“Wow. You play piano. See, now that is something I needed to know. I wish I was that talented.”
He looks down, his lashes fluttering on his cheek for a moment, and it’s so entirely sweet and boyish that my heart squeezes. I like this side of him, the unsure look on his face, the slight embarrassment at my praise. “I have a baby grand at my place. I haven’t touched it in years, though.”
“You can play other songs?”
“Yes. What’s your favorite song—of all time?”
I study his face, trying to mesh the image of him as a tough football player with a man who plays the piano. “‘Hey Jude,’ by the Beatles. Do you like art?”
He pops an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t know a Rembrandt from a third grader’s masterpiece. You?”
“I appreciate it but can’t afford it.”
“I like books. Always have. Thrillers especially. I’ve read Pride and Prejudice a few times, mostly because my mom adored it.”
Funny. He’s the embodiment of Darcy for me, arrogant and broody, with hidden depths of compassion. “Good to know, since you’re buying a bookstore. Okay, so, what are you most afraid of?”
He leans back as he ponders my question. “You go first.”
“Oh no, is the wee little football player afraid of telling me his secret?”
“Didn’t know you were Scottish.”
I laugh. “Okay, what am I afraid of? Not being able to take care of my family, and then I guess losing the people I love. My parents are gone, my gran, and someday Jane and Andrew will find partners and leave.” My throat prickles with emotion. “I mean, that’s what they need to do, but . . .” I pause, clarity settling in. “I’m afraid I’ll never have that.”
“Why?” he asks softly. “Kian is just a blip on your radar. There are good men who’ll worship you like the queen you are.”
My face heats. “‘Queen’？ Seriously?”
He brushes his fingers down my cheek, and my heart stutters. “I’d treat you like a queen.”
My lashes flutter as my body heats. “Oh.”
“In all the best ways.” His voice deepens. “Darling.”
He’s totally pretending.
I roll my eyes. “Stop messing around. You’re trying to deflect from telling me what you’re most afraid of. You’re a chicken.”
“Noted.” He lifts his glass to me and takes a sip.
“Fine, let’s switch gears. What’s the first thing about me that you noticed the day at the motel?”
“Your tits.”
I sputter. “Figures. Couldn’t you have been a little more original?”
He smirks. “No, I mean, okay, yeah, you’ve got a nice rack, but I could tell one of your nipples was pierced. Your bathing suit was thin, and it poked out.”
I scoff. “I thought you’d be a better conversationalist.”
He huffs, but there’s a teasing look in his eyes. “Don’t give up on me. Tell me. What do you have on your nipple?” His eyes drift down my neck to my chest.
“You’ll never know.”
He chuckles. “Come on, don’t be mad. It’s not like I knew you were a spinster wannabe, did I? I didn’t have time to notice your brain because you hijacked me into your little intrigue, and there I was, pretending to be your prison boyfriend.”
“There was no intrigue. Fake Clint was a mastermind serial killer. I’m convinced.”
He laughs, and I nearly spit out a mouthful of champagne as I laugh with him.
“You’re funny.”
I bow my head. “Thank you, my king. I’ll be your queen, the one with the pierced nipple,” I declare, perhaps a little too loudly, since the older couple next to us send me a withering glance. “Oops.”
I glance down at the ring on my finger. “Tell me more about your mom. You said this was hers.”
His face softens. “She was several years younger than my dad. She taught music at a private academy, the same one where Brody teaches.”
“When did your parents divorce?” His description of them traveling the world sounded idyllic, but something went wrong somewhere.
“Technically, they were separated. My dad walked out when I was fifteen. Six months later, my mom died in a skiing accident. She went the wrong way on a trail and went off the mountain.” The thick muscles in his throat move as he toys with his glass. “Brody and I were with her. She was behind us on the slope and must have gone the wrong way.”