Page 16 of True Ruin

At the far end, one door stood slightly ajar, spilling a wedge of yellow light across the floor.

Dallas had turned into the choral room, of all places.

She slowed near that stupid trophy case, catching her reflection in the glass between a row of tarnished trackmedals and a faded photo of the 1985 state football team, probably taken by Campbell. Her new highlights looked stark under the fluorescent lights. A woman with superb self-control didn’t make follicular decisions based on theoretical encounters. Clearly, hers was shot.

Smoothing a hand down her blouse, Gabi adjusted the collar of her jean jacket and shook out her skirt. She’d once been the golden girl in this place, but that girl was long gone. Now all she could do was be herself—divorced, dented, determined—and not feel ashamed of any of it.

Dallas’s voice carried from the choral room. “Are you coming in or what?”

Gabi smothered a gasp behind her hand.Oh. My. God.

She peeked around the door. Dallas sat at the piano, his crutches resting against the wall, his fingers moving over the keys with reluctant competence. He played a few chords, enough for her to recognize “Don’t Speak.”

He glanced over his shoulder, lips twitching. Not his usual dry half-smile, either, but something boyish and delighted. Real enough to make Gabi jealous of anyone who’d ever earned it. “My mom worked in a bar, mostly the day shift, and I spent more afternoons than I should have hanging around while she cleaned up. There was an out-of-tune piano in the back. A kindhearted alcoholic named Gus, who told me he used to be a jazz musician before the booze took over, gave me a few lessons, and I went from there.” He paused, his amusement dimming slightly. “These keys aren’t nearly as sticky. Go figure.”

Gabi pressed a palm to the nervous thump in her belly and crept inside.

Up close, Dallas was even cuter.

Annoyingly, inconveniently, make-a-woman-forget-her-good-sensehot.

His Levi’s were worn through high on one thigh, enough for her to imagine sliding a finger into the tear to see if his skin was as warm as it looked. His long-sleeved T-shirt had faded from black to charcoal and frayed at the hem,I Hate the Oxford Commacracked across his chest in peeling white letters. Freckles she didn’t remember dusted his nose, maybe from those hours outside with his notebook. His hair had grown out since the brutal hospital shearing, softening around his ears, and the scar at his temple had faded to a pale slash.

Then there were his eyelashes. Long. Dark. Ridiculous.

His lashes swept down when he looked at the keys, shadowing the sharp planes of his face, then lifted when he sliced a glance her way. Green eyes, ringed in hazel, like gemstones catching light. And because the universe had decided she deserved no mercy, his sleeves were pushed up, exposing forearms corded with tendons and ink. She had a thing for forearms.

She decided then and there to go for it.

Stopping beside the piano, she trailed one finger along the inky curve of his tattoo.

He paused beneath the touch, his sigh blending with the last note. A-flat. She knew because she’d had piano lessons of her own. When his gaze met hers, heat glowed beneath the surface, banked but unmistakable.

He was giving her time to take it back, and she wasn’t going to.

“I lovedThe Outsiderswhen we read it in school, but I was more of a Ponyboy girl myself,” she said, keeping it light, keeping the promise she’d made to herself.

Dallas laughed softly and skimmed his index finger along the keys. “Fair enough. Nothing gold can stay, right?”

Gabi eased around the curve of the piano, letting the black lacquer put a little distance between them. His gaze followedwithout effort, as if she were something he had no intention of chasing because he knew she’d come close again.

He was right.

“So, piano skills,” she said, tracing her fingertip over the back of the fallboard. “Should I file that under mysterious history?”

His mouth tipped at one corner. “Mysterious?”

“You show up in Promise with a cast, a nickname, and a working knowledge of No Doubt. A woman starts to wonder, Hotshot.”

His gaze stayed on her, a sexy shimmer behind smudged lenses. “I’m simply gathering information for a piece on a small-town theater production, another random assignment from an editor I haven’t officially worked for in ten years. Sounds like the opposite of mysterious to me.”

“I read your article about the mill this morning.” She rounded the far side of the piano, knowing he was tracking her and foolish enough to enjoy it. “It was good, Dallas.” Better than good. His writing had created a brief portrait of a town being rebuilt. Reborn, even.

In response, a blush stole across his cheeks, and he lowered his head to hide it, but not in time. “Uh, I don’t really like to talk about my work. Not face to face, if that makes sense. Print journalism provides a lot of anonymity.”

Beside him, she propped her elbow on the piano and her chin on her fist. “You always seemed so grounded, like you knew who you were and didn’t care what anyone thought. Confident. Sure of your path. I would love to have those qualities, even now.”

He blew out a stunned breath, his brows rising above the frames of his glasses. “You thought that?” He shook his head and played a D-major chord. “I was a good actor then.”