I narrow my eyes.
“I’m not going to sleep with you, you know.”
Julian smiles wickedly.
“Notyet, maybe,” he teases, and before I can think of a sharp retort, he barrels on. “You were singing when I came in. Why did you stop?”
Heat prickles up my neck. I thought the piano would have drowned me out.
“I’m not much of a singer,” I confess.
“Sure you are. You’re an alto. You’re not hitting any whistle notes anytime soon, but of what I heard, your tone was flawless,” he says.
And then he begins to play a song. A few notes in, I recognize it as “Killing Me Softly.” He flashes me a smile that is all sugar. “If you’re going to deny me the pleasure of a conversation, at least give me another song.”
I swallow. I’ve never sung anywhere I could be heard. It was something I did on my own—in my shower, at the piano in my living room—but never with an audience, and most certainly not with a partner. This is possibly the most intimate thing a stranger has ever asked of me. At any other time, in any other place, I might have feigned humility and changed the subject. But there’s something about this room, its glowing flecks of dust, its stacked furniture and floor-to-ceiling French windows, that make it ripe for memory making. My exquisitely handsome companion—whose hand, I’ve just noticed, spans over an entire octave—is a nice addition to the dreamlike ambience.
“Fine,” I say, clearing my throat.What the heck.“But maybe you should play ‘Smooth Operator’ instead.”
“I can do you one better,” Julian says, and when he starts playing again, I realize it is Sade’s “Is It a Crime?”
I throw my head back in delight. Julian has managed to convert a song full of saxophone solos and jazzy undertones into a piano ballad while still remaining recognizable, and I don’t know whether to be jealous or impressed.
“Okay, fine, so you know a few good songs,” I confess.
“More than a few,” he says, and then he settles into the verse and looks to me expectantly.
I’m shy at first, my voice barely a rasp over my piano accompaniment. But after the first verse passes and Julian doesn’t burst into laughter, I sing a little louder. By the time we reach the chorus, I’ve abandoned all apprehension. Julian’s shoulders bump into mine as he stretches along the span of the keys, and I find myself leaning into him, thrilled to the point of pleasure when he begins to harmonize with me. His clear baritone adds a haunting, resonant quality to our siren song, and I find myself fixated on the shape of his mouth, watching it stretch and shift around a voice that is clearly trained. He has full, pillowy lips, I realize, the kind that would look fishlike on a less balanced face, and I resist the urge to reach out and touch them. They curve into a slight smile around his open mouth, and my own goes dry.
I shouldn’t want to kiss Julian. Shouldn’t be wondering how those large hands would feel spanning along my back, that supple mouth opening against mine. He’s cocky and handsome and I know exactly the kind of damage his type can wreak, and yet I can’t look away. When was the last time I desired someone so immediately, and so intensely?
I don’t notice that we’ve both stopped singing. The final note hangs, suspended, in the air.
“You’re staring, Sean,” Julian purrs.
“Am I?” I whisper, inching ever closer to my mistake. “How rude. I should definitely know better.”
Julian’s chuckle is breathless. He shifts his body closer to mine, brushes a thumb against my chin in a caress as bold as it is bracing.
“Don’t worry,” he says. “I like it.”
There is no question that Julian is going to kiss me. More puzzling is my realization that I am going to let him. The sun has shifted away from us, but Julian’s eyes still seem to glow, the flecks of gold and green in his irises spreading like moth’s wings as his pupils shrink into pinpoints.Beautiful, I think distantly, but alsoThat’s wrong,shouldn’t they be getting bigger—
The door jostles open.
“Auntie Sean?” a tinny voice says.
I spring away from Julian in horror…and promptly tip off the piano bench. I land on my side hard, downed like a felled tree.
Terror that she is, Sophie bursts into laughter.
“W-What are you doing here? I thought we agreed on leaving at seven thirty?” I stutter, my face burning with humiliation. Julian extends a hand to help me up, but I ignore it, dusting off the seat of my pants.
“Itisseven thirty.” Sophie stuffs her hands into the pockets of her dress, looking wickedly from Julian to me and back again. “You’re the homewrecker’s best friend. The one who gave the speech.”
“Sophia,” I warn, but Julian bites back a smile.
“Pleased to meet you,” he says.