A Moonlit Serenade Page 15

  Because he gave me my deepest need: Acceptance. Caring. Which meant I might never get the child I craved because I couldn’t ask him to go against his greatest need.

  16

  Jake

  I picked up the gift-wrapped box and handed it to Ryn as my heart stuttered in my chest. Baring my soul to her moments ago, telling her how I’d like my life to progress, made me second guess this choice.

  Before I could snatch it from her hand and throw it in the rubbish bin, Ryn settled onto the sofa and turned the package over. She slit the tape and unwrapped the box as my heart rate ramped up further.

  The painting wasn’t large—sixteen by twenty—but the artist used a striking palette in that limited space. I’d never given much thought to the Pacific Island landscape until I stumbled across this artist, who’d set up shop in Seattle just two months ago. The texture caught and held my attention, and based on Ryn’s widened eyes and stuttered breath, she also engaged with the piece.

  My shoulders eased as I drank the last of my coffee. Right. Good. Not the bust I feared.

  She turned it over, her swallow audible in the quiet room. “Is this…Jake, is this an original?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You bought me an original piece of art?”

  “It’s Fiji,” I said. “See the frangipani?”

  “I do,” she breathed, her fingertips hovering over the hot-pink dollops of oil paint.

  “Can’t take you to the island right now so I brought the island to you.”

  With great care, and shaking hands, Ryn set the painting on the coffee table. My turn to swallow as dryness coated my throat.

  “If you don’t like…”

  Ryn threw herself into my arms. “I love it! Oh, my word! It’s the most amazing gift I’ve ever received.”

  “You sure? Because I can always—”

  She placed her fingers over my lips. “Stop. Don’t say it. I love the painting.”

  “The artist’s local. She’s part of the reason I want to open the gallery. So I can showcase talent like hers. She’s bloody brilliant. Her landscapes are some of the most detailed I’ve seen outside of museums.”

  Ryn sat back and smiled at me but it held puzzlement.

  “What?”

  “You,” she said. “I think you mean it. The gallery, your degree, spending time with…with me.”

  “Course I do.” I cupped her cheek and forced my jaw to relax so I could give her the words. Words I hoped she’d give back. “You matter to me. So damn much.”

  Her eyes slid close, highlighting her lashes on her cheeks as she smiled. “Thank you for that. And the painting.” She pressed a kiss to my palm, and my breath caught at the softness of her lips, the emotions in her eyes as she met my gaze.

  Blimey, I was in deep with this woman. I’d have to talk to Murphy—see if these emotions swirling through me were what he felt for Mila.

  I wanted to make her happy. Not just content, but so bloody happy she couldn’t help but smile and laugh—I loved her laugh.

  I thought I might love her, too.

  I stood and grabbed our mugs. “Another cuppa? Then we can hang the painting?” I headed into the kitchen. “Any idea where you want it?”

  “Somewhere I can see it every day.”

  I smiled at her response as I refilled the machine.

  She stepped into the kitchen and handed me an envelope.

  “It’s not a painting, but…” Her smile turned down as concern filled her eyes. “Alan said you hadn’t been yet.”

  I caged her with my arms. “You didn’t have to get me anything,” I said, nuzzling into her neck.

  “You are difficult to buy for. Mm. I like that.”

  I pressed another open-mouthed kiss to her neck and then plucked the envelope from her hand. I opened the seal and pulled out the tickets—four of them—to the Andrew Wyeth exhibition at the Seattle Art Museum.

  Excitement bubbled up from my stomach, filling my chest. Andrew Wyeth. Blimey. I’d wanted to see his work up close for years. “You’re serious? You got me tickets to this?”

  She nodded. “We’re going tomorrow. If that’s okay? I got tickets for Alan and Isaac, too.”

  My lips covered hers, and I moaned as I drew her closer. Besides Betsy, no woman had ever entertained my love of art, my desire to wander through a museum for hours on end, as anything other than a silly past time.

  “I bloody love it! And tomorrow, you say? I can’t wait. I need to read up again on Wyeth’s biography, know what to look for.”

