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Looking up, I saw my blonde goddess sitting on the piano bench. Her hair was curled in a messy, yet elegant way, with loose strands in the front framing the sides of her face. But what I couldn’t look away from was the back of her dress. It was low, with thin straps crisscrossing against her pale skin.
I wanted to trail my hands along her bare back and plant a kiss on her shoulder. To say that Reagan was gorgeous was an understatement. She was the most beautiful woman in the room if I did say so myself.
With the way she sat on the chair, and how her body softly moved along with the music, she was born to be on that stage—she was born for the spotlight. No matter what she was doing, even if she were to come in this banquet hall carrying a tray of food, all eyes were going to be on her. Like mine were.
From my position, I could barely see her, but she was in a striking white dress glinting against the stage’s delicate light. She stood out conspicuously in the midst of the crowd wearing black, and the wife wearing red. Her dress contrasted against the gleaming ebony piano, a sole spotlight shining down on her as she created the ambiance.
Immediately, the hall was wrapped with the soft tunes of the song the guests had requested. If my memory served me right, it was Prelude in C Major by Johann Sebastian Bach, one I knew solely by listening to the opening notes.
Over the chatter of people and the loud words of the young host, all I could hear was Reagan, the enchanting melody flowed from her fingertips, putting a spell on everyone—especially me.
I couldn’t take my eyes off of her and the world around me seemed to fade into the background as she lured me in. I didn’t even think that the people around me were listening to the host anymore.
I sat still on my chair, and my skin prickled with pleasure just listening to her play, blood rushing through parts of me that should not be responding to music alone. Not tonight when there was a crowd and there were so many of my employees in the room. The last thing we needed was for them to figure out there was something going on between me and Reagan. I wouldn’t hear the end of it from Clair.
I sat on my chair at the back of the room, allowing myself to feel the music. And my thoughts immediately went to the nights I had spent with Reagan. Nothing but sex, I kept on reminding myself every time I was inside her. Whether we were on the bed, on the couch, on her kitchen island, or in my office.
Just sex. Purely physical.
But Reagan was someone who was so pure and so wild at the same time. She was not experienced in the real world. She barely knew how to ride the bus, yet she was determined to learn and her perseverance was something I admired. She wasn’t afraid to learn, wasn’t afraid to ask questions.
In the span of a month, I knew things about her that I probably shouldn’t be remembering. It was a dangerous game trying to give meaning to the little innocent and mundane things she did.
Like how she was constantly looking for coconut water when the weather was too hot.
She showered almost five times a day because she got too hot too often and she couldn’t afford to have the AC on the entire day.
When she was not good at something, she was determined to figure it out, and when she did, she made sure she was the best at it.
She frowned when she needed to focus, and she was a very smart person when it came to memorizing things.
And I liked that she wasn’t lazy, and wasn’t usually tardy, either, despite me giving her shit about it. I knew she had her valid reasons when she wasn’t on time, and she was not intentionally doing it out of sloth.
With my eyes still glued to her, she changed the song to another, Canon in D by Johann Pachelbel. And I couldn’t help but recall all the times she had played in the hall thinking nobody was listening.
It was true that I kept my doors open when the clock chimed seven every night, and Reagan, without failure, played the piano right on schedule. Some pieces she played were classical, some modern, and some I believed were her own compositions.
She was musically inclined, and I knew that not giving her a chance to play in front of influential people was a waste.
It wasn’t true that there was no one to take the pianist spot tonight. I had several people’s names in my phone to help me with that, and I had connections to musicians who could only dream of playing in my hotel. But I knew Reagan was the right person for the job.
I was no piano expert. I learned to play solely because I was sent to a private school and music was something my mother wanted us all to learn. Although I didn’t play a single instrument, I knew the classics. Like Reagan did. The classics were her favorite.
Reagan played three more songs, putting her own personal style into them. I recognized one of the two—Gymnopédie No. 1 by Erik Satie. The piano was subtle and delivered a relaxing atmosphere until dinner. The couple barely noticed the music because they were having too much fun walking around and chit-chatting with their family.
Once the host called the couple of the night for their couple’s dance, it was my cue to stand up my spot and get a front row seat to watch Reagan play.
As the crowd cheered for the couple who was getting ready to go in front to dance, I walked out of the banquet hall to go to the other room where I could access the side wing without having to disturb the event.
Thankfully, I hadn’t bumped into anyone on my way. When I entered the room, it was empty. It was solely built for wing access. It was snug in here, with only enough space to fit about ten people, and nobody usually used it aside from people who needed access to the stage.
From here, I could see the beautiful woman at the piano and the crowd down below without being seen myself.
In the dimly lit stage wing, hidden in the shadows and breath held in anticipation, my eyes were fixed on the exquisite pianist. The stage was softly lit as her fingers danced gracefully across the keys, the hauntingly beautiful notes of her own rendition of La Vie en Rose hung in the air, creating a mesmerizing spell that almost stopped time.
My heart quickened just watching her doing something she loved. An unfamiliar warmth spread through my chest, my stomach, and then to my groin. She was captivating, her melody a delicate symphony of grace and passion. It felt like Reagan was whispering her secrets, and I was the only one who could see them—understand them.
From the moment, Reagan St. James had become the embodiment of every love song ever written, and I simply couldn’t tear my gaze away from her. As the final notes of the song faded into the hushed silence of the hall, I knew I was fucked.
