Once Killian has wolfed down two portions, he puts his plate in the dishwasher, then pauses at my side and shoots me a sharp look. “Upstairs, the moment you’re done eating. Bring your sheet music.” Then he’s gone.
While I finish eating, I keep glancing at Ian, thinking he’ll say something—let me off the hook. But he just watches me, arms crossed over his chest, uncompromising authority rolling off him in thick waves.
“What is he going to do?” I finally ask, pushing my empty plate aside.
“Hear you play. Probably correct your technique.” A smile tips up his lips. “He’s quite the stickler for proper wrist movement. Like me.”
“Will he—”
Leaning his arms on the table, he cuts me off. “Jenna, you’d better hurry, or I’ll let him know you’re stalling.”
My heart leaps into my throat, pounding away. I get up, about to grab the plate, but Ian pushes it out of reach. “Upstairs. Now.”
I half run to the entryway, afraid Killian will punish me if I don’t get there soon enough. Three steps up the stairs, I remember my sheet music, turn around, and rush to Ian’s music room, then back to the entryway and up the stairs.
I’m panting when I stop at the open door to the music room. Killian is at the piano, practicing a rapid passage that I thinkmust be from Rachmaninoff’s third concerto, fingers rushing over the keys with effortless technique.
Taking his time, he finishes the part, leaving me gawking in open awe.
“Sit,” he demands when he gets up, not even turning to look my way.
I scamper across the floor and drop onto the bench.
Killian snatches the papers from my hands and sets the four tightly-packed pages of sheet music in front of me.
“Play.”
I glance at him, his sharp features, his immaculate hairdo, and his arms bulging slightly as he crosses them over his chest. He’s all sleek perfection and masculine authority, strict attention and unwavering focus.
The sight unnerves me as much as it thrills me.
Not daring to linger too long, I turn to the keys and begin. The melody draws me in immediately, wrapping the room in a sense of nightly peace that fits the darkness outside, speckled with city lights, perfectly. But the peace is fleeting. A thunderous storm breaks up the beautiful melody with a staggering descent of deep notes and rapid-fire sixths that I struggle to keep up.
I make tons of mistakes, and my pace is uneven, but Killian doesn’t stop me. He lets me return to the peaceful theme and finish the piece with grace.
Once I lift my hands from the keys, I wonder if he’s counted my mistakes the way Ian sometimes does and I’ll get to pay for them in strikes of slashing pain.
He doesn’t say anything, just watches the sheet music, contemplating, then steps around me. “You need more weight in the left hand,” he says and demonstrates. “More forward movement.” He plays the line leading back up and ends with a sharp accent on the final note. “More attack on the f.” Then he repeats the same line in one fluid motion.
“Aren’t you going to lecture me about wrist movement?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Dad has already taken care of that.”
Surprised, I turn my head to face him.
“Just keep practicing slowly and softly and you’ll get those sixths nice and crisp.”
“Oh,” is all I can say. The usually hard facade of mockery and condescension seems to have faded. This version of Killian is calm and focused. Patient even.
“This right here is your anchor.” He plays the left hand again, slowly, with great crescendo. “Let it set the pace—not the right hand. Now you try, just the left hand.”
Seeing Killian’s masterful effortlessness as he plays sends a stab of regret through me.If only I hadn’t been forced to stop playing, I could have handled the line just as well. If only I had been brave enough to continue, I could have been his equal, not his student.
“Try it out,” he urges.
I shove the thoughts away. Because regret has no place invading my new hopeful world, and as much as Killian enjoys putting me down, he has never done so at the piano. If anything, he’s strangely encouraging as he gestures for me to go ahead.
I place my fingers on the keys and play the same line, imbuing it with more power and finishing on a forceful note.