Suddenly I was extra thankful I’d been smart enough to bring a gift for King and Camden, because this trip was turning out to be precisely what my soul needed.
The sun was dipping lower over the hills, painting the sky orange and purple.
I hadn’t gotten dressed yet. I’d taken one look at the sky once I was outta the shower, wrapped a towel around my hips, and brought my smokes outside.
I was responding to a text from Nicky when I heard the main patio doors slide open, and King stepped out, dressed and ready for a barbecue. He had to be one of the most beautiful men to walk this earth. Jeans and flannel had been replaced by dark dress pants and a light-blue button-down tailored to his body.
“There you are,” he said. “I’m already regretting gettin’ dressed.”
“I couldn’t help myself,” I responded honestly. “It’s fucking gorgeous out hea’.”
He smiled and came to a stop next to me. “May I?”
He held out two fingers, which meant only one thing. I handed over my smoke, wondering—but never mind. He took a drag from it.
“Don’t tell anyone.” He coughed a little and returned it to me. “Camden and I both quit four years ago.”
Shit. “My bad, I didn’t mean to tempt—”
“It’s fine.” He waved me off and sat down in the other chair. “My sister smokes, so I keep the ashtrays around. And sometimes I sniff her a little bit.”
I let out a laugh.
“You know, for claiming youse don’t entertain much, you’re kinda treating me like royalty,” I said. “I’m a simple man, King. No need to roll out the red carpet.”
“Like royalty?” He was going to argue with me… “I was just thinkin’ in the shower—I haven’t even had the decency to ask if you’re hungry.”
My turn to be dismissive. I happened to be hungry as fuck right now, but it hadn’t crossed my mind before. Besides, work was always too busy, and I hadn’t exercised, according to the shitty diet I’d been keeping since Nicky moved out. I could stand to lose a few.
“I’m just glad you’re thinking about me in the shower.” I met his grin with a smirk and stubbed out my smoke. “I’ll go get dressed. Be right back.”
I ducked inside the guest room and dug through my duffel for an outfit that would look decent next to King’s. I did have a black button-down that Nicky had bought me, which I could admit looked good on me. But jeans would have to do. I only owned a single pair of dress pants, and they were reserved for funerals.
Fresh socks, some extra deodorant, cologne, my watch, keys, wallet—where was my phone? Probably outside. I didn’t remember bringing it in with me.
Folding the sleeves of my shirt, I rejoined King on the patio, and he told me that he wanted to show me something.
“Do I need my shoes?” I asked, pocketing my phone.
“No, it’s inside.”
I followed him past the barbecue area and into the house, where he veered left. In front of me was a set of stairs that made me think about Camden. Was he really going to hide out upstairs all evening too?
King continued down a hall and didn’t stop until we’d reached the end. Then he opened a door and revealed a slice of heaven by my standards. They had a music room. Why was I not surprised?
My feet sank into the soft carpet as I eyed the guitars on the walls. At the center of the room was a baby grand with its lid open. I withheld my cringe and shifted my focus to the saxophones and mandolins by the window facing the front of the ranch.
Why collect instruments if you didn’t play them?
They were expensive models too. The Steinway alone went for almost a hundred grand.
Madonna mia, I’d never been so torn between grief and awe.
“Tell me this isn’t a rich man’s hobby to collect instruments you can’t use,” I blurted out.
King furrowed his brow at me. “I inherited every piece from my mother.”
That brought me a lot of relief. “Thank fuck.”
He became curious. “How do you know I don’t play them?”
“No guitarist worth his salt hangs a collection of Taylors on the wall like that unless he doesn’t intend to play them again.” I wanted to fucking cry. I walked over to the guitars and brushed a hand over one of them. They had to have a cleaning service around this place. There wasn’t a speck of dust. That was something, at least.
“How do you store your own instruments?” he asked. “You said you played several.”
“That’s different,” I replied. “I don’t own an instrument that I don’t use at least once a week.” I’d been thinking about turning my second bedroom into storage for my instruments, now that Nicky wasn’t using it anymore. So far, I had a pantry under the staircase that I definitely didn’t store food in. I also had a walk-in closet on the first floor that’d become a storage unit for my guitars. “You know how leather gets softer when you wear it? And how a cast iron skillet gets better the more you use it?”
“I’m surprised you know that last one.”
I chuckled. “My grandmother is Italian. Some shit rubs off, I guess.”
He smiled and sat down on the piano bench. “I think I know where you’re goin’ with this.”
I nodded. “Guitars are the same.” Touching a guitar was actually good, especially older ones that didn’t have a thick coat of glossy finish. The natural grease in our hands softened the wood and prevented it from cracking, and I explained that to the master chef.
“Duly noted. I should come in here every day and stroke the wood.”
I snorted and shook my head in amusement. Then I sat down next to him, only I faced the piano
