Page 29 of Last Chorus (A Perfect Song Duet #2)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

wilder

I can’t believe Evangeline is finally eating my food—not the horrible first attempts she was sweet enough to pretend to like years ago, but good, seasoned food. When I set the plate down, her first words were, “This is too pretty to eat.” One bite changed her mind.

I was pretty confident she’d enjoy my Eggs Benedict.

What I hadn’t anticipated—and probably should have—was that she’d make eating it look borderline pornographic.

I’ve been taking distracted bites off my own plate, barely tasting them, while staring at her like a perv.

She’s so into the food she hasn’t noticed.

In the last ten minutes, I’ve entertained a hundred depraved fantasies, all of them centered on stuffing something else in her mouth. Hearing what sounds she makes. Replacing the hollandaise she licks off her lips with cum.

When her plate is clean—and I mean clean —she seems to finally realize I’m sitting across from her. Her cheeks turn a delicious, apple red shade.

“That was really good, thank you,” she mumbles from behind a napkin.

My grin has a life of its own. By the way her eyes narrow, she can glean its source.

The napkin drops. “Are you seriously hard right now?”

I bark a laugh; God, I’ve missed her. The real her.

The beautiful contrasts in her personality that only those closest to her ever see.

Easily embarrassed yet crass. Deeply sensual but reserved.

Sensitive and compassionate, but as stubborn as a bulldozer with cut brakes.

Ambitious to the point she’s a workaholic, while simultaneously a homebody who’d rather take a bath and read a romance novel than endure an awards ceremony.

“I don’t know why you’re surprised.” I stand to collect our plates, shaking my head when she starts to rise. “Don’t even think about it. Do you want more coffee?”

“Yes, please.”

Her ass hits the chair—padded, but she still winces. It makes me wince. I drop off the plates in the sink and grab the carafe of coffee, then return to the table.

“You should take a bath. We can talk later. I have magnesium salts in my bathroom?—”

“Don’t,” she snaps. “Don’t fucking do that.”

The vehemence in her voice sends my heart rate into overdrive. I recover enough to refill her coffee, hoping she doesn’t notice the tremble in my wrist, then return to my seat.

Feeling like my skin is suddenly two sizes too small, I study her profile as she stares blankly out a nearby window. I clearly triggered her trauma, but I’m not sure why or how to fix it.

Then Martin’s words from New Year’s Eve come back to me. “Clay is really good at camouflaging control as care.”

Thinking back over what I said, my stomach sinks. I didn’t give her a choice. I gave her a command.

“You absolutely don’t have to take a bath if you don’t want to. If you want one later, the salts are under my sink.”

Evangeline draws a shaky breath. As she exhales, life returns to her eyes. She reaches for her coffee, wrapping her hands around it but not drinking.

“You didn’t deserve that. I know you’re not… that you don’t—” She cuts herself off, lips pressing tightly together .

“It’s okay,” I say, firm enough that her eyes lift to mine. “You never have to dilute yourself with me. Ever. If you’re not ready to talk about what you’ve gone through, that’s okay too. But I also won’t tiptoe around it. You reacted that way because I didn’t ask what you wanted, right?”

She blinks fast, fingers whitening around her mug.

“I don’t know. Probably. It’s like my brain just shuts off.

I’m suddenly so angry I could scream and have zero control of what comes out of my mouth.

” Her eyes redden even as she smiles weakly.

“Things got pretty tense with my dad because of me freaking out on him for no reason.”

“It’s not for no reason, Evangeline. You know that, and I’m sure he does too.”

She nods distractedly, gaze roaming over the living room. “Between my mom and Martin, I’ve had a crash course in PTSD. But even that’s hard to wrap my head around. Intellectually, I know what I experienced is affecting me, but processing it in real time feels like trying to shape water.”

“Give yourself a break,” I murmur. “It’s only been two months.”

In a clear bid to change the subject, she points into the living room. “Why haven’t you hung anything there? It’s the main focal point of the space.”

I study her for another moment, then follow the line of her finger to the glaringly empty spot above the fireplace.

My long-held commitment to not looking at the painting there broke last month.

For days afterward, I stared at it obsessively and even slept on the couch one night so I could see it right upon waking.

I finally confessed the unhealthy habit to Frank.

He stayed on the phone with me as I pulled it off the wall and stored it in a closet.

As hard as it was to remove the art, I’m glad I did. Otherwise I’d have to explain why I have a painting hanging in my living room of two kids—obviously us—sitting with guitars under a sycamore tree.

“I’ve been meaning to,” I hedge. “Maybe you can pick something out. I have a few of River’s paintings that I haven’t decided where to hang.”

She looks startled. “No way. I mean, I’d love to check out River’s stuff, but you should choose what goes there. It’s your house.”

I capitulate with a nod, ignoring the rebellious urge to tