As she walked into the room with the piano, the sound crashed around her like a cool wave on a summer’s day, and she found herself mesmerized. She stood in the large doorway, and allowed her head to rest on the frame as she watched Nick from behind sitting at the piano, under the mistletoe. His hands moved along the keys so smoothly, it made his arms look as though they were dancing. His head was tipped down, turned to the side, in total concentration, as his foot tapped the pedals. The top of the piano was propped open, allowing the glorious music to penetrate every space in the room and beyond.
She was transfixed, watching his fingers on the keys. They were gentle and careful as he played each note. She’d seen him hold his pen, flip papers on his desk, turn zucchini with his fork, but she’d not seen his fingers move like that. She wondered what else he was capable of. What would it feel like to have those fingers touch her skin? She snapped her head upright. What in the world was she thinking? Abbey mentally corrected herself for having those kinds of thoughts about the man who was employing her.
As she watched Nick playing alone at his piano, she could feel her heart aching for him, and she knew she shouldn’t, but she couldn’t stop the emotions she was feeling. They assaulted her against her will.
“Hello,” he said, his head turned in her direction. She realized then that the music had stopped. “You’re earlier than I expected.” He stood up and walked over to her.
“That was beautiful.”
“Thank you.”
“What was that you were playing?”
“Chopin.”
Nick’s Chopin was a far cry from her “Chopsticks” the other day. She’d never experienced anyone playing piano like that, and yet he played like it was nothing to him, when it was the most beautiful sound she’d ever heard in real life. How many hours had he practiced as a child? How many lessons had he had? While she was playing softball, her hair in a ponytail and her cleats kicking dirt on the field, he had been learning classical piano.
Their worlds couldn’t be any more dissimilar yet there was an art to his playing that she felt on another level. She knew that it took just the right person to know when to leave one note and begin another; he had it down perfectly. It was the same way she’d always felt with her art when she was in school, knowing when to taper that brush stroke just enough to make the painting create a feeling. In different mediums, they were both aware of how to create emotion, and that fact made him so interesting to her that she could hardly take her eyes off him.
“What’s the matter?” he asked, and she realized that her thoughts were apparent on her face. She was terrible at hiding them. “You look worried about something.”
“I’m fine,” she smiled, straightening her face into a more pleasant expression.
“You sure?”
“Yes.” She took in a deep breath and let it out. “I’m going to start on the bedrooms today.”
“Perfect. As I said before, you have free rein of the house. Use whatever you’d like. You have my credit card. Please feel free to use it however you need.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. I’ll be out most of the day, but I should be home to see your plans and what you’ve done with the rooms before you leave.”
“You’ll be out?”
“I’m flying to Kentucky, to Turfway Park. I’m betting on a horse out there.” He said it with an air of satisfaction as if he thought it would impress her or something.
“Horse racing?”
“Yes. The odds are good, otherwise I wouldn’t bother.” When she didn’t respond, partly because she knew nothing about horse racing and partly because she’d always thought that there were better things to do with money than gamble it away, he added, “I’m also doing business. I’m meeting someone from New York about his corporation.”
“So, instead of meeting at his office, you’re betting on horses?”
“Yes.”
Max needed new jeans. She’d bought some but she was saving them so that she could wrap them up and put them under the tree for Christmas because it would give him more to unwrap and she didn’t have enough money for both his clothes and Christmas presents. His current jeans barely grazed the tops of his ankles, and she was glad for the snow outside so he could wear his boots to school to cover him up. And here was Nick betting away his hard-earned money. “And if you lose?”
“No big deal. It’s only a thousand.”
“Dollars? A thousand dollars? For one bet?”
He studied her for a moment while she tried unsuccessfully to hide what she was feeling and then—she could see it—realization sheeted over him. “It’s the price of business,” he said. “That’s just how things are done.”