Page 9

A month later, I was outside with the kids, giving them a music lesson.

We were on the strip of land between the house and the beach, all sand and tall grasses.

We’d pulled chairs out there to work in the morning sunshine, enjoying the sea breeze and ignoring the cacophonous percussion of the seagulls.

When footfalls thumped over the sand, I didn’t even need to turn to see who it was. Sure enough, Colt appeared, dressed only in his shorts, a sheaf of papers in his hand.

“Where’s your mom?” he asked Tiana.

“Internet sucks this morning. She went into town to send some emails.”

Irritation flashed over his face. Then he spun on me and waved the papers. “You’ve done screenwriting, right?”

“Uh, a little, but–”

He shoved the script at me. “It’s a fight scene, and I’m supposed to grab the guy like…” He finger-waved at Jamison. “I need an assistant.”

Jamison shook his head and focused on adjusting his tuning pegs. “No, thank you.”

Colt strode over and took the violin sharply enough that I cringed. He set it down and put a hand on Jamison’s shoulder. “Come and help your old man out.”

“I will,” Tiana said, hopping to her feet.

“It’s a fight scene,” Colt said. “Jamie’s my man for this. Aren’t you, kiddo?”

“I would rather not,” Jamison said in that quiet, formal way of his. “Tiana can.”

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Colt said with an eye roll.

“I know. I just don’t like doing that.”

“Don’t like what? Helping your old man? It’s a fight scene. It’s fun.”

“Not to me.”

Silence. I opened my mouth to say something, but before I could, Jamison rose and said, “I’m not feeling very good. I’m going inside.”

He took one step, and then Colt grabbed him in a headlock.

Jamison yelped, and Colt laughed, flipping his son over and mock-pinning him to the ground.

And I… I stood there feeling sick and doing nothing.

Colt was goofing around, not hurting Jamison, and I couldn’t see Jamison’s face.

I glanced at Tiana, who cast me an uncomfortable look, paired with a nervous laugh, and then joined in, pushing at her dad and pretending to play fight him, and somewhere in the melee, Jamison ran for the house while his dad and sister roughhoused.

I slipped off after Jamison. I could hear him in his room, and I paced for a few minutes, hoping Isabella would return. I was just the music tutor, and I shouldn’t interfere, but Jamison was upset, and I needed to do something.

If his bedroom door had been closed, I’d have retreated.

It was cracked open, though, and from inside came the sound of crumpling paper.

I tapped on the door, and it swung open, and there was Jamison, his face taut with rage as he ripped pages from a book, balling them up and whipping them at the wall.

Then he saw me and froze, and from the look on his face, you’d think I’d walked in to find him torturing a small animal. He quickly hid the book behind his back and stammered something unintelligible.

“May I come in?” I asked.

When he hesitated, I began to retreat. Then he said, “Yes,” and I walked in and shut the door.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “That was…” I stumbled because, again, this was not my place. So I only repeated, “I’m sorry.”

Jamison nodded and took the book out from behind his back, and I could see it wasn’t a book at all. It was a bound script.

Jamison’s hands shook as he looked down at the script, at the pages across his room. The shaking spread until his whole body quivered with it.

“Hey, hey,” I said, walking to him, my arms out. “It’s okay. It’s just a script, and you were mad.”

He opened his mouth. Then he fell into my arms, startling me, his face buried against my side as he began to sob. I carefully embraced him, tensed for him to pull away, but he didn’t, and I gave him a tight hug, letting him cry.

After a couple of minutes, he pulled away and said, “It’s n-not just a script.

It’s – it’s Dad’s working one for Fatal Retribution .

He g-gave it to me… A present because…” Jamison mutely shoved the damaged script into my hands, and there, on the first page, it read “To my son, who will be even more kickass than his old man.”

I read that, and my eyes filled. It was a lovely sentiment from father to son. Heartfelt and true. But after what happened outside…

“ Kickass can mean a lot of things,” I said gently. “Your mom is a total kickass, and she doesn’t do fight scenes.”

“She’s a girl. It’s different.”

“It shouldn’t be.”

“It is for Dad,” he said, and my heart broke, just a little, at an eight-year-old boy who already understood so much about what was expected of him, the ideal his father – and the world – held for him to emulate.

“Tell me what I can do,” I said.

He looked from the torn book to the pages littering his room.

If it happened again, I would insert myself between Colt and Jamison – as Tiana did – but I couldn’t actually interfere.

This, however, was something I could do, and I picked up a page and smoothed it and said, “Give these to me, and I’ll iron them later, and then we’ll tape them back in. ”

“Iron them?” Jamison said.

“It’s a secret method for fixing paper you’ve accidentally – or not so accidentally – crumpled.” I winked at him. “Don’t ask me how I know that.”

“What’d you do?” he said.

“Help me gather these quickly, and I’ll tell you.”

He smiled, and we set to work cleaning up the mess.

