Page 51 of Rival Hearts

“What do you mean?” Maggie flicked the cap off her bottle and then tossed it in the trash.

“Not much of a drinker?”

She laughed and rolled the bottle in her hands. “I haven’t drunk more than a glass of wine since…” She looked at the ceiling and squinted. “You wrote that asshole song about me and Trent.”

Yeah, she was definitely a bit drunk. Granted, the beer was European, so it was probably stronger than she was used to drinking.

“Was that the night you wrote your little diatribe on my fan page?” I’d never thought too much about Maggie’s message. Hadn’t made a whole lot of sense, which I remembered thinking was odd. Before I could reply, the post had disappeared, and then when I’d tried searching for her username, there had been no results. Later on, I’d figured out she’d blocked me.

Color rose to her cheeks. “In fact, it was. I deleted the post as soon as I sobered up. So stupid. Why would you give a shit what I thought?” She let out a derisive laugh. “Trent was really pissed off at you, you know.”

I did. One of a thousand fractures in our relationship. Felt like a lifetime ago, remembering how badly I’d wanted to punish her. For what? I couldn’t even be sure anymore. I’d been ridiculous. Juvenile. Idiotic. The idea I might have caused her pain made my insides twist. Hurting Trent hadn’t occurred, either. Everything just felt so fucked-up. “I was an asshole.”

With a grin, she raised her bottle. “I’ll drink to that.” She spun around the room in a slow circle. “I can’t believe you live like this.”

“I’m not here much.” Most of my time was spent at the train station overseeing the renovations Joseph Goldtooth was completing.

“I want to disinfect, paint, and decorate this place. Being here might make me break out in hives.”

“You sound like Kelvin.” I tried to see the room through her eyes. Gray walls that should probably be white. Cupboards made of thin wood. The linoleum floor had some tears in places. The house didn’t smell, though. Or at least, I didn’t think it did.

As though she suddenly realized something, she narrowed her eyes. “Where are your beasts?”

“With Emily. Amir was here this week with your dad, and they bonded. He wanted to have a sleepover with them.” I shrugged and picked at the label of my beer, focused on the task. “I dropped them off on my way to the studio.”

When I glanced up, our gazes locked, and the room popped to life. Her hand was pressed against her pelvis. Was she holding her breath? We scanned each other’s faces, and I resisted the urge to slide my beer onto the counter and sweep her into my arms to cart her upstairs. Trent had told me to stay away. I needed to fix my relationship with him before I tried to figure out if this feeling between us was more than rampant lust. My chances with Trent were numbered. Another screwup on my part and I might never get us back to where we’d once been.

“Do you want to see where the magic happens?”

“If that’s an invitation to your bed, you’re giving yourself a lot of credit.”

I grinned. The temptation to tell her the credit was well-deserved rested on my tongue. She was drunk, but I wasn’t sure she was drunk enough to joke about my sexual conquests.None of them mattered much with her standing so close, with this electrical current humming between us. Maggie’s name ran through my veins like oxygen.

I held out my hand, and she slipped her free one into mine, glancing up under her lashes. Would she object if I led her upstairs? God, I was playing with fire by having her here.

She followed me down the hall into the front room where there were chairs of various shapes and sizes. Jim had also insisted on getting someplace for Amir to sit while we’d practiced for the concert. For anyone else, I might have balked at the suggestion that what I had wasn’t good enough. But it was hard to say no to Maggie’s dad.

Releasing her hand, I pulled the bench seat over to the keyboard and slid onto one side. I patted the seat beside me and glanced at her over my shoulder. Her focus shifted from me to the keyboard, to the bench, indecision written all over her.

“Just a sec.” She disappeared down the hall. When she returned, she had another beer.

“You finish the last one?”

“Liquid courage.”

At first, I thought it was a joke and almost laughed. But when she avoided eye contact, I realized she was serious. “What do you need courage for?” She slid onto the bench beside me, and our shoulders grazed.

“Being around you.” She set her beer on the far side and placed her fingers on the keyboard. “Teach me, Mozart.”

I leaned toward her, my lips grazing her temple. Her eyes fluttered closed at the contact.

“You don’t use a guitar anymore?” Her eyes were still closed, and I wondered what she was thinking. I wanted to kiss her again—for real.

“Sometimes. Most of the time, this is better for composing. It can do a lot. Far more than any guitar.” I didn’t want totalk about songwriting; I wanted to talk about how the scent of vanilla surrounded me, even in my dreams.

She picked up her beer and chugged half of it.

Liquid courage, indeed.

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