“Yes.” He lifts up and sends me a wink before pointing at the piano. “Now’s a plenty good time to start.”
The space buzzes with chatter and clinking glasses, a familiar hum that sets the tone for the night and softens my churning anxiety. Nodding my gratitude, I step away from Mr. Hamlin and grace the stage, taking a seat at the piano bench and rerouting my thoughts.
I pause to settle in, running my fingers along the polished keys, cool ivory under my touch. The bar’s deep mahogany walls are adorned with framed sheet music and classic posters, stories of performances past. A few regulars wave in my direction as they sip their drinks. The stage is small but intimate, with just enough space for the piano and me to share the spotlight.
I close my eyes and pull in a deep breath to center myself. The smells of aged wood and traces of wine fill my senses, grounding me in the moment. Anticipation builds, the air thickening just before the first note rings out.
I play.
I play for them. I play for me, nailing a solo performance, featuring Ellie Goulding’s cover of “Your Song” while the audience goes wild and I jump to my feet, slamming my fingers to the keys and singing my heart out. It’s electrifying. Therapeutic. It’s exactly what I need.
A release.
When the set is over, I take a bow, offer my thanks, and make my way off the stage, smiling at Joplin and Misty at a high-top table before sneaking off to the bathrooms to refresh.
But I don’t make it that far.
A shadow crosses into my sight line from above, a black baseball cap shielding a mop of sun-tipped hair. Dark sunglasses, so out of place in this dimly lit bar, hide two crystalline eyes I remember too well. He looms fifteen feet above me, hands folded and dangling over the balcony banister. A leather jacket is glued to filled-out arms, thick with corded muscle I’ve seen plastered on movie posters and magazine ads. Stubble lines his angular jaw, golden and rough. Tanned skin, tall frame, lips drawn from some impossible dream.
I’d recognize him anywhere, in any form, in any reality.
Lex.
My heart cracks wide open, bleeding memories and crushed innocence.
My mother told me once that the heart has the same neural cells as the brain.
It’s its own intelligent organism.
It feels and thinks in ways we don’t fully understand, guiding us through emotions and decisions with a wisdom that often surpasses logic. Maybe that’s why, despite everything, it still beats so fiercely for what we’ve lost, for the things we once held dear.
But wisdom and logic are not the same. I am wise enough to know this is a bad idea; I am not smart enough to turn the other way.
I gather the pleats of my layered skirt and haul myself up the staircase toward the trio of private rooms reserved for parties and special events. He’s waiting for me. Standing on the balcony of the piano bar, the city’s glittering lights spilling from the sprawling window below and painting his figure in stark contrast. Lexleans casually against the railing, his posture effortlessly confident. I approach slowly, with caution.
He removes the sunglasses. His eyes lift to mine, and my gaze locks on blue.
Electric blue.
Expensive blue.
For a moment, there’s nothing heavy or cumbersome between us. The weight of lost time and unspoken words collapses, replaced with rooftop memories draped in starlight.
I blink myself back to the piano bar and look down at my feet. At all the little navy carpet tassels, three shades darker than his irises.
And then he says my name.
The one I haven’t heard in almost four years.
“Hey, Nicks.”
I pull in an unsteady breath, curling my hand around the banister as I set my jaw and find the courage to meet his stare. “What are you doing here?”
He gives me a quick once-over, removing his baseball cap and propping the sunglasses atop a tousle of hair, slightly darker than it was four years ago. “Pretty sure you already know that answer.”
“Right. The gala.”
“My agent said he called you.”