A few days later, I was on the patio tuning Jamison’s violin while Colt took the kids to the ice-cream parlor. When the door slid open and Colt stepped out, I smiled, my gaze shifting behind him for the kids.

“Sorry,” he said. “Just me. We bumped into Belle on her run, and the kids decided to postpone their lessons by running with her.”

Belle was his nickname for Isabella. They met on a film where he’d been the star, and she’d been brought in as his secondary love interest to amp up the film’s “international a ppeal.” Colt had spent the shoot trying to impress Isabella, and she’d spent it with her nose in a book.

So he’d started calling her Belle and teasing her about being a Disney princess.

Colt said that’s why they named their daughter Tiana – because it meant “princess” in Russian.

Tiana had told me all this, sharing her family legends with rolled eyes but obvious affection. I’d told her the one about my name and my father’s inability to pronounce it. She’d declared Genevieve a very fancy name and said she liked Lucy better.

Colt slid the patio door shut behind him. In his hand, he held a silver bag that glinted in the afternoon sun.

“Your ice cream,” he said. “Only slightly melted.”

“Rocky road!” I crowed as I opened it to find a cone and tiny tub. “Thank you.”

“Jamie said it’s your favorite.”

“It is.”

“And Tiana insisted on the chocolate-dipped cone.”

I beamed up at him. “Thank you. They’re amazing kids. You don’t need me to tell you that, but they really are. Jamison is so sweet and thoughtful, and Tiana’s a firecracker.”

“They both take after their mom.” He settled beside me on the lounge chair. “Thank you for being here with them. I know you were hired as a music teacher, but Belle’s been so busy with her new show…”

I bristled. Was he insinuating that Isabella wasn’t fulfilling her maternal duties? Colt’s only summer job was getting in shape for his next movie.

“Isabella’s new show is important,” I said carefully.

“The studio is taking a risk launching a telenovela in America. I’m amazed she can focus on that while keeping her office door open, eating meals with the family, and swimming a nd playing board games in the evenings. By seven, I’d be sprawled on the sofa.”

“Belle is a wonder,” he said. “I don’t know how she does it, either.”

I relaxed and felt silly for defending her. She didn’t need that. Colt and Isabella had my ideal marriage – interweaving melodies, always close, always harmonic, complementing one another yet able to stand on their own.

I assembled my cone and quickly licked off the drips. When I saw Colt watching, I hesitated and prayed that hadn’t looked suggestive.

“Good?” he said. “I was worried it’d be melted by the time I got back. That freezer bag worked well. I’ll reuse it tomorrow and grab Belle some on my run.”

I relaxed again. I really needed to stop worrying whether I accidentally gazed at him too long or laughed too hard at his jokes or licked my ice cream suggestively. When he looked at me, he only saw his kids’ music tutor.

While Colt didn’t notice me, I couldn’t help being physically aware of him. I was sitting less than six inches from the most attractive man I’d ever met… who was wearing nothing but a pair of athletic shorts.

“I should grab napkins before this drips,” I said, rising.

Colt’s hand clamped on my knee. My bare knee. My heart tripped, half sensual awareness and half panicked terror. It was only a quick grip, though, strong and firm, as he said, “Hold on,” and held me on the chair as he slid across that gap between us. My heart slammed against my ribs.

“I really need–” I began.

“I’ll get the napkins. Just…” He leaned in, close enough for me to smell raspberry sherbet on his breath. “I have a favor to ask.”

I didn’t move, couldn’t move.

“I’d like music lessons,” he said.

“What?” The word squeaked, and all I could remember was Nylah and her warning. It’s not his flute you’ll be blowing.

“I’m the only one in the family who doesn’t play an instrument,” he said. “Watching your nighttime jam sessions, I want to be part of that. Even if it’s just beating a drum with some semblance of rhythm.” His crooked smile reminded me of Jamison’s, a little uncertain, even a little shy.

“Sure.”

“One condition.” He leaned in even closer, heat radiating over me, and I held myself still, focused on a shaving nick on his cheek, blocking out the rest as I struggled to breathe.

“I want it to be a secret,” he said. “Belle and I have our eleventh wedding anniversary in August. We’ll be throwing a party. I’d like to surprise her then.”

I looked up, and he was right there, those famously bright blue eyes locked on mine.

When I inched away, he seemed to realize how close he’d gotten and straightened. A quick glance toward the beach, and he lowered his voice. “They’ll be back any second. We’ll talk tomorrow afternoon when Belle goes for her run. That’s when we’ll do the lessons.”

“The kids…”

“They can keep a secret. It’s not like they won’t hear me trying to play. They might even teach me a thing or two.”

I exhaled. It wouldn’t be private lessons, then.

“Deal?” he asked.

“Deal,” I said.

He clapped a hand on my bare thigh, a quick squeeze, and then he rose and jogged off to meet his family.