  Ryn pulled another present from behind her back and handed it to me. Inside was a book of Wyeth’s painting, his history, and his contemporaries.

  I stood in the kitchen, flipping through the book, happier than I’d been in years. Maybe ever.

  Because of Ryn. She made herself another cuppa and leaned against the counter, eyeing me over the rim of her mug. I turned the book toward her, showing her the large painting of a family gathered at a festive dinner.

  “Might be their Chrissie. Mine’s better.”

  She smiled, and her gaze held amusement, but something else: that sadness I’d seen the first day I met her when she held the bub in her arms.

  Ryn hadn’t brought up the topic since I told her my hang-ups, but yearning poured off her, still. Perhaps because today was time for family, for traditions and laughter and togetherness, and it was just the two of us. Maybe she missed Dez and his family and the memories they’d built together.

  I clenched my fists around the book and considered my options. I wasn’t stupid enough to think Ryn would stick by me forever. A child was too important to her, and I had to respect that need. Just as she’d respected my desire to see what we built together by picking up birth control pills.

  I’d talk to her—when she brought it up next. Because I wanted Ryn. Bad. For longer than this time we worked on the album. Couldn’t blame the eggnog for this yearning burrowing into my soul.

  Ryn, her messy past, her oddly perfect job, her inability to meet a daily baby-cuddle quota, her willingness to not just humor my love of art but actively participate by going to museums with me—she’d become my life.

  Now all I had to do was tackle my deepest fear to ensure she got what she needed, which would ensure I got what I couldn’t live without.

  17

  Ryn

  I held the note, using my stomach muscles to clear the air from my diaphragm. My gaze focused not on the microphone in front of me, but on Asher’s beaming face through the plexiglass. He made the cut sign, and I let the note fade.

  “And that’s a wrap!” Asher laughed, his white teeth flashing that perfect smile, as he hopped up from the booth. I pinched the inside of my wrist, just to make double-sure these past six weeks I’d been working with Asher and Jake weren’t some crazy dream.

  Jake whooped, pulling me into his arms from the wooden stool as he spun me around the studio space, so giddy with the high of that take that we nearly slammed into the guitars on the far wall.

  “Jake,” I chided, but I was laughing. The joy of a fantastic studio session had me as excited as Jake and Asher.

  I’d spent the week after Christmas and early morning and evening hours throughout January singing and playing the guitar and piano for Asher Smith. And he loved my work.

  I wasn’t making that up. He’d told me every day I was here, awe resounding from his voice. “You have range. Good golly, girl, but you can sing!”

  “Better than Preslee’s,” Jake averred again.

  “Her rendition of ‘Des Colores’ brought tears to my eyes,” Asher said, shaking his head. “We work with some talented people.” He’d turned his gaze to me, eyes narrowed into a squint he normally saved for serious conversations. “We’re getting ‘A Moonlit Serenade’ down today. Long as it takes.”

  I nodded, palm pressed to my belly as I tried to ease the butterflies building there.

  Mere hours later, we celebrated the specialness of this track. Everything flowed. J
ake and I were in sync, and the emotion—my desire to make and love a child with Jake, a feeling I couldn’t articulate to him directly—poured into every nuance of my voice.

  “That was amazing.” I kept my arms around Jake’s neck, needing him to ease the ache in my chest and womb.

  Jake pressed a soft, sweet kiss to my lips, his hands cradling my body to his chest. “You lit it up, love.” The pride in his voice warmed the coldness inside enough for me to let go and step back in time for Asher to slap Jake’s shoulder.

  “Mila’s going to love this version. It’s even better than the MP3 her friend gave her. Blimey, that’s a lovely lullaby. Gonna make the bubs slide into sleep.”

  Why did Jake have to say that? And with such pride beaming on his face. Pride in me—even though he hadn’t once mentioned our living arrangement—heck, us seeing each other again—since Christmas. Granted, the last few weeks of hectic of work with additional three days a week added to the rehearsals and studio time didn’t leave much down time. Most nights, Jake and I fell into bed, late, but always in a tangle of limbs that led to heated caresses, followed by five or six hours of sleep. I wasn’t sure how we’d managed the schedule, but I couldn’t miss a minute of my time with Jake.

