Derek's music never faltered, but the corner of his mouth curled up in the beginning of one of those cocky smiles that made Layla feel all squishy inside. Great. Maybe he wasn't as consumed by his art as she thought.
Once Bertie was gone, Layla continued to hold up the counter while Derek played. The man was good. She had no idea. She felt her disdain for him slipping away with each passing measure.
She pretended to be busy with something next to the cash register when his eyes flicked over her. Maybe she didn't have to hate him anymore. He had stopped by the diner to apologize, and as if that weren't enough, he'd paid a hundred bucks for a package of strawberry licorice.
And of course, there was the pie to consider. Talk about knowing exactly what to do to get a woman to forgive you.
She wasn't sure what he was doing in Maybe, but it couldn't hurt to treat him a little better while he was here, could it? How long could that be, anyway?
Give it a day or two, and all of this would be nothing more than a fun story to tell at parties, as if she ever went to any parties.
Hey...did I ever tell you about the time the Derek Taylor gave me a ride home in the rain? He even bought me a pie.
Derek finished the sonata, the torrent of notes resolving into chords which rang out with a finality she found oddly unwelcome. She opened her mouth to say something--a compliment on his skill, perhaps--but he launched into another piece with barely a pause for breath.
She guessed he meant it when he told Bertie he was in desperate need of some time alone with a piano.
Immediately, Layla recognized the same Chopin piece that had been on the radio the day he'd driven her home. She'd never be able to listen to it again without thinking of the way the rain fell all around them as they waited there in her driveway, stuck in some alternate reality where for a few heartbeats, only the two of them existed. When he wanted her to pretend he was somehow less than who he really was, and she wanted to pretend she was somehow more.
And she'd told him if he could play like that, she'd throw her underwear at him.
The sly glance he cast her way told her he hadn't forgotten her offer. She hadn't expected him to actually be able to play Chopin as easily as if it were no more difficult than Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star. Silly her for not realizing that rock star and concert level pianist were not mutually exclusive.
Come on, Layla. So what if he paid a hundred bucks for some candy? So what if he bought you a pie?
He's not a real person. Just look at him. Real people don't look like that, don't sound like that.
Real people don't distract her--even just a little--with their outrageous pants.
She came around from where she hid behind the counter, meaning to go in the back room for a few minutes so he could actually be alone with his music and so she could break whatever connection she felt with him because of it.
Instead, she found herself inching her way toward him, first in front of the counter, then by the spindle of sheet music, then by one of the upright pianos at the edge of the showroom.
She hadn't meant to get closer to him, but she couldn't help it. The music drew her in before she could convince herself it was a bad idea. Because it could only be a bad idea to get closer to this man.
Layla came to a stop at the side of his piano, studying him while he played. He seemed to be intentionally ignoring her once more, his downcast eyes focused on the keys in front of him. His full lips were slightly parted, relaxed in contrast with the driven movements of his hands and arms. He radiated energy, projected that special power only the very talented possessed.
She took a step closer, something inside her yearning to be even closer to that flame so that she might be part of his fire, even for a second. He shifted and bounced on the bench, the muscles of his thighs tensing under the material of his pants, which were the same red ones from the other day.
Yup. The man was fond of his sex-colored pants.
And Beethoven help her, so was she. It was beginning to feel a little like torture.
Her face flushed with the heat his music stirred in her, and her heart raced in time with his fingers as they flew across the keyboard. She inched closer, her knees brushing the edge of the bench now, barely able to fight the sudden urge to touch him.
The heat drained out of her as she realized how many women wanted to touch him--how many probably had touched him. She was behaving like a groupie.
She pressed her lips together. That wasn't fair.
He came into her life, didn't he? He kept showing up, like he was supposed to be there. He'd told her to pretend he was an ordinary guy...it was a game to him, but why couldn't she play it if she wanted to?
Some games are worth playing. That's what he'd said. Maybe he was right.
Layla stood there until he was done with the piece, mostly listening but finding herself longing for something more.
His fingers stilled on the keys, the final note stoking the yearning inside her even as sound faded to silence. She drew in a long, shuddering breath, only then realizing that she'd been holding it as she imagined what it would be like to have sex with a man like that, one so full of fire. She wanted to touch it, to be scorched in that delicious way that would leave her body both sore and satisfied. She wanted to take him inside of her, taste his flame so that it might burn away her problems, if only for little while.
He cocked his head up at her, a slight smile playing at the edges of his mouth. His fingers continued to dance across the keys. "Fancy meeting you here."
She tried to smile back, to plaster some kind of expression on her face that would show him she was willing to give him a fresh start if he was willing to do the same. But she was pretty sure the only expression she managed was a cross between "my day was total shit" and "I want you to fuck me on that piano bench." With her luck she probably looked like she was in pain.
Which she supposed was pretty spot on, in all respects.
Derek scooted over on the bench, an unspoken invitation for her to sit next to him. Alarms blared in her head, but for once she silenced them. She slid down onto the bench, her body stiff as she attempted to maintain a respectful distance between them, but a piano bench was only so big. Plus he hadn't scooted that much.
Oh...fuck it all to hell.
With a sigh she relaxed, but it was only on the outside. On the inside, she wound even tighter as her arm and thigh melted against his. She could feel the heat of his body through her clothes, and it spread to her belly in the most embarrassing way.
She stared down at where their legs pressed together, his red superstar pants against her plain jeans, and she shook her head.
"What?" He shifted so he was closer to the center of the keyboard, effectively molding their bodies together.
Her stomach fluttered.
She supposed she could have moved over on the few remaining inches of bench, but she didn't want to. The heat from his thigh felt too good against hers, warming her over a low flame if not exactly setting an inferno.
Layla chuckled, suddenly finding the whole situation absurd after the week she'd been having. She laughed again when she thought about work.
Bad week? Try year. Try decade.
"Why are you laughing?"
"Our legs are touching, that's all." Her laugh faded to a sigh.
"Oh."
He started to shift away, but she put her hand on his thigh to stop him. His pants were as soft as she imagined. "No. It's fine. It's just...you're you, and I'm me. Remember? I still can't get used to it."
"There's nothing to get used to. We're both just people, Layla."
The frayed silk of his voice sent a shiver up her spine, and his thigh tensed under her hand, pushing her dangerously close to the point where she stopped thinking about how the fire would burn and jumped headfirst into the blaze so she could find out for herself.