, remember?”
I cast a protective glance at Monty’s vivarium, where he was curled up and fast asleep. Of course he slept well; he didn’t have to worry about annoying siblings or failing at life.
Gabriel continued like I hadn’t spoken. “While working on the same book you’ve been stuck on forever. Look, we know you think you want to be an author, but maybe it’s time to reevaluate. Move home, figure out an alternate plan. We could always use your help in the office.”
Move home? Work in the office? Over my dead body.