  The record’s deadline loomed closer with each day, and without further reassurances, without words of love I craved, I worried Jake had changed his mind. That while he liked me and enjoyed my body, he planned to leave me as soon as the record was complete.

  Irrational though the fear was, it grew the closer we got to this point. I ached more than I had moments ago when I poured all my yearning into the song. Because now…now that the album was complete, Jake had no reason to stay.

  “No mixing,” Asher said, rubbing his hands together. “What you did there—that was amazing. I’m blown away.”

  He hugged me, lifting me off the ground. “I’ll write a song for us to sing together. Damn, I cannot wait to have you on my next album.”

  Asher’s fame, like Jake’s, was world-renowned. If the sales projections Asher and Jake spoke of came to fruition, my bank account would see a couple of zeroes in the right place.

  And if I sang with Asher—if that single sped up the charts like most of his songs do—I’d be able to afford not just one of the guitars like the one Murphy gave me, but anything else I could think of.

  My throat clogged as if it couldn’t decide which emotion to push through next.

  Jake and Asher went into the sound booth and listened to the song again while I straightened the studio. Done there, I collected my coat and waited by the door while my emotions continued to battle for supremacy.

  “Now that this tune is locked down, we’re ready to roll it out. Full length digital goes up on February eleventh. A full day early, man!” Asher said, beaming. “If you’re ready, we can start the promo now that this is in the can. We can release a single tomorrow afternoon, pick up some preorders. When are you planning to give it to Mila?”

  “I’ll drop by their place tomorrow first thing. I’ll give them the vinyl copy for their wedding gift.”

  My jaw dropped. Within the week, the album would be live.

  Asher yawned, covering his mouth and shaking his head. “I’ll let you know if we run into anything last minute, Jake. Great working with you both.”

  He shook Jake’s hand before pulling him into a hug. Then, he hugged me one more time before he strolled back to the booth and started shutting down his equipment.

  “Tired?” Jake asked.

  I kept my eyes downcast as I nodded. I was tired, but not in the way Jake thought.

  I didn’t want to lose him—after tonight there wasn’t a reason for him to stay. And he didn’t understand my fixation with my own family, which was my fault because I’d never fully explained.

  He’d never met my parents. Never seen the lack of love in their eyes. Never known how hard I worked to get a “we expect more from you” response—if I received any notice at all.

  I didn’t want him to know my parents barely tolerated me.

  When I told him, he’d leave. Just like they did. Just like Dez.

  And I’d be alone again.

  I hated being alone.

  “You’re quiet,” Jake said, clasping my hand as we exited the restaurant the next night. I wore my blue cashmere dress—I knew Jake liked it—and my black heeled boots. I’d hoped the outfit would boost my sagging confidence. Give me a reason to tell Jake my fears and needs, especially now that the spread in the local paper came out this morning. A variety of pictures of us, together, from the past two months peppered the large article, along with Jake’s comments about sticking around Seattle to spend more time with “the people important to him.” The article hinted at marriage, but neither Jake nor I had discussed the next phase of our relationship. How could I? I was still reeling from my revelation around Christmas that Jake mattered more to me than the child I’d always dreamed of.

  Walking toward the car, a flash of red splashed across my face, and I closed my eyes with a squeak, turning my head against further threats.

  “Oi!” Jake yelled.

  I sputtered then finally gagged and spat out the remnants of the liquid from my mouth.

  Feet pattered past me, but my eyes dripped with whatever covered my face.

  “You all right?” Jake asked, his voice solicitous but an undercurrent of fury settled there. I gagged again and began to shiver in earnest as the liquid soaked through my coat and dress.

  “What is it?”

  “Paint. Red paint.” Jake spat. “Isaac ran after the person.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’m calling the police.”

  “What? No! I’m fine.”

  “I’m bloody well not.”

