Read Online Addison Blakely: Confessions of A PK by Betsy St. Amant - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Betsy St. Amant
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work that way.
Still, I was glad the sun was out.
I went back to staring at my sprinkle-less mocha, and Bert went back to cleaning, now humming as he did so. Great, more punishment on an already-glum day.
The bell jangled, and I looked up with as much pathetic enthusiasm as I had the last six times people came in and out. Too bad James Bond didn’t hold private lessons. I was an utter failure as a spy—might as well stamp a blinking neon arrow over my head.
That time it was Bert’s wife, Megan, with her weekly ledger book. She waved at me (now you
know
I’m a regular) and headed toward the partition to the employee side of the counter.
Someone caught the front door before it closed completely, and Wes walked inside. This time I managed to keep my head down as my heart rammed in my chest like a drummer on steroids. I followed his black-booted feet from under my lashes as he stopped near the counter, talked in low tones with Bert, and then headed once again to the piano.
Don’t look up, don’t look up…
. Oh, who was I kidding? I lifted my gaze and watched as he turned his back in my direction and slid onto the long piano bench. He shed his leather jacket, tossed it over the bench beside him, and then began to play.
And I don’t mean “Chopsticks.”
A complicated melody filled the air, and I stared, mesmerized, as his fingers danced over the keys. The muscles in his broad shoulders bunched then stretched beneath his dark-green thermal shirt as his arms moved the span of the keyboard.
Without even fully realizing it, I stood and made my way toward him as if drawn like a magnet. Or more accurately in mycase, like a moth to a fire.
Nothing but danger.
I stopped a few feet away and continued to watch. He didn’t see me. I was invisible to him, yet again. The fact made me more angry than awestruck, and without thinking, I plopped sideways onto the chair closest to the piano and draped my arms over the top rung.
“So the rebel without a cause has musical ability.”
His hands stopped midnote, and he darted a look sideways, his dark hair falling across his forehead. “You might say that.” He didn’t smile, but he didn’t frown. Neutral Wes. The only emotion he ever showed was sarcasm or teasing, and really, were those even emotions? My frustration grew. How dare he flaunt Poodle Girl in my face, on
my
street, act as if he was interested in me, and then run away when I tried to make an effort in return? What kind of player did he think he was?
I wanted to insult him, but his playing had been nothing but praiseworthy. I opened my mouth then shut it.
Wes quirked an eyebrow. “You look like a fish when you do that.”
“Oh, shut up.”
“Seriously, Addison, just say what you want to say. I think I can take it.” He shifted on the bench to face me, his familiar scent of leather and aftershave washing over me like a tidal wave of attraction. I instinctively leaned away.
“I was going to say you play really … well.”
He smirked. “Way to tell me off, PK.”
“That’s why I hesitated. I didn’t want to give you a compliment.”
“Why not?”
“Why?” I met his steady stare and held it until I had to look away or risk never catching my breath.
“You’re a piece of work.” He shifted over on the bench.
“Can you play, too?”
Was that an invitation? There was enough room for my backside on the bench, but barely. Could I subject myself to that kind of proximity? I gulped. “Not really.”
I hesitated, curiosity finally overcoming all other emotion. “Can you read music?” There wasn’t any on the empty shelf in front of him, so he either couldn’t or didn’t need to. Playing by ear or memorization was more impressive anyway. Too bad I could do neither.
“Somewhat.” He began to play again, but this time the movements were less fluid, and I could tell I was making him nervous. The fact bolstered my spirits. I smiled.
His fingers slipped off the keys, and he cursed. “Quit
Still, I was glad the sun was out.
I went back to staring at my sprinkle-less mocha, and Bert went back to cleaning, now humming as he did so. Great, more punishment on an already-glum day.
The bell jangled, and I looked up with as much pathetic enthusiasm as I had the last six times people came in and out. Too bad James Bond didn’t hold private lessons. I was an utter failure as a spy—might as well stamp a blinking neon arrow over my head.
That time it was Bert’s wife, Megan, with her weekly ledger book. She waved at me (now you
know
I’m a regular) and headed toward the partition to the employee side of the counter.
Someone caught the front door before it closed completely, and Wes walked inside. This time I managed to keep my head down as my heart rammed in my chest like a drummer on steroids. I followed his black-booted feet from under my lashes as he stopped near the counter, talked in low tones with Bert, and then headed once again to the piano.
Don’t look up, don’t look up…
. Oh, who was I kidding? I lifted my gaze and watched as he turned his back in my direction and slid onto the long piano bench. He shed his leather jacket, tossed it over the bench beside him, and then began to play.
And I don’t mean “Chopsticks.”
A complicated melody filled the air, and I stared, mesmerized, as his fingers danced over the keys. The muscles in his broad shoulders bunched then stretched beneath his dark-green thermal shirt as his arms moved the span of the keyboard.
Without even fully realizing it, I stood and made my way toward him as if drawn like a magnet. Or more accurately in mycase, like a moth to a fire.
Nothing but danger.
I stopped a few feet away and continued to watch. He didn’t see me. I was invisible to him, yet again. The fact made me more angry than awestruck, and without thinking, I plopped sideways onto the chair closest to the piano and draped my arms over the top rung.
“So the rebel without a cause has musical ability.”
His hands stopped midnote, and he darted a look sideways, his dark hair falling across his forehead. “You might say that.” He didn’t smile, but he didn’t frown. Neutral Wes. The only emotion he ever showed was sarcasm or teasing, and really, were those even emotions? My frustration grew. How dare he flaunt Poodle Girl in my face, on
my
street, act as if he was interested in me, and then run away when I tried to make an effort in return? What kind of player did he think he was?
I wanted to insult him, but his playing had been nothing but praiseworthy. I opened my mouth then shut it.
Wes quirked an eyebrow. “You look like a fish when you do that.”
“Oh, shut up.”
“Seriously, Addison, just say what you want to say. I think I can take it.” He shifted on the bench to face me, his familiar scent of leather and aftershave washing over me like a tidal wave of attraction. I instinctively leaned away.
“I was going to say you play really … well.”
He smirked. “Way to tell me off, PK.”
“That’s why I hesitated. I didn’t want to give you a compliment.”
“Why not?”
“Why?” I met his steady stare and held it until I had to look away or risk never catching my breath.
“You’re a piece of work.” He shifted over on the bench.
“Can you play, too?”
Was that an invitation? There was enough room for my backside on the bench, but barely. Could I subject myself to that kind of proximity? I gulped. “Not really.”
I hesitated, curiosity finally overcoming all other emotion. “Can you read music?” There wasn’t any on the empty shelf in front of him, so he either couldn’t or didn’t need to. Playing by ear or memorization was more impressive anyway. Too bad I could do neither.
“Somewhat.” He began to play again, but this time the movements were less fluid, and I could tell I was making him nervous. The fact bolstered my spirits. I smiled.
His fingers slipped off the keys, and he cursed. “Quit
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