Page 22 of Sins (The Sins Trilogy 1)
I run a towel over my face, waiting for Harry to join her.
But he doesn’t. Maybe he feels embarrassed after yesterday. If so, it’s a damn inconvenient time for my brash brother to finally learn some humility.
Ivy finishes the entire first movement. I let out a breath. My teeth grind together when she starts in again.
I know what she’s up to. This is her revenge because I ignored her downstairs. It certainly isn’t practice. She’s playing the part perfectly, albeit too loudly. She’s doing this to get me to come down to play the secondo because the piece isn’t complete without it, and it grates like karaoke with no singer. Even now, despite my best intentions, my fingers are twitching, mimicking playing the secondo.
She’s been at Curtis for three years. She can play Schubert all afternoon long, no problem. It isn’t uncommon for students at famous conservatories to practice for hours a day.
Fine. I’ll go and play the damned secondo. But only because I hate the incompleteness of the piece, not because I want to sit next to her on the bench and have our limbs brushing and fingers touching.
By the time I reach the piano room, she’s almost done with her first repeat. I open the door and admire her for a moment, my heart beating faster. The light pouring in from outside creates a strawberry-blond halo out of her unbound hair, and she shines like the sun—her skin glowing, eyes shimmering and rosy lips in a soft line.
Patient. Confident. Alluring. She’s a force of nature, drawing me as irresistibly as a planet’s gravity. And I can’t lie about how I feel. I want her. Like she’s a last sip of water before I’m banished into a desert. Even though I know how impossible it will be to have her. The situation we’re in—that she’s related to my family, however distantly, that we didn’t meet under different circumstances (in Europe, perhaps) where nobody would care if I wanted her, where she could stay ignorant of my past forever—slides into my gut like a shiv.
Inhaling deeply to calm my roiling emotions, I take the empty space on the bench next to her and start the secondo without asking her to start over. Ivy doesn’t look at me, but I can sense her smile. And she finally starts hitting her notes without trying to deafen everyone in the house.
“I knew you’d help me practice,” she says.
“I don’t care for the incompleteness. Or the entire piece played in fortissimo.”
“I know.” Her voice is quiet over a pianissimo passage. “Thanks for the aspirin.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I ended up telling Aunt Margot what you did yesterday.”
Tension grips my neck and shoulders, and I almost mess up a chord. “I thought you wanted to keep the whole thing quiet.”
“I did, but Mrs. Wentworth showed up. I couldn’t help myself.”
I think two things simultaneously: So that explains it and Shit. “What did Mother say?”
“She asked Mrs. Wentworth to leave. I let Aunt Margot know you saved me. And what you saved me from. I didn’t want her to think you got into a fight with Caleb over nothing.”
“Ivy, no.” Mother isn’t angry with me for not saving girls. She’s angry because I didn’t save one particular girl. “It doesn’t matter what Mrs. Wentworth said or made Mother think. You weren’t going to tell Mother, so you shouldn’t have done it, not for me.”
“Why not? Don’t you want your mom to know you’re not a troublemaker?”
I almost laugh at the word. If I were only a troublemaker, Mother would’ve forgiven me years ago. “How do you know I’m not a troublemaker? Or an asshole?”
“Because, um, you aren’t? I mean, the way you treated me…” She clears her throat. “You can be abrupt, even rude, but you saved me and took care of me. So, I think you’re a good guy, even though you obviously hate being seen that way. It’s like you’re clinging to a bad-boy rep or something.”
This time, I laugh. What gave her this crazy idea? “Bad-boy rep?”
She nods. “But you’re not. It’s like, you could be kissing me, but if I asked you to stop, you would. Because you’re that kind of guy.”
She’s so earnest, so convinced. I stare at her face—the gentle profile and the clear eyes that seem to be deeper and more beautiful than an alpine lake in winter. And she’s making me want things I shouldn’t…making me want to believe I’m worthy.
I have to put a stop to this before I get stupid. I have to show her she’s being a fool.
Putting on a cocky smirk, I tilt my head. “Want to put that to the test?” Most people say things easily enough, but back off when they have to put their money where their mouth is. I’m betting Ivy will do the same. She’s a smart girl.
“Okay.” She blinks once, slowly. “Go for it.” The angle of her chin is a dare.
Damn. Now the ball’s in my court, and I can’t avoid or ignore it. I stare at her siren’s mouth. A rough, punishing kiss would be fitting, make her regret challenging me. Except I can’t bring myself to do it. I want her to like the feel of my lips on hers. I want her to enjoy the kiss, find such pleasure in it that it’ll kill her to ask me to stop. And whatever she asks, I’m going to do the exact opposite, just to make my point.
That’s the price she should pay for saying I’m a good guy.
