A Moonlit Serenade Page 14

  I swallowed and dropped my gaze. Jake homed in on my discomfiture and tilted my chin back toward him.

  “Not that I think there’s nothing else.” He pulled me back into his arms and rocked me back and forth. “So, my Chrissie prezzie is to live with you. Damn good prezzie.” He nuzzled into my neck, nipping at the sensitive spot where the soft skin met my shoulder. “Must have been heaps nice this year.”

  Jake, staying here, with me. Wow. Did that mean he cared more? Or was I convenient? I wanted him here, so did his reasons matter? I smiled, tried to pull off a flippant tone.

  “I don’t think what we’ve been doing together could be considered nice.”

  His smile formed in increments—and devastated my senses. As usual. This man managed to get me so hot and bothered, I forgot logic, let alone all the reasons he’d eventually leave. Or I’d leave him.

  We hadn’t talked about it since our reconciliation, but I still craved a child of my own. In fact, as the days inched closer to my twenty-seventh birthday, a mild panic set in.

  “Since you’re giving me everything I want, what can I give you?”

  Jake’s words tugged me from my inner turmoil. His face was beautiful, his piercing eyes steady on mine.

  “You did. Detective Davenport spoke with Ted and Sam. All’s good, thanks to you.”

  Jake shook his head, eyes never leaving mine. “You sorted that. Now, tell me. If you could have anything. And I mean anything. What would you ask for?”

  “Fiji,” I blurted. I dropped my gaze as my cheeks heated with my secret—one I’d never intended to admit. “I love the water. Those grass huts. The frangipani. Seems like paradise.”

  I stole a peek at Jake’s face in time to see him press his lips together and nodded once.

  “I assume you mean to visit. Be a bit pricey to purchase the island.” He smiled. “But I did get you something else. Bit less flash.”

  He handed me a bag. Inside was a beautiful menorah. I’d told him last week I’d never owned my own since Dez didn’t care to celebrate Hanukkah. I ran my fingertips over the hand-crafted, intricate leaves, my other palm cupping the cool marble base. He’d even remembered my love of nature. This man’s kindness was such an antithesis to his pampered lifestyle.

  “It’s beautiful,” I breathed, still touching the candelabra.

  “I know Hanukkah’s over this year, but I wanted you to have the opportunity to light your own candles each night, next year. There are a couple of dreidels in the bag. You’ll have to get your own chocolate, though.”

  I set the heavy gift on my table and threw my arms around Jake’s neck. His larger hands cupped my hips as he pulled me closer.

  “Thank you. That was so sweet.”

  “You’ll be able to have your own dreidel party next year.”

  I kissed him then pulled away, heading into the kitchen. “Want anything?”

  I needed the moment to compose my thoughts—ones I didn’t know how to explain to him.

  My parents would never have a dreidel party with me. Once they moved to Tucson mere weeks after my wedding, they’d let me know they were leading their life, their way, finally. That was my mother’s parting word to me: finally.

  “Now that I know about your Fiji obsession, I’d love to take you on holiday.” He waggled his brows, eyes smoldering as his gaze dropped to my chest. “You in a bikini, covered in sunscreen. Blimey, that’ll be a sight.”

  I forced a smile as I grabbed a seltzer. With leaden feet, I managed to make it back to the living room and sit beside him on the couch.

  “So, tomorrow’s the big day,” I said, scrambling to say something to move the conversation away from my depressing thoughts. “I hope the practice sessions have been enough.”

  “You sing for hours each day and you know these songs better than most performers. You’ll like the studio. Asher’s dying to meet you. Just about took my head off when I told him you couldn’t come in till your classes ended. And now I get to spend all day with you, too.”

  He leaned in and kissed me, and just like that, my worries vanished.

  Because kissing Jake took all my focus. My body heated and relaxed, ready to respond to his next move.

  Jake didn’t disappoint.

  But then, he never did. Jake proved to be as thoughtful as he was cautious. He worried over my feelings more than I did.

  How could he be so perfect in every way…except with my heart’s greatest desire?

