“Has she been asking again?”
Afra huffed, which was as good as a yes. Ever since Ari came out in college, their parents had focused all their grandchildren desires onto Afra. Once Afra passed her thirty-fifth birthday, the hints morphed into questions edging on demands.
“I’m sorry.” He touched her arm gently, and she allowed it for a moment.
Then she pushed her hair behind her ears. “So, please tell me you’re coming to dinner with me and Ben? Don’t let me be the only disappointing child who shows up.”
His lips quirked. “Of course. I wouldn’t want to abandon you.”
“Exactly.” Before she could say more, her phone rang. “It’s Ben. Sorry, just— Hi.” Her voice softened on the word, and she tilted her head as she listened to her husband on the other end of the line. She had always been that way when it came to Ben. Ari hadn’t met many of her boyfriends before him, but right from the start, she had spoken about and looked at Ben like he was something precious. A soft pang of jealousy hit below Ari’s heart, but he pushed it away.
“I’m about to head there now…. Yes, Ari is still alive, and he’s coming tonight. He says hi.” She cast the stink eye in his direction, as if he might change his mind or forget in the next few hours. “Yeah, see you soon. Love you.”
“What time for dinner?” He stood with her and followed her to the door.
“Maman says five. So I’ll see you then?” He nodded. Once upon a time they wouldn’t have eaten until seven or later, but these days his father tired early. “Good. Don’t obsess over hot piano man so much that you forget to compose, or that you wear it out.” Her gaze flicked down and up, and then she was gone before Ari could scrape his chin off the floor.
He honestly tried to compose something, but he couldn’t seem to keep his hands from wandering toward his phone and pulling up that video one more time.
The performance was as electric in the viewing as it had been in the playing. Even through the poor lighting, anyone would be able to see the look of intensity on his face and read it for what it was—profound joy.
And Jax was as captivating in pixelated video as he was in person. The way he played with his whole body, the acute concentration on his face, the looks he kept shooting Ari—
Fuck, Afra was right. He had a massive music boner for Jax Hall. Ari dropped his head onto the piano keys. The discordant notes punctuated his feelings.
He was an idiot. His mother would not be pleased if he brought home a bartender. Which was the least of the issues.
Jax was probably not interested—but before he could finish the thought, an image of Jax giving him sultry elevator eyes flashed through his mind. So Jax was probably interested insex, but judging from Naomi’s comments, that was all he was interested in.
Ari lifted his head and let it drop back onto the keys.
His phone rang in his hand, and he raised his head enough to read the screen.Noella Johnson.
Shit.
Ari did not want to talk to his producer today, but he should answer. It wasn’t Noella’s fault that she was contractually obligated to ask him questions about his creative nonprogress.
The phone stopped ringing. A few moments later a text came through.
Hi Ari, just checking in. Why don’t we set up a chat next week and you can update me on how things are going. I’ll send a calendar invite. Ciao!
Ari lay his head back on the keys.
ARI EASEDhis white hand-me-down BMW 3 Series into his parents’ driveway and thrust it into Park. He wondered if he could find a way to swing the system of ready drivers and hired cars he enjoyed on tour back home in London. Did anyone still have their own chauffeur? And what would that cost? Probably outside his budget, he thought ruefully, and probably for the best. Afra would never let him live down that kind of pretentious douchebaggery just because he hated driving.
He could always take a Lyft, but he hated waiting. Unfortunately, admitting that seemed worse than wanting a chauffeur.
The scent of frying eggplant hit him even before he opened the door, which meant his father was preparingkhoreshbademjan. The stew had been Ari’s favorite growing up. Ari’s mother had done most of the cooking, but this was his father’s specialty.
It was the dish Ari had prepared when he came out to them at seventeen. He’d wanted the comfort of food he loved in case it didn’t go well. Of course, it actually went fine if you didn’t count the mortification he experienced when his parents revealed that they’d known for years.
It could have been worse, but the end result was that now Ari associated khoresh bademjan with someone springing something on someone else. He felt like he was walking into an ambush.
Knowing his parents, he probablywas, but at least it would be the mostly loving kind. Mentally fortifying himself, he took the three steps up to the front door, knocked twice, and let himself in. “Baba? Maman?”
“Befarma! In the kitchen!” his mother called cheerfully.
He found her sitting at the breakfast bar, watching as his father lifted the eggplant, lamb, and onion into the simmering tomato sauce. In the time since Ari had left on his last tour, his father’s hair had finished going white, but he seemed stronger now than he had a few months ago. He was recovering.
