Page 5 of Serpent & Saviors

She shrugged and looked out the window, becoming withdrawn almost instantly. She was shutting down on me once more. Why? I desperately wanted to keep her talking.

Trying to keep it light, I teased her. “Yes, because you’re so old.” She gave me a wry look. “Why don’t you play anymore?” I asked.

“It’s a long story.”

She once more took to looking out the window. There was an intense longing inside me that wanted to know every last detail of this long story. Call it the therapist in me.

“You could tell me about it,” I whispered, glancing her way.

“Andrew, even if I wanted to, I don’t think it’s possible to put into words the depths of both my desire and fear of touching a piano again.”

I wasn’t expecting that answer. I doubled down. “I see, so this long story—care to share a condensed version of it? I’m dying to know, especially since you’ve hinted at layers of emotions behind the desire and even fear. You’ve got me on the edge of my seat.”

“Okay, I’ll give it a try.”

She took a deep breath, and I clenched the steering wheel tighter in my hands to keep from taking at least one of hers into mine. The urge to touch her was overwhelming.

“I once played, then I stopped.”

A pretty grin tugged at her lips. It was slight, but there. A flicker of something real, something unguarded. It was the first glimpse of her that wasn’t weighed down by fear. She had a sense of humor. Her tone was teasing, and I wanted more.

“Well played, that’s short and sweet, not helpful in any manner,” I remarked.

“I can’t reveal everything about myself all at once. It’s best to trickle it in naturally. That’s what the experts say, anyway.”

She admitted it so earnestly, like it had never crossed her mind to be embarrassed about it. There was something impossibly endearing about that.

It was refreshing, unfiltered in a way I hadn’t expected. For the first time, she wasn’t guarded or calculating. Just her. And damn if that didn’t make me want to pull the car over and kiss her senseless.

“Experts?”

“I’ll confess to looking up dating etiquette while I was getting ready tonight. I meant what I said before. Dating isn’t something I’ve done much of. I didn’t do a good job last night at dinner, I’m afraid.” She twisted her hands in her lap.

“You did fine,” I soothed her by taking one of her hands in mine and squeezing it briefly before letting go. “What else did these experts say?”

“Oh, ask similar questions. Let me give it a go. Do you play the piano or any other instruments?” The sensual way her voice dropped when she said play came out flirty.

Grinning, unable to help myself, I said low, “I love to play.” She gasped, and I chuckled, wondering if her face was flushed. Damn, I wished I weren’t driving. “Nan insisted I take lessons in the arts. She’d given me the choice between the piano and the violin. The piano seemed safer, somehow.”

“Okay, we may have to unpack that a bit,” Victoria said, her tone resembling my counselor’s voice.

The soft curve of her mouth, the way her fingers fidgeted lightly in her lap, the spark of genuine interest in her eyes. It was…beautiful. And for a moment, I nearly forgot to keep my eyes on the road.

“You think? I promise none of my childhood trauma stemmed from music lessons, although my piano teacher was a bit…I don’t know, intense, for lack of a better word.”

“Most people who are passionate about their art are. Did you know Rachmaninoff wrote this piece while in deep depression? It was so bad he didn’t compose for three years. See what I did there? Look at me circling back and making conversation,” she said.

I huffed out a quiet chuckle, unable to help myself. She was very pleased with herself. There was something so fucking cute about the fact that she studied, analyzed, and then committed to making this evening work on some level. The realization sent a rush of warmth through me.

I replied, “Very well done. I didn’t know that about Rachmaninoff.”

“Well, now, you do. Studying composers and their lives was completely fascinating for me growing up. When I was younger…” Her voice trailed off, and I caught the slightest tremble in it.

After a few minutes of silence, I prompted, “When you were younger?”

“It’s not important. Here’s another piece of interesting trivia about him for you. Rachmaninoff dedicated this concerto to his therapist,” she said, her voice carrying a quiet enthusiasm.

My brow lifted, eyes narrowing with quiet intrigue. Lips parted as if on the verge of a question, but I held back, studying her instead.