  I gawked at the space, trying to take in the expensive microphones and full wall of computers and mixing boards on the other side of the plexiglass cage. Soft purple lights glowed in the space on this side of the clear wall, bouncing off the exposed brick and the gleaming hardwood floors. Three stools and as many music stands were set up in front of the big, silver mics. A variety of guitars flanked the maple walls, some of them worth four or five times as much as the pricey guitar Jake and Murphy insisted I keep.

  I still felt wrong about that. Never one to mooch, I’d profited from my association with Jake much more than he did from knowing me. Sure, he was staying with me, sleeping with me. For the moment, at least.

  I glanced away, worried Jake would notice the unhappiness that crept upon me whenever Jake and I weren’t touching. Maybe it was withdrawal from no longer seeing the kids in my classes every day. Some had moved on to the next program, and I’d miss them—they were the original babies from my first classes, and many of their parents had become my friends. Didn’t help that I hadn’t talked to Linda in a couple of weeks. She’d gone back to Wisconsin to visit her ailing mother. I did talk to my mother again a few days ago, when she called to ask why I hadn’t mentioned my “someone” was Jake Etsam. This time, I was the one too busy to talk to her.

  “You ’right?” Jake asked, his hand landing on my lower back.

  “Not sure.” I sounded like Kermit the Frog with a bad case of laryngitis. “Nervous.”

  The rest of this week was devoted to recording the other three lullabies Jake and I agreed on together. We’d decided to sing “All the Pretty Little Horses” a cappella, no simple feat, but one I thought we’d be able to pull off with Asher’s guidance.

  I pressed a hand to my stomach, thrilled and terrified to meet the greatest indie rock legend of my lifetime—and my city.

  “You’re Ryn?” he asked from behind.

  I whirled, eyes wide as I stared at Asher Smith. Inside, I was jumping up and down like a fifteen-year-old who’d just been asked out by the school’s star quarterback. Outwardly, I smiled and offered my hand.

  “I am. It’s a pleasure to meet you. In person. I love your music.”

  Jake chuckled at my gushing ramble, which finally got me to close my mouth. Though Asher’s smile nearly had my chin dropping back open. He was that potent.

  “I love your voice. We’ve all listened to ‘A Moonlit Serenade’ this past month. Definitely gave us a high bar to reach. It’s going to make this album a success.”

  Asher Smith just complimented me. My cheeks flushed and I couldn’t help the smile that beamed across my face. Jake tightened his arm around me and I glanced over at him, shocked by the pride and possessiveness in his eyes.

  “Murphy stopped by last week before he left, trying to snoop around,” Asher said. “He’s becoming a real pain in the ass.”

  “What did you tell him?” Jake asked.

  “That he hadn’t booked any time.” Asher’s smile built and his eyes sparkled. “And he couldn’t because we were booked solid on one of the coolest projects ever for the next month.”

  “Good thing he’s out of town for a few weeks.”

  Jake and Asher laughed, both looking pleased with their secret.

  “You ready to start?” Asher asked, turning back to me. I had to lock my knees to be able to stand my ground. “Jake said you wanted to start with ‘All the Pretty Little Horses.’”

  “Is that okay?” I asked, trying not to fidget.

  “Sure. Just let me get into the booth an
d we can start. Drinks in the fridge.” He pointed to the sleek dorm-sized fridge in the corner before stepping from the room.

  I pressed my hand to my tumbling stomach. “That was intense.”

  “You did great. No fainting.”

  “But I still have to sing. In front of Asher Smith.”

  Jake wrapped his arms around me and tugged me to his chest. “You’re a’right. You’ve totally got this. Any time you’re worried, just close your eyes and pretend you’re singing to your babies.”

  My babies. His words caused a lump to form in my throat, but I nodded, mainly because I needed the long moment to compose my now-wet eyes.

  “You ready?” Asher asked over the PA. I pulled back from Jake’s embrace, and settled on the far-right stool, knowing Jake preferred to be on the left.

