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“I didn’t say there was.”
“Offering to help me implies I’m in distress. I’m not currently.”
“What about ten minutes ago when you tried to put your drink on a piano that wasn’t there?”
“That wasn’t distress. That was …” I sucked wind.
He saw the piano.
Chapter 5
I punched him in the stomach. Hello six-pack. Even with the protective layer of muscle, he let out a rush of air and bent over, wrapping his arms around his middle.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I apologized, shaking the feeling back into my tingling hand. The streetlights seemed to flicker, and I wondered fleetingly if we were in for another storm. “I needed to make sure you were really here.”
“And there wasn’t a better way to do it?” Michael groaned. He was lucky I aimed high. I’d considered kicking him, but remembered my lethal shoes at the last moment.
“Stress reaction.” I shrugged and stepped out of my high-heeled weapons before I had the urge to do any more damage, appreciating the feel of the cool concrete beneath my feet.
Michael straightened, looking down at me and sizing me up. I couldn’t tell if he liked what he saw. Was surprised to find that it mattered.
“Why were you worried about whether or not I was real? You wouldn’t shake my hand a few minutes ago, even though your brother saw me.”
“It’s been a different kind of day. My world’s been turned upside down and sideways.”
“Probably for the best anyway.” He gave me a grin that made me wonder what he wasn’t saying. “So tell me, what’s been so different about today?”
“I’ve never seen a full jazz trio before, for one thing. It threw me off. The rules must be changing.”
“What are the rules?”
“I see people from the past.” The bells in the clock tower on the town square loudly chimed the hour, but I kept my voice low. “They’re like a film projection, no substance, and when I try to touch them, they disappear. I’ve sure as heck never seen three at once accompanied by a piano.” Or a horse-drawn carriage.
“At least they sounded good. That bass was smooth.” He inclined his head toward the building, where the music spilled from the open windows. “Still is.”
“You don’t seem to be impressed. No one’s ever been able to see or hear what I do. What’s your story?” I asked, although it was clear. He was as screwed up as I was.
o;Emerson will be fine for now. Are you Michael or Mike? Or Mikey?”
“Do I look like a Mikey?” he asked.
“Um … no.”
“Michael will be fine. For now,” he said, pressing his lips together. Not in a prudish way. In a very sexy, trying-to-hide-hissmile way.
He reached out to run his hand over the wrought-iron fence that lined the patio, and then turned to face me, shaking the rain from his fingers. “Your brother has a gift. I’ve never seen someone put so much effort into recapturing the beauty of a place. Did he renovate all of these buildings?”
The patio displayed a bird’s-eye view of the award-winning restoration prominently featured in the town square. Warm light shone behind many of the second- and third-story loft windows, home mostly to young professionals and empty nesters, with the occasional family thrown in for balance. Replicas of antique gas lanterns lit streets lined by quaint businesses, antique shops, coffeehouses, and galleries. Window boxes and planters spilled out brightly colored seasonal flowers. Even though it currently ranked in the top ten of America’s best small towns, it was too easy to imagine it as it had been a century ago, which was proving to be a problem for me.
No way was that horse-drawn carriage real.
The beginning notes of Rodgers and Hart’s “Bewitched” floated through the rain-scented air, mixing with the smell of the purple sweet peas climbing the iron fence. I looked away from the overactive town square and refocused on Michael.
“Yes, Thomas had a hand in every single renovation. His vision is very specific.” And expensive … yet somehow always profitable.
“How’s your vision?” Sneaky. His tone was light, but I could sense the deeper question behind the words. I wondered what Thomas had told him about me.
I reached out to wrap my fingers around the iron bars, avoiding the damp sweet peas. “Why are you here, Michael Weaver?”
