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Kenya wears a pointed collar dress, one an old-school librarian or grade school teacher would wear. The dress covers every inch of skin, however; it clings to the generous curves of her body. How I want to unwrap her, peel away the innocent layers she shows the world to get to the sensual woman underneath.
I clench my arms around the boxes I’m holding, allowing the sharp corners to dig into my skin. I need the slight discomfort to remind me to take things slow.
She heads toward her office space while I use the delivery to distract myself. Although I want nothing more than to follow her and soak up her presence, I understand how creepy that would be. I’ll have to make do with being in the same building.
I busy myself by opening the boxes to find a bench in pieces, a stand, headphones, an electric keyboard, and a drum set I won’t unpack anytime soon. The thought of sitting in front of the set causes my palms to sweat and shallow breathing. Rhys and Hanson are something else. Although I’m the drummer for the band, I write music on the piano. Their determination to cut my sabbatical short should bother me more than it does. There are other reasons vying for first place in my list of problems.
Down the hall, I’m aware of everything Kenya does. She is in her office, bending over her desk with her pen flying across a drawing pad. A cute wrinkle of concentration mars her smooth forehead. As much as I’d love to smooth it away, I won’t ruin my chances by distracting her. With my new gifts, I don’t have to make an excuse for being around her. Fiddling with the instruments will ease her nerves a lot more than having me creep around and openly admiring her while she works. Keeping busy will also prevent me from finding ways to feel the silky smoothness of her skin again.
Playing a few chords might relax me and provide the buffer I need to maintain this tenuous peace between us. I set up the keyboard the same anxiety I’ve experienced in the past stops me from sitting on the bench and touching the keys.
“I never imagined you were a musician,” Kenya’s voice sounds behind me.
I swing around to find her fiddling with the cap of the water bottle in her hand. When did she get here? That’s the least of my concerns.
“Is playing a hobby for you?” She moves closer to me.
“You could say that. I’ll never play the piano on a professional level but I find writing easier on a keyboard. It’s no big deal.”
Her eyes brighten. “Are you kidding me? You play and write? That sounds pretty freaking amazing to me. You’re downplaying your talents.”
“How would you know? You haven’t heard me play anything.”
“Then play for me.”
I freeze at her simple request and the genuine interest in her eyes as cold sweat trickles down my back. Thinking about playing and actually doing so are chasms apart. Faced with Kenya’s request, I’m at a standstill. I want to run my fingers against the keys and produce magic. Not for myself, for her. Because denying her anything, although we have yet to really get to know each other, creates a physical ache inside me.
As I reach trembling fingers out to the keyboard, I confront the cruelty of my current predicament. Disappointing Kenya will be painful, but I’m not ready to traverse this morass that I’ve been wading in for the last few months. “If it’s okay with you, I’ll play for you another time.” I curl my fingers into a fist.
Anger and frustration bubble inside me. I should be able to sit down and play anything. EvenChopstickswould do, but I can’t.
“Oh…okay then. I’ll leave you to your—”
“Can I watch you work?” I blurt out. “Sorry, you probably think it isn’t fair for me to ask you that after I just said no to you. Forget I asked.”
“I won’t forget.” She places a comforting hand on my shoulder. “Find a place to sit. You can help me forget about a call I’m expecting that hasn’t come in yet.”
Kenya leads me into her office space and I set myself up in a corner with an unobstructed view of her at the desk. Jackpot jumps and settles beside me. Being in this room differs from when she isn’t around. Although her presence never truly leaves, the creations on the walls seem to brighten with more life because of her.
She takes a sip of her water and gets to work. The silence loosens the last bit of tension in my body.
“I’m curious. Why did you buy the keyboard if you don’t intend to play it?” She lays her stencil on her drawing pad and turns to me.
“Believe it or not, I didn’t buy it. My well-meaning friends thought they were helping me out because…”
“Of your burnout? They thought sending you a hobby would help?”
“Something like that.” I rub the back of my head and stare at my feet. My avoidance may appear sheepish, but I can’t look her in the eye and lie to her. Even my small evasions seem wrong.
Kenya returns to her sketching. After a few seconds, she says, “I’ve heard that sleep and exercise can help in your situation.”
My mind immediately goes where it shouldn’t. The type of exercise I’m willing to do as long as it takes to get me back to my normal should never be done solo. And sleeping? I imagine no better rest exist than wrapping myself around Kenya and holding her tightly in my arms. She isn’t ready for either activity, and I have to swallow my disappointment for now.
“What other tips do you have?” I ask.
“I’m an idiot. All your friends and family have probably weighed in on how to get you out of this funk you’re in.”
“You aren’t wrong, but I’d still like to hear what you have to say.”
