Page 63 of Playing to Win

“Your parents seem to have quite a lot to answer for.”

She shrugs as I turn her away from me so I can rinse her hair. “Not my dad. He was never around enough to have anything to answer for. At least not when the business took off. I was still young then.”

I turn her back to me and peck the tip of her nose. “What business is your dad in?”

“Have you heard of Russell’s Crackers and Rumble Tum biscuits?”

“Um, no.”

“Well, they’re just two of the better-known brands owned by my dad’s company. They’re very big in Europe.”

I whistle through my teeth. “You really are a rich girl.”

“No, my parents are. And, boy, does my mother like everyone to know it.”

Feeling her mood shift to something less than happy, I hold her face and kiss her. “You must be ready for that steak now.”

We dry off and I put my jeans back on. Izzy puts the sexy white shirt back on. Between us, we make an outfit.

She puts a large bowl of green salad on the kitchen counter with two plates, while I get us two glasses of iced green tea—actually not as awful as it sounds. After ten minutes of messing with the stovetop, she puts a sirloin on her plate, then turns to the oven and takes out a tray. I watch her in astonishment as she uses a spatula to put a chicken breast on my plate.

“What’s this?”

“A peace offering. You were right; maybe I do need to think more about tailoring plans to different needs.”

“I see. And by tailoring my plan, what you really mean is giving me sufficient food to power your orgasms.”

She plants a hand on her hip and points the spatula toward me like she might point a finger. “Do you want the chicken or not?”

“Hell, yeah. I also want the orgasms.” She snorts as she laughs. “Real attractive, Iz.” My words only make her laugh harder.

After dinner, we sit on the sofa and I get the guitar. “Here, it’s yours, on loan, until…” I can’t bring myself to finish that sentence.

She takes the guitar from me and rests it across her knee. “Why?”

“Because you’re bored and I decided today that I would rather have you rattling away at my guitar in my office than walking outside where I can’t see you.” She looks up at me with wide eyes. “What?”

“I think that might be the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

I fight my curling lips. “Yeah, well, you need to get out more.”

As I settle into the opposite corner of the sofa, she starts to strum a song I don’t recognize. She stops to tune the guitar and sets off again. It’s a delicate picked opening, using only the bottom three strings. Then she starts to strum, and a gentle, melodious voice follows.

She sings about a soldier leaving for war. About the people he leaves behind and the friends he’s going to make. The song and her voice are enchanting. I’m drawn in by the smooth flow of her wrist, the gentle shuffle of her fingers, the movement in her neck as she forms the lyrics.

When she’s finished, she hands the guitar to me. “Your turn.”

I take it from her. “You didn’t tell me you could play and sing like that. What was that song?”

“It’s actually something I wrote. Did you like it?”

“Like it? Izzy, that was amazing.”

Her cheeks flush as she curls her legs beneath her and rests an elbow on the back of the sofa. “It’s what I used to want to do.”

“Sing?”

“All of the arts, really. Singing, dancing, songwriting, theatre.”

---