Page 28 of Last Chorus (A Perfect Song Duet #2)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

evangeline

I didn’t mean to fall here

Bringing all my broken pieces

But I just couldn’t help it ? —

You’re the only consequence I want

W hen Wilder told me his studio used to be a guesthouse, I was expecting something small, maybe a thousand square feet. Cabin-sized. What I wasn’t expecting was a whole-ass, two-story house hidden behind trees about a minute’s walk down a path from the main house.

Granted, in terms of size for the neighborhood, it’s a shack. But it’s also twice the size of my first home, the little bungalow I still miss.

Downstairs is almost entirely studio space, a wide-open floor plan with a modest kitchen toward the back and half-bath tucked under stairs. The second story boasts two small bedrooms, a bathroom, and a closet stacked with linens.

The studio is a literal dream. Bright and airy, it has the same cozy vibe as the main house.

There’s a lounging area with a fireplace and inviting couches and armchairs.

Rugs are strewn liberally over the hardwood floors.

The walls showcase professional concert photographs, framed posters from Night Theory’s tours, and floating shelves with all their awards.

It’s clear the whole band spends time here.

Pristine guitars hang along one wall: multiple acoustic and electric, as well as Jax’s favorite Fender bass.

There’s a drum set for Eddie, a standing keyboard for Zander, and a massive workstation with multiple screens, extensive audio interfaces, and top-of-the-line studio monitors.

Literally everything you could possibly need for recording, editing, and mixing.

There’s even a partially enclosed vocal booth with panels to tame sound reflections.

For me, though, the unquestionable centerpiece of the studio is the grand piano, a stunning, nine-foot-long vintage Steinway. I’ve been sitting at it for close to twenty minutes, my fingers ghosting over silky keys as I listen to phantom notes of memory.

I saw this exact piano nearly every weekend of my life growing up.

It sat in the front room of the Ashburn home, a gift from Julian to Rose shortly after Wilder’s birth.

It’s the piano he learned to play on. The piano I spent hours lying beneath as a child, dozing and dreaming and listening to him tinker through his first compositions.

I still remember the first time he let me play it, the pride I felt when he realized how good I was.

A messy stack of sheet music sits on the shelf, the topmost page half-covered in penciled notes. I finally give in to temptation and read the first few lines. My fingers ache to descend and hear the melody aloud.

Lost in imagined music, I don’t think anything of a draft of cool air against my back.

“My mom gave it to me as a housewarming gift.”

I spin on the bench to find Wilder standing near the open front door. His soft smile doesn’t entirely capture his eyes. In them, I easily read what he’s feeling: surprise, wariness, and cautious hope.

I’m sure when he woke up, he thought I’d run.

He was so exhausted last night, I doubt he even remembers falling asleep still inside me.

He barely stirred when I slipped out of bed to use the bathroom or when I covered him in blankets.

And he definitely doesn’t know I lay awake beside him all night, watching him sleep like a total creep.

“Lucky you. I love this piano.”

He nods toward it. “Go on. You know you want to.”

Turning back around, I set my fingers on the keys and find the pedals. I start with scales, my pressure tentative at first, then more confident as the incredible resonance of the piano surrounds me. My eyes close in pleasure. A few seconds later, the fine hairs on my neck lift in awareness.

“Quit teasing,” Wilder murmurs behind me.

Smiling, I launch into something he’ll recognize, a piece he played a lot in his early teens. When I reach the final note of “In Flight” by Michael Harrison, he sighs.

“Such a show-off.”

Craning my neck, I smile up at him. “Come on. I had fourth graders who could play that with their eyes closed.”

He moves around the bench to sit beside me. Our arms brush, triggering a cascade of goosebumps from my shoulder to my wrist. His right hand dances over the upper register, coaxing a tinkling melody.

“Piano never came as easily to me as guitar,” he says softly. “It took me months to learn that song.”

I frown. “No, I vividly remember you playing it the same day you got the sheet music. It was winter—I was nine, maybe ten? We’d just eaten grilled cheeses for lunch.

You snuck out of the kitchen and I followed you to the piano room.

I was nine or ten? You glared at me and said you wanted to be alone, but then you let me stay. ”

He shakes his head, a dimple deepening on his downturned face. “Actually, you stuck your chin out and said, ‘Duh, we are alone,’ then crawled under the piano. The last time I’d tried to pull you out of there, you’d screamed like I was sawing your leg off. I decided to spare my ears the pain.”

Unduly pleased he remembers, I laugh. “That does sound more accurate.”

He glances at me with teasing eyes. “You were a brat.”

“Nah, I was just obsessed with you.”

When his gaze narrows, I flush and look down, tapping a few keys before saying, “In any case, you told me your mom had given you the sheet music that morning.”

“I lied.”

My head whips up. “Shut up, you did not! Why?”

He chuckles and shrugs. “I was an adolescent boy trying to impress a girl. A few days before that was the first time I’d played the song without fucking it up. ”

I study his profile, struggling not to laugh. “You knew I wouldn’t leave?”

