She wanted to stomp away and slam the door, make a dramatic exit to show how disgusted she was. But she’d lit the candles, and they needed to be extinguished. Her responsibility. In silence, she circled the hot tub, blowing out each one.
“Nell?” Eamonn said, his voice rising to make it a question. She shot him a this is not a good moment to talk look, one she’d perfected over years of martial arts classes and hundreds of students. His shoulders slumped and all hope faded from his face. Then the last candle was out, and she strode inside, spine straight and chin high, refusing to look back.
Nell woke to music, haunting piano sounds that morphed from classical lament to grieving fatalistic jazz, accompanied by the rhythm of heavy rain. At first, it felt like part of her disturbed dreams, but gradually she concluded that she was actually hearing the melody coming from somewhere. It didn’t strike her as Eamonn’s kind of thing, but she remembered him saying on the drive up that he had a classical playlist if she’d prefer it. Although what she was hearing didn’t sound like any of the jazz she’d listened to in his truck, she knew she’d slept for some of the drive. Perhaps he’d found a sound system in the cottage and plugged his phone in, or maybe he had a portable speaker. Either way, it made her angry.
He had a lot of nerve to play music while she was sleeping. At full volume, no less.
And how dare he listen to — and like — something so beautiful? He’s scum for enabling an addict like that. Cocky, self-entitled scum.
She had not slept well.
Unfortunately, she was not the kind of person who could roll over and snooze or go back to sleep, no matter how much or little sleep she’d had. Once awake, Nell was switched on for the day and felt an overwhelming urge to get up. Mornings lounging about in bed weren’t in her nature.
She launched into her morning workout, doing twice the usual reps at a furious pace, and it failed to soothe her. Usually, the burn of well-worked muscles would induce a pleasant glow of satisfaction, but today she just felt sore and drained. A scalding hot shower didn’t help, either.
The music cut through everything, and it sounded like grief and loss and an apology. I’m sorry, I did wrong. I’m ashamed, forgive me. I miss them.
Nell seethed inside. The man was just listening to music; it didn’t mean a thing. I refuse to feel sympathy or find excuses for what he did, she told herself. Why should I care, anyway? He’s nothing but a co-worker at a job I hate. Still, she couldn’t shake the memory of his sexy gasps and shaky self-control as she’d touched him. And she didn’t want to face him.
Putting this off is cowardly. At least her hoodie had dried overnight — though it didn’t provide much armor, she thought grimly that it did a better job than the previous night’s wet underwear. Summoning a neutral expression to her face, she crossed the bedroom and opened the door, strode into the sitting room like a competitor into a ring.
The music wasn’t from a playlist, wasn’t recorded at all.
Eamonn sat at the piano, his whole body moving with the music that flowed from his fingertips. He wore nothing but a pair of jeans. In daylight, the crying angel tattoo wrapped around his left side looked even more tragic than it had in the romantic glow of the night before. Oh, ever-loving hell, he’s spectacular, Nell thought helplessly. How can I stay angry at that?
Then he became aware of her presence, and his hands froze over the keyboard as he turned his head to look at her in apprehension.
“But you’re a bass player,” she said, breaking the silence in the stupidest way possible.
That prompted a bark of bitter laughter from him. “I started with piano,” he explained. “Played since before I can remember. Then guitar and bass once I could hold them properly, I guess. I’m not a good drummer, but I can fill the role if needed. Flute and saxophone too, and weirdly enough, harp — one of Mom’s groupie friends taught me that one, hanging out on someone’s tour bus on the road.”
She blinked at him. All that? “Why?” she asked, then frowned at him. “Also, could you put a shirt on?”
“Sorry. You were pretty clear that you didn’t want me in the bedroom last night, and all my stuff was in there. It’s lucky I hung these jeans over a chair out here to dry.” He pushed the piano bench back and stood up, glancing over to where his damp swim trunks now graced the back of one of the kitchenette chairs.
If he’d had nothing else to put on… He’s definitely going commando under those jeans, then. Nell shook her head at that irrelevant conclusion. She did not need to be thinking about the equipment he was packing behind his button fly, or how thick and firm he’d felt in her hand the night before. “I should have thought to toss your bag out here. I was…” Angry. Disappointed. Frustrated. But she refused to apologize.
“Yeah. I’ll get my shirt.” He headed for the bedroom but stopped in the doorway and looked back at her, with a wry half-smile and a resigned look in his eyes. “I know this has sunk any chance I had with you, and I won’t push it.” He nodded as if to emphasize that he meant it before disappearing through the door. She heard rummaging-in-bag noises and then the sound of the bathroom door closing.
No more of his flirting, no more being coaxed to spend a night with him, no more hearing