  I looked him over, noting the red on his slacks and shoes. “I’m so sorry! I’ll pay for new ones.” I shook my hands, trying to get some of the wet, sticky substance off me. I wanted to wipe my face. After glancing down at my ruined coat, I used the paint-free sleeve to clear my eyes and mouth.

  Jake pulled his phone from his pocket, the scowl building as he glared at Isaac, who jogged back toward us, shaking his head.

  “Don’t.” I grabbed his hand, fingers gripping his tight. “Please.”

  “Why not? You were accosted.”

  “By Sam,” I said on a sigh, my stomach plunging at my words. Where had our relationship gone so wrong? My knees weakened and I wanted to collapse but managed not to. “I’m pretty certain I saw her. Before she threw the paint.”

  “You sure it was her?”

  I pulled at my paint-covered hair, considering the question. No, not one hundred percent. But I nodded. “I’ll call her parents when I get home.”

  Jake continued to scowl. “Don’t like this. She’s a menace, maybe more.”

  I raised my hand to place it on his chest, but thought better of it when red dripped from my wrist to the ground. “Please.”

  He glanced around, annoyance making his nostrils flare before he shook his head, eyes dropping back to mine. “Let’s get you home.”

  “I’m not sitting in your new car all covered in paint!”

  “Neither my car nor my clothes matter near as much as your safety, Ryn. Please don’t fight me on this. I need to help you.”

  Why did his words tug at my heart? Why did he have to say such sweet things to me? Words that kept me confused and so in love I craved him more than my next breath.

  He tugged me even closer and kissed me, paint and all. Just like every other time, I leaned into the kiss, desperate for more of this feeling Jake created in me, craving his touch, forgetting everything else. Even how cold I was in my wet, ruined clothes.

  “I bloody well care about you, Lauryn. More than I should, maybe. I can’t stop even though you’re still caught up in your ex’s family.” He dropped his forehead to mine. “I don’t want to stop caring for you. Just…just don’t ask it of me.”

  His fingers speared into my sodden hair as he ravaged my mouth. His
tongue stroked mine until I tangled mine with his. He growled and upped his assault, plastering me against his chest, bracketing my hips with his thighs. He made love to my mouth with an urgency I couldn’t resist and I fell, harder and farther than before, into Jake Etsam.

  I stared up into his eyes, seeking an answer he couldn’t yet give me—maybe never would. But passion and fury lit his gaze, and I shivered again, this time from the knowledge that Jake was in my blood as well as my mind—any attempt to disengage from him would tear me apart.

  “Come on. Since you won’t let me call the police, let’s get you home and cleaned up.”

  Isaac kept a pace behind us, frustration rolling off him in a thick wave.

  I remained quiet as Jake led me to his car. I insisted on removing my coat so I wouldn’t get more paint on his seat. I pulled up the loose ends of my soaked hair into a messy knot on the top of my head, I managed to buckle in without smearing much paint on his leather interior.

  Jake removed his coat and button-down shirt, which he laid over his paint-stained trousers. Twenty minutes later, he pulled into a spot in my building and we managed to gingerly exit the car, Isaac popping out of his vehicle parked to my right.

  “We’re headed up,” Jake said to Isaac.

  He nodded, eyes moving around the garage. “Want me to go with you?”

  “No. We’re fine,” Jake replied. I sighed with relief at the single red smear on Jake’s steering wheel. As we headed toward the elevators, I balled up my ruined coat.

  “Tonight didn’t go as planned.”

  Jake pressed the button for my floor as he gave me the side eye. “Not hardly. But you do look good as a redhead.”

  I threw my head back and laughed, releasing the tension that had built inside me over the past month of intensity. Jake smirked back.

  The doors opened we headed down the hallway. Thankfully, no one was out to see our bedraggled appearance. I pulled out my keys, fumbling with the crusty clasp. Jake cursed, low and vicious.

  A picture of Dez was taped to my door. He was in full dress uniform, his hair recently shorn in the military buzz cut. He looked so young and full of life.