  I blew out a breath, palm pressed to my fluttery stomach. “Let’s do this.”

  Each day, I learned something from Asher and Jake—something that showed me how much I still had to learn about my craft.

  The week humbled me, in part because we only made it through “All the Pretty Little Horses.”

  We’d finished a fourth version of the tune when Asher threw down his headset and stalked out of his booth. My chest fluttered as I waited for him to yell at me. Instead, he turned to Jake.

  “Will you stop trying to overpower her voice? Yours doesn’t have the same richness. Harmonize like you do with Hayden and Ets, but don’t make her harmonize with you. It’s killed the vibe.”

  He turned on his heel, shouting, “We’re done for the night!”

  I stood, rooted to the spot, shocked by this, the first outburst I’d ever seen from Asher. “Is he always that intense?” I whispered.

  “He’s a freaking genius. Yes,” Jake added. “No. This is tame.”

  “I don’t want to mess up your album.”

  “You’re not mucking it up. Didn’t you hear Asher? That’s on me.” Jake scrubbed his palms over his face. “Right-o. Well, we’re on holiday now. So, after Christmas, we come back and see what I’ve managed to fix.”

  “Is recording always like this?”

  Jake’s lips flipped up in a smirk. “You should see the fights Hayden and Murphy get into. Those are epic.”

  “Rather not,” I squeaked, the mere idea making blood leave my head.

  Jake ushered me from the booth. “Recording is hard. The industry rewards innovation and talent, sure, but it’s fueled by emotion. That’s what songs are—bits of emotion feeding your brain.”

  “This is so different from my singing-to-babies world.”

  “Different but still needs the talent. But we have to figure out how to harness your strengths to mine.”

  I swallowed hard. “And if we don’t?”

  Jake’s face slid into grim lines. “We blow the deadline and don’t get the album out.”

  After that Monday when Murphy and Mila joined me at one of my music classes, journalists pounced on me anywhere I went. The questions ranged from mundane: “What’s your favorite Jackaroo song?” to the insane: “Are you and Jake engaged?” Yesterday morning while Jake was at a nearby gym with Alan, I made the mistake of going online to find a ninety-person chain of Twitter users focused on my stomach. One blogger claimed that since Jake moved in with me a few days ago, I must be pregnant with the next Etsam prodigy.

  That one comment devastated me, and I’d locked myself in the bathroom and cried in my shower until the water cooled too much to stay.

  Jake arrived home sometime during my shower, but I didn’t mention my crying jag and neither did he. Sometime in the last few days, I developed a complex between the push-pull in my desire for Jake and a need to protect myself from him.

  The speculation would grow even larger as Christmas neared and Jake stayed with me—even though Mila and Murphy had flown back to Sydney to visit Jake and Murphy’s mother, Susan.

  “We’ll have to go visit soon. Mum’s terrified of planes and isn’t over the last flight. I took her home on a private charter after she came to ream out Murphy.”

  I glanced over, my coffee cup halfway to my mouth. “She did what?”

  “Murphy was out of control, so Mum flew to Seattle and boxed his ears. After hugging him first, of course.”

  “Of course.” My tone turned dry, but Jake talked with or texted his mom a few times a week—their relationship showed a much tighter family dynamic than mine with my parents. I spoke with Joyce a couple of times since Jake and I started dating, but refused her offer to visit for the holidays—just as I’d refused her offer for dinner last week.

  “My mum’s talked my ear off about you. I’ve never stayed with a woman, and she can’t get over how pretty you are in the photos she’s seen. I half believe she thinks I pay you to be with me.”

  “Your mom thinks I’m a call girl?” I asked, appalled.

  “No,” Jake said, eyes wide. “Blimey. No! She can’t believe someone as talented and beautiful as you spends time—shares her home—with me. That’s what I meant.”

  “So, she thinks I’m a snob?”

  “Zipping my lips. I’ve stepped in it, and I’m not digging this hole deeper.”

  He stuttered the last few words, and my heart melted. This man who worked so hard at projecting a confident front was as concerned about my rejection as I was his inevitable one of me.