“I was pretty sure, yeah.” He looks up, scanning my face. “You’re not mad? That I manipulated you?”

My chest tightens at the real worry in his eyes. “Wilder, I crawled under the piano knowing you wouldn’t pull me out. We were kids. I think that kind of manipulation was probably developmentally appropriate.”

When he just keeps staring at me, I gently close the lid over the keys and turn toward him.

My knee comes to rest against his. His eyes flicker with more wariness, but he doesn’t pull back—he pushes closer instead, taking my hands and holding them over our thighs.

The contact makes me forget what I was about to say, allowing him to speak first.

“I wasn’t my best self last night. Cooking all day, having guests…

I was already feeling dysregulated before you even got here.

I said things I didn’t mean. I don’t resent you for the choice you made back then.

It was absolutely the right decision. I was an addict who lied to you and betrayed your trust. And to be real with you, newly sober me didn’t deserve you, either.

I was a wreck and just beginning to deal with my issues.

Last night, my anger… it wasn’t about that. Not really.”

Having spent all night thinking about and preparing for this conversation, I nod. “I know. It was super fucked up of me to push you like that. It definitely wasn’t the plan, just so you know.”

His brows lift. “You had a plan?”

Holding his gaze feels a bit like looking at the sun, but I manage it. “I figured that was obvious when I shoved my test results in your face.”

His lips quirk. “So you did come here to get laid.”

I want to tell him the whole truth about why I’m here, but the last words he spoke before falling asleep play in my head for the millionth time. I know in my gut that they were the source of his anger. His underlying fear.

We broke each other’s hearts, and there’s not a damn thing either of us can do to change that.

Two months ago, he confessed he still had feelings for me, and last night he asked me not to take advantage of that.

He’s willing to be my friend, even my lover, but nothing else.

Not right now. Not until I’m ready to recommit to him, to keep him .

And while I want to be with him so fucking badly, I’m also sane enough to know I’m kind of insane at the moment.

An erratic, sensitive mess—as my actions last night clearly demonstrated.

Until I can untangle the chaos inside me, the least I can do is respect his wishes.

As much as I don’t want to .

“I came here foremost because I trust you, Wilder. I feel safe with you, with the man you are today. And yes, I wanted to have sex with you. But my headspace wasn’t the greatest last night, either.

” I look down at our entwined hands. “As completely out of character as it sounds, I’ve been pretty emotionally volatile lately. ”

His fingers tickle my palms lightly. “To me, you’ve always been emotionally volatile.”

I snort. “Yeah, well, it’s kind of new to me. Generally speaking. I was planning on spending a few days hanging out before propositioning you, but I overreacted to, um, Aubrey.”

“What the hell does… Oh, shit. Were you jealous ?”

“Ha-ha, so funny. Laugh it up.”

I try to tug my hands free, but he merely tightens his grip. The mirth on his face fades to earnestness.

“I’m not interested in Aubrey or dating anyone. Even if I was, it wouldn’t have factored. Your body is my Roman Empire, Evangeline. I’d have dumped anyone for the chance to be inside you again.”

Air leaves me in an unattractive whoosh . Wilder smirks and taps a knuckle to my chin, closing my mouth. That knuckle then grazes over my hot cheek. His eyes follow the path of his hand before he lowers it back to his lap. With a sigh, his expression turns grave.

“If you’re staying, if we’re doing this, we should set some boundaries. What happened last night— how it happened—can’t happen again. I told you I’d never hurt you, and then I did. I’m so sorry.”

I immediately shake my head. “I’m fine, really?—”

“You’re not,” he growls. “The whole time we’ve been sitting here, you haven’t been able to stay in one position for more than ten seconds. I was beyond rough with you. Fuck, I—” He shakes his head. “I can’t believe you didn’t leave in the middle of the night after what I did.”

I stay composed with effort, rolling my eyes and shrugging.

“So I’m a little sore. Have you seen your dick?

It takes some getting used to. But if you think I regret coming so hard I squirted, you’re out of your mind.

I forgot how awesome it feels. By the way, is your washer big enough for the comforter on your bed? If not, I can soak it in a tub.”

He blinks rapidly, clearly trying to juggle the pieces of his exploded brain.

“Um, yes. It’ll fit in the washer.”

I reach up and palm the side of his face. His eyes sharpen.

“I regret pushing you last night, but only because it caused you pain.” I smile as much as I can. “Also, despite my historical difficulty with them, I promise to respect whatever boundaries you set. Can we talk about them over breakfast? I’m starving. ”

He scans my face, eyes full of tenderness and wonder. “Of course.”

Taking my hand in his, he presses a kiss to my palm. An answering pulse in my core makes me hiss and snatch my hand back.

“Don’t turn me on right now. I need another twelve hours of recovery time and at least three magnesium baths.”

His smile begins in his eyes—my favorite sunrise.

Standing, he offers me a hand. “In the mood for a burned bagel?”

I want to sob.

I laugh instead.