Page 71 of Never Sleep with the Enemy

A single note, then two, slipping in beneath mine like the press of a palm at the small of my back. I shiver, my breath catching, but I don’t stop. His notes chase mine, low and resonant, weaving around my melody, deepening it, darkening it. It should be jarring, intrusive… but it’s not. It’s seamless. Natural. Like this was how the song was always meant to be.

I push forward, my fingers finding the keys with more urgency now. He follows, always right there, catching me, guiding me, daring me.

And then he leads. His hands move boldly across the keys, his body tilting toward mine as if he’s pulling me in.

And I let him. I let myself be carried into his rhythm, into the rush of notes that build and swell until we’re no longer playing two parts.

We’re playing as one.

The music crests, surging toward a peak that steals the breath from my lungs. My fingers press harder, desperate, greedy for more, but it’s slipping away, spiraling higher and higher?—

And then, release.

The final notes linger, trembling in the air, before fading into silence.

I don’t move. I don’t breathe. My pulse is a violent drum in my ears. My hands hover over the keys, shaking. His, too.

Slowly, I turn to him. He’s already looking at me. The heat in his eyes is unmistakable.

I swallow hard, my body still thrumming with the aftermath of what we just did.

Music. We just made… music.

But it sure as hell didn’t feel like just music.

“That was?—”

My voice stalls as Logan reaches for my journal, his head tilted inquisitively. Before I can do anything, he turns the pages, stopping at the pressed yellow rose.

It could have come from anywhere, but something in his stare tells me he recognizes it. He knows exactly where I got it from.

From the hundreds of yellow roses he sent to our dressing room in Portland.

His lips twitch. “You kept one.”

I nod, my mouth dry.

“Why?” he asks.

I swallow hard, desperate to wet my tongue. “I thought they were pretty,” I say.

I look at him, his eyes shimmering from the small chandelier above the piano. He leans closer, his head tilting to one side, but he stops, his lips an inch away.

“And this?” he asks, a single finger tapping against the sticky note stuck to the page across from the rose.

BAD KITTY

“I, uh...” I look down, blushing hard.

Logan chuckles. “Do you like it when I call you that?”

I nod.

He drifts in close enough to brush his lips across mine as if he were striking a match. “You’re so beautiful, kitty,” he whispers. “You know that, right?”

“I know thatnow,”I blurt. Half a joke. Half not a joke at all.

His brow furrows slightly, a touch of anger reaching his eyes. “Fool,” he whispers, his jaw taut.

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