  “Next year, we’ll go to Oz for Chrissie. That way we can build some new traditions together. Unless you want to visit your family.”

  “You’ve heard me talk to mine,” I said on a sigh. “They’re not interested in much outside their own enjoyment these days.” Which didn’t involve me.

  Jake settled onto the couch and pulled me down so I straddled him. I wound my arms around his neck because that’s where they belonged.

  “Your parents’ loss, then, because I want you with me.” He leaned up and kissed me, a soft, gentle kiss asking for more.

  His kisses always worked. “All right. But on one condition.”

  Jake nodded, eyebrows raised.

  “You asked me what I wanted most in the world. What do you want?”

  He ran his hands from my waist and over my hips. “Beside you in my bed? Can’t believe I’m lucky enough for that one.”

  My stomach ached at his words. I wanted him to want me, not just my body and the amazing orgasms we shared. We did have more than that—at least some of the time. Jake craved affection as much as I did; he liked to snuggle or hold hands, to kiss me and just be near, even if we were both engrossed in separate activities.

  Living with Jake proved easier than I’d expected. Dez, an amazing cook and back-rub specialist, lived in a mess—his clothes piled wherever he took them off, and he never managed to get his dirty dishes in the sink, let alone in the dishwasher to clean. Jake, however, did most of those chores without thought or prompting.

  And that scared me, too, because he had slid into my life with such ease. That had to prove…something.

  Christmas morning dawned cool and overcast. I yawned my way to the kitchen where Jake brewed a peppermint mocha. I wrapped my arms around his waist and hugged him hard. Jake turned around and kissed me, hungry for each nuance of my lips and tongue against his. He pulled back, eyes heavy, and shifted me a little to ease the pressure in his groin.

  “Happy Christmas, Lauryn,” he said, brushing my hair off my cheek as he handed me a steaming red mug. “Ready to open your prezzie?”

  “What?” Goodness, the drink smelled divine. Might be Jake’s fancy new high-end coffee maker. Or the fact he bought the expensive coffee beans that never quite fit into my budget. I took a sip and moaned.

  “Nope, no distractions. Presents. You know, the traditional exchange of gifts.”

  “I-I know what it is. But you already got me a menorah.”

  He kissed the end of my nose. “For Hanukkah. This is for Christmas.”

  He darted into the living room and pulled out a bulky, silver-wrapped present from behind the small Douglas fir we’d
picked out and decorated last week in between recording sessions. I walked over and handed him his mug, head tipped to the side.

  “I love giving prezzies,” Jake said with a smile. “One of my favorite things, really.”

  Which reminded me. “You never told me.”

  “Told you what? That was out of nowhere.” Jake set the present on the wooden coffee table and accepted the mug, sipping deep.

  “What you want most.”

  His eyes widened. “Did so. You.”

  I shook my head and gripped my mug, trying to prevent the shivers racing over my spine. “I won’t give you your present until you tell me.”

  A thick red flush heated Jake’s cheeks and turned his ears red. He cleared his throat and glanced at me from the side of his eye. “To get my master’s, maybe a PhD in art history. I’ve put in an application at Northern.”

  “That’s what you were looking at between my classes? The art department?”

  “Yeah.”

  I set my mug on the end table and laid my hands on his shoulders. “Really?”

  His eyes darted to the package on the table and back to mine, before he drank deep from his mug. “I love art.”

  “More than music?”

  “Dunno if more is that right word. I planned to run a museum or a gallery one day. Now…” he settled the mug in his lap and fiddled with the handle. “If I…if I was being totally honest with you, I’d like to work on my degree and help with your music classes sometimes. Record this album, maybe another next year. But at a slower, more manageable pace that would leave me time to pursue owning a gallery for young, new artists—give them a shot at fame and a good living. And…and spend every night in bed with you.” He raised his eyes to mine and held me gaze. He sucked in a deep breath, his words thick as he said, “That’s what I want most.”

  This poleaxe to my chest, the fresh slice of Jake’s obvious desire for me, left me speechless.