Page 43 of Sins (The Sins Trilogy 1)
Chapter Seventeen
Ivy
The next day, Tony works on his laptop, his phone on the coffee table, while I’m at the piano, working on everything: fingering, phrasing, interpretation, precision of technique and speed. As usual, I soon get lost in the music. I love Chopin études. They aren’t as showy as Liszt, but there’s a sweet loveliness. And it’s going to take years to master them all.
After two hours on the “Torrent” étude, I switch gears to something more fun. There’s a bright cheeriness to Liszt’s Grand Galop Chromatique I find irresistible. It sweeps you away to another dimension where life’s all fun and games. After all, it was what Liszt played to melt the panties off women in the nineteenth century. But I’m also aware how easily you can botch the music if you don’t have the control and mastery of technique. I’m planning to send a “beat that” video of me playing Grand Galop Chromatique to Yuna before Tony and I leave for California.
When I’m done, I stretch and sit next to Tony on the long sofa.
“Brilliant. Look at that smoke coming off your fingers.” He picks up my hands and blows on my fingertips.
“It’s a bravura seduction piece from the nineteenth century. Did it make you want to get naked with me?”
Tony shoots me an exaggerated leer. “You didn’t have to bother. I always want to get naked with you.”
“Good, but hold that thought. I’m tired. Need to nap or something.” I yawn.
“Sleepy already?”
“Four hours of focus really takes it out of you. I have to nap afterward to recharge. Otherwise, I’m worthless.” I start to close my eyes. “Besides, a certain somebody’s been keeping me up late.”
“Terrible, what some people will do.” He pulls me down until my head rests on his lap. He’s so warm and smells amazing. As I start to fall asleep, I feel him pick up my hand, massaging the fingers gently, one after another, pressing tender kisses on each. I’ve never felt more cherished than I do now.
“I can’t believe you like them,” I say, a smile in my voice.
“Your fingers? Why wouldn’t I?”
“They’re so long. Too long, actually, for my palm. If they were about half an inch shorter, they’d look more proportionate.”
“I don’t care. I’ve never seen fingers so beautiful and talented before.”
I laugh softly, then doze off, my head on his lap and a smile on my lips.
When I open my eyes, we’re still in the same position. Tony is watching me. He’s gorgeous in the bright sun, the light casting a hazy glow around him. His gentle green eyes are brilliant, his mouth set in a soft line that’s not quite a smile but just as sweet and precious.
“Sleep well?”
“Yeah.” I stretch. “How long was I out?”
“Twenty minutes or so.” He pushes away a few tendrils on my cheek and forehead. “You looked peaceful.”
“You watched me the whole time?”
“More or less.”
I flush, absurdly happy.
He runs a finger along the faint scar on my right hand, a straight line that starts from my pinkie almost all the way to the heel of my palm. “How did this happen?”
“With a pair of pruning shears. I was twelve at that time, and I bled so much. Needed stitches.” I make a face. Aunt Margot was hysterical over the cut, and I felt terrible for the gardener, who didn’t do anything wrong but got yelled at anyway. I just wanted to snip some tiger lilies in the garden because they looked so pretty. Since then, Aunt Margot’s had the gardener send some to the house every morning. If the garden’s out of lilies, we have a local florist deliver.
“Did it hurt a lot?”
“Not a lot. But the stitches were really annoying. Aunt Margot got so upset, she…” I trail off as I realize what I’m about to say. Crap. I shouldn’t have brought up how much his mother dotes on me. It’s like smearing salt over an open wound. I clear my throat. “Anyway, it’s an old story. What did you think about my étude?”
Tony plays along. “Stunning. Maybe you’ll be another Pollini.”
I’m thrilled he thinks that highly of my rendition, but I have to laugh. “No, I won’t. He’s totally sublime, and I used to listen to his Chopin recordings all the time, hoping I could play like him. But Pollini is Pollini, and I’m me. I want people to listen to me because I’m awesome in my own way, not because I’m an imitation of Pollini.”
