Stirring Up Trouble(26)
She growled and sat up to glare at him. “Fine.”
“Would it make you any happier if we were to do it in the music studio?”
“Heck, yeah.” She walked past him and stopped in the hallway. “Are you coming? You haven’t given me a tour of this monstrosity you call a home, so I don’t even know where it is.”
He followed her out and took her hand. “Come with me and I’ll show you everything.” Not wanting to waste time, he gave her a quick tour, pointing out rooms such as the gym, but not bothering to go inside. She asked a few questions, but remained quieter than normal.
He knew she thought she didn’t belong here in a mansion, but then again, who did? Him? He didn’t have family to fill the rooms and spent all of his time at Acropolis. None of the stuff he filled the house with meant a damned thing to him.
In the basement, they passed the wine cellar and in-law apartment until they came to the last closed door on the end. “And the music studio.” He threw open the door and stepped back to allow her first entry.
She gasped. “Holy mac and cheese. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
He watched the joy spread on her face as she took in the studio. Braden had paid extra for the previous owner to leave behind the instruments and equipment, figuring it was an investment. Lola’s excitement made that investment worth every penny.
The studio was split into two rooms: one for the musician and the other for the producer. It was a music artist’s wet dream. Several acoustic, bass, and electric guitars hung on the wall, giving users a selection in styles and brands. A built-in, dark brown storage cabinet with glass panels held a myriad of wind instruments and brass instruments. There were two different drum sets, four different keyboards, and a few standing microphones. In the far corner of the room was his favorite item, a large ebony Steinway.
She zeroed in on something in the cabinet. “A harmonica.” Her laugh, tinged with sadness, echoed against the walls, sounding louder than it was. “I had a harmonica when I was younger. I loved that thing. One day, when I was about thirteen, I came home—well, a homeless shelter—and it was gone from where I had hid it in a laundry bag beneath my underwear. When you don’t own much, you appreciate the things you do have.”
He sat on the piano bench. “What did you do?”
“I was so angry I threatened to beat up every kid in the shelter until the one who took it came forward. I wouldn’t have done it. Part of the side-effects of growing up with a pacifist like Reina. But it was enough to convince the thief to admit to it. A little girl with brown curly hair pulled on my sleeve and dropped it in my hand. She was about seven-years-old. She didn’t say she was sorry or give me any excuses. Just stared at it as if it were the most precious diamond in the world. I gave it back to her.” She shrugged and walked away from the harmonica on display in the cabinet and leaned on the side of the piano. “I never did get another harmonica, but I guess you can say I traded up when I started playing guitar.”
“That was nice of you. You’re welcome to help yourself to any of these instruments, including the harmonica. In fact, you have full reign of the house. What’s mine is yours.”
“Thanks,” she responded absently, smoothing her hand over the piano.
“I’ve kept the piano tuned.” He played a few chords to confirm it.
Her pierced brow shot up in an arch. “You play?”
“A little.” His parents had arranged for a teacher to come once a week and give him and Rosalind lessons until they’d each turned eighteen. His sister had hated every minute of it, but he found comfort in the sound of the notes and would get lost in the cadence of the music.
With a bump of her hip, Lola nudged him further down the bench, giving him the impression she’d sit next to him. Instead, she used the bench as a step stool and perched herself on top of the piano. She tossed her legs over the edge so they hung over the side, and leaned back resting her weight on her arms, thrusting her gorgeously full chest out like she was sunbathing on a rock in the middle of the ocean.
His breath caught in his throat. He tinkered with a melody to give him a moment to regroup. “Do you have any ideas for lyrics?”
“Well, I was thinking. I need a hook, something that stands out from everyone else. Take Katy Perry for example. Here you have this nice, all-American girl next door. She has talent, ambition, and even a record contract. But she didn’t get noticed until she sang about kissing a girl and liking it. I need to write a song like that.”