Page 51 of My One Week Husband
Maybe I’m the one enrapt.
No. There is no maybe about it. I am enrapt. I’m back in time, but I’m also here in this moment, telling her this story while reliving it too.
“That’s beautiful,” she says in a reverent whisper.
“I’ll play it for you.”
She blinks, her expression shifting to shock.
Quickly, I dispel the idea that I might play it. I don’t play for anyone. “I meant on your phone. We’ll find a recording. It’s an incredible piece,” I say, then I hum a few more notes.
“I hardly know any classical music, but now I want to,” she says.
“Then you should start with the Brahms. It reminds me of you,” I say.
She tilts her chin in curiosity. “Why’s that?”
Stepping closer, I run my knuckles over her cheek. “Because even when it’s sad, it’s sweet.”
“Is that me?”
I dust a kiss to her forehead. “Yes. You’re as sweet as Brahms, and as complicated.”
She sighs wistfully, but contentedly. When I pull back, she tosses another question at me. “What was it like? To possess that talent? How did it make you feel? I can’t even imagine having an ability like that.”
Her questions don’t pierce me like I’d expect. Instead, it’s as if she has a key, turns it easily in a lock, and swings a door inside me wide open. The chance to talk about music is blissful relief. I feel unlocked. Freed. “It was like life; it was like love. It was . . .” I reach for another word, but there aren’t words to do it justice. I set my hands on her shoulders, curling them tightly around her. “It was like a possession.”
“The music possessed you,” she says, her voice full of wonder. “And a part of your soul.”
I nod, feeling understood. “I was compelled,” I say, then I laugh. “Can you picture me? Six years old, obsessed with the violin?”
“I can’t see you as six, Daniel.” She laughs.
“Ten?”
She shakes her head again. “It’s hard for me to see you as anyone but who you are now.”
“How about fifteen? Can you see me as a fifteen-year-old, driven to play the violin at all hours? Standing in my room in my pajamas, staring out the window at the stars, playing Bach?”
“Now I can see it, because you’re painting the picture vividly. How old were you when you played in St. Petersburg?”
“Sixteen. I played with the symphony orchestra. I was the guest solo violinist,” I say, thrilled to share these stories at last, grateful she’s indulging me.
“Were you ever scared? Playing in front of crowds like that?”
That night in St. Petersburg flashes in my mind, clear and bright. The looming concert hall, the bright lights, the stage. “My parents were there,” I say, the memory rising up in full force like Poseidon plunging out of the sea. “They sat in the front row. I should have been terrified, but I wasn’t. I did it without fear.”
“Maybe that’s another reason why you were so good at it. You were fearless. You played fearlessly,” she says, her tone intense and full of understanding. Like she’s absorbing all my stories, seeing them, holding them in her hands, feeling the weight.
“Yes. I think I was. That’s one of the things I had going for me. I played fearlessly. And when I went onstage, I had no notion of stage fright. It felt like where I was supposed to be. Maybe because it was my whole life.”
“You still are fearless, Daniel. Even if you don’t play like you used to.” She reaches for my arm, slides her hand down it, and squeezes my forearm. “You go after deals fearlessly. You go after business that way. You approach life that way.”
I huff. “But do I? I’d like to think so, but I’m not sure that’s true, Scarlett,” I say, like I’m baring part of my soul. I don’t know that I would have said this to her a few days ago. I don’t know that I would have let down my guard to this degree. Because I don’t know if I’m truly living a fearless life like I did when I was younger, when everything was possible, when everything was love.
“You were fearless for your friend,” she says, gripping my arm harder, like she’s giving me some of her own courage. “Don’t you remember? You were fearless for Cole. You knew Sage would be right for him. So you engineered it. You brought them together. You made their romance happen. You were determined because you knew it would be good for him.”
I raise a hand, brush it along her hair, grateful that she’s not wearing a wig today. She’s simply Scarlett here with me, her chestnut-brown hair glinting gold in the sun, her clothes the simple but sexy ones she wears, the shoes on her feet silver flats. “You helped,” I say. “Don’t go all revisionist and claim you aren’t a matchmaker too.”
