It’s when I peek over Easton’s shoulder that I spot a baby grand that faces away from an amazing view of Puget Sound.
Unclasping my hand, Easton leaves me standing beside the polished instrument, discarding his hat on top before taking the bench seat. It’s then I notice the moisture coating the hand he just released.
He’s nervous.
I barely have time to register what’s happening when Easton closes his eyes. Time seems to stand still as his fingers search for and easily find the keys as he runs down a few chords.
Just after, he begins to play as I stare at him, stunned. Within a few notes of the intro, I pick up the melody, which mimics, note for note, the song we just heard on the oldies station. It’s when Easton opens his mouth and begins to sing that I feel the full gravity of what’s happening.
Easton Crowne is singing, for me, in my hotel lobby. Not only that, but the man’s voice is staggeringly perfect.
As if on cue, the water begins to glitter dramatically with the sun’s descent, the warm hue drenching him in a surreal, golden glow. Rays filter across his dark locks which start to unravel as he plays, the sun casting his features in perfect light as his velvet voice wraps around each lyric with expertise. Within seconds, I’m intoxicated—completely drunk on the sound and sight before me.
Easton moves naturally behind the piano, the scope of his talent no longer a mystery as he breathes new life and soul into a song over a half-century old. His fingers instinctively move along the ivory keys, and his raspy, melodic tone guides it the rest of the way as the song hits its crescendo.
Disbelief clouds me, and my eyes sting in response to the emotion he so easily evokes. Though borrowed, Easton owns every second of the song, the lyrics, and the very essence of the music. Unable to do anything but gawk, I fly over the edge of his mystery into infatuation.
It’s not just the way he plays. It’s the way he deconstructed the song, implementing every instrument while only using the piano. It’s as if he calculated an exact compilation for this very purpose.
But how?
My full being lights up with understanding as he continues to play, entirely in his element as a level of certainty overtakes me.
Easton Crowne is not some budding star. He’s a supernova.
He’s undoubtedly a prodigy—a genius disguised in a beautiful, but highly breakable—human package. At any time in the future, if he so desires, he will become a world-renowned star.
If I take advantage of this knowledge—and my current position—and write this story, an exclusive with him could very well kickstart my career and get my name out of the grey and into a bolder black. Even so, no part of me wants to share this moment with anyone in any capacity. More than anything, I want to cling to his star as it burns the brightest—if only to be with him for a little longer. If what Easton said is true, and we live in echoes of defining moments, I want to remain in this one for as long as I possibly can.
When Easton finishes the song, he glances up, his eyes focusing on me as if he’s coming out of a trance. A blooming smile slowly spreads across his gorgeous face as though he’s surprised himself. Unable to help it, I take another dangerous step with the edge of gravity continually urging me toward him. Thunderous applause explodes from adjacent rooms, along with those he drew into the lounge. The sound of their cheers snaps me from my dreamlike state into the present as Easton gives them a brief dip of his chin in a silent thank you. His eyes remain fixed on me and my reaction to him.
I interrupt my own applause by wiping an errant tear, feeling a pride I have no business feeling.
“I was close to begging,” I whisper hoarsely, “and Jesus, Easton, I should have. That was…fucking incredible.” I shake my head, completely bewildered. “You memorized that song after hearing it once, didn’t you?”
He slowly nods, his hazel eyes sweeping my face, soaking in my response as if he wants to remember it. Undeniable warmth bounces between us as I laugh at my continually watering eyes, my voice hoarse as I step up to him. When he clears the piano and peers down at me, his jade eyes gleam with what can only be perceived as happiness.
“Easton?”
“Yeah,” he rasps out, his gaze penetrating mine in a way I could never look away.
“Can your first fan buy you dinner?”
Shortly after, I run up to my hotel room to shower and change while Easton has a beer at the bar. We end up dining at the hotel restaurant, Six Seven, tucked away at a comfortable corner table—both of us severely underdressed. With the sun absent, soft amber light filters throughout the restaurant, making it feel unavoidably intimate.