“I know that one, too. How about the Schubert from the airport? It’s my favorite.”
I nod and perform it for him. It’s also one of my favorites. I first learned it when I was six or seven. You can never go wrong with Schubert.
He claps when I hit the last chord. “You’re amazing.”
I smile, pleased he looks so happy. I can’t remember the time somebody who wasn’t from a conservatory appreciated my performance the way he does. Most people just applaud politely, nod politely and say polite things, not because they’re particularly interested in the music, but because I’m a Hae and they know sucking up might result in a better business relationship with my family.
Declan’s eyes are bright like the full moon, like every note I produced touched him on a deeply emotional level.
And the fact that my music is putting a gorgeous smile on his face makes me want to keep playing. “If you like that one, you might like some of the other impromptus, too. He wrote eight of them.”
I play the fourth impromptu. The notes flow like raindrops rolling down leaves, then forming a puddle. It’s also quite lovely.
I lift my head to see how Declan likes it. Our gazes meet. His eyes are brilliant, breathtaking. The slight movement of his head lets me know he’s following the beat of the music, and his mouth curves into a smile as pleasure unfurls over his stunning face.
Playing before an audience is no big deal. I’ve done it since I was six. Music alone used to be enough to make me feel alive and happy. But having Declan as my audience is a whole new experience.
His joy is mine, as though our emotions are connected and communicated through some unseen bond between us. I feel like I’m getting drunk just on the air in the room, and my skin prickles with hot shivers.
When I’m done, I get up and close the piano slowly and deliberately to give myself time to pull myself together. “It’s probably time I checked your messages.”
Something that looks like disappointment fleets through Declan’s gray eyes. “Benedict left you his phone. Over there.” He gestures at the kitchen counter.
“He didn’t take it with him?”
“It’s the one I got him for the job, not his personal one. That way when I have a new assistant, people don’t have to update their contact info.”
Makes sense.
“What’s the passcode?” I ask as I walk toward it.
“He got rid of it. You can put whatever you want there, but make sure you pick something, because I don’t want to leave it unsecured.”
“Got it.”
I pick up the iPhone, which is hooked to a charger. I hit the home button and get an avalanche of texts. The top one reads:
–Witch1: Are you seriously kidding me? You aren’t going to give me more for the wedding?
Huh. I scroll down, skimming. Witch1 has sent over a hundred texts since six p.m. yesterday, all of them begging for more money for some wedding. It can’t be Declan’s fiancée, because then she wouldn’t be begging. Or at least she would be begging on his personal phone.
“You have something like a hundred messages from someone called ‘Witch1.’ Do you know who that is?”
“That’s my half-sister. Ignore her.” His tone is matter-of-fact.
Guess she’s been a pain in his butt for a while. Makes sense. If I sent a hundred messages to Eugene demanding money for a wedding he’d be annoyed, too, even if he has been trying to marry me off.
Regardless, Declan’s family problem isn’t my concern.
“And you have something from a ‘Witch2,’” I say. “Is that another sister?”
“Probably one of my exes. What does she want?”
I look down and actually read the text. “She wants you back. She says you owe her that much.”
“I owe her taking her back? Whatever. Ignore her, too.”
I scroll down. Witch3, Witch4, Witch20, Witch8… “You have lots of Witches on this phone.”