Page 32 of Just Business

“I do,” she says simply, her response hanging in the air.

“How’d you learn?”

Penny’s face falls imperceptibly, but I catch it. “Hey, no, it’s okay. We don’t have to talk about it.” I say gently, resting my hand on hers.

She worries her bottom lip but then takes a deep breath and lets it out. “It’s okay. My mom taught me to play. I have more memories than I can count of us sitting right there on that bench, playing whatever song I asked her to teach me. I don’t think I’ve told you. She gave piano lessons. Practically everyone in Singing River took lessons from her at one point or another in their childhood.”

She gets up and goes to the piano bench, patting it for me to sit beside her. When I do, she takes my hand, laying it on top of where hers is on the keys.

“We sat right here every chance we got while I learned the difference between sharps and flats.” She moves our fingers to play F-sharp and B-flat. “Eventually, we moved on to chords. Sometimes, I’d play the melody while she played the chords until I got better at using both hands and my fingers were long enough to reach all the octaves.” With her right hand, she pecks out a quick, familiar melody.

“Did she ever play at the studio, or was it always Ed?”

She nods, holding up one finger before heading toward her stairs. A few seconds later, she returns with a CD and a pink boom box covered in NSYNC stickers.

With trembling fingers, Penny carefully lays the CD in the player and presses play. “The musician wasn’t a well-known singer,” she says, taking her seat beside me on the bench. “She played covers and had saved up enough money to book a session. My dad told me that Mom always preferred staying in the background, but Ed was out of town. He and Pops convinced her to play keys, just the once.” She rests her hand back on the piano and we fall silent.

The first few chords of “Always on My Mind” fill the room. The singer’s voice is crystal clear, and the piano accompaniment makes it even more breathtaking.

As we listen, Penny’s lower lip starts to tremble and a single tear tracks down her cheek. Reaching up, I brush it away with the pad of my thumb and our gazes catch and hold. I hope the look I’m giving her speaks what my heart is saying.I see you. I hear you. You’re not alone.

Finally, I tear my eyes away, dropping my hand to curl around hers. When the song ends I sit quietly.

“That was my dad’s favorite song. We always debated whether Elvis’s version or Willie’s was better. But I prefer this one.” She taps the top of the boom box. “My sweet mama on the keys, playing for an unknown singer who saved up every last penny to record here.”

The silence is deafening, and when I glance up she’s studying me. Her eyes latch onto mine and her throat works on a swallow. All I’d have to do is move forward a hair’s breadth and my lips would be on hers. By the sound of her shaky breaths she knows it. I’d give about anything to see what her lips feel like on mine and what sounds she’d make. It would take every ounce of control to stop there, but I’d do it.

Beep, beep, beep.

The oven’s buzzer sounds, causing us to jump apart like two teenagers caught in the act.

“We should—” Penny stops to clear her throat. “We should get some TV time in before bed.” Her eyes dart to the living room and then back to mine.

“If that’s what you want,” I reply.

She shakes her head, a sad smile tugging at her lips. “It’s not, but it’s what I need to do.”

With one nod of my head, I head to the kitchen to get the brownies, leaving the puzzle out to finish later.

Honey has gotten so used to my presence that she’s created her own nightly routine. Once we’re settled on the couch, she hops onto my lap to make biscuits, spins around, and curls into a ball.

Every night, somewhere around the fifth or sixth episode, Penny drifts off. After that first night, when I left her on the couch, I realized she sleeps like a log, so I started carrying her to her bedroom instead. Tonight is the same as I scoop her up and lay her onto her bed, tucking the blankets up to her chin. I probably look like a creeper standing there taking in how her long lashes create shadows against her cheekbones and her auburn hair fans out on her pillow.

Grabbing her paper and pen, I jot down another note for her to find in the morning and lay it on her nightstand. I lean down, pressing my lips to her forehead before slipping out to my room. In such a short time, I’ve found myself growing more and more attached to this woman.

I’m not entirely sure what’s building between us, but it’s certainly more than friendship, and I have a feeling she knows it.

* * *

Once I’m settled against the headboard of the bed, my thoughts tumble over themselves, but one rises above the rest. Penny. She’s everywhere, invading every corner of my mind.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I try to shake the image of her, but it's impossible. Even when I close my eyes, she's there. She’s looking at me with her mouth tilted into a smile at something I've said, those brown eyes of hers dancing. All I can think about is how badly I want to devour her mouth and grip her round ass so hard she gasps into me.

Fucking hell, this is torture. But it’s not only her body I crave. It’s everything about her. The strength I see in her even when she’s clearly struggling. The way her eyes linger on mine long enough to make my chest ache, and the way she makes me want to do better, be better. I know Penny feels it, too. She said we had to keep it professional, but I didn’t miss the flicker of doubt in her eyes.

With a shaky breath, I scroll to the photo she took for her contact in my phone the first night we met. My fingers reach under the waistband of my boxers to grip my cock, imagining it’s her hand instead of mine.

My balls tighten and with a few more strokes her name slips from my lips on a groan as the pleasure in my spine unravels, leaving me aching for so much more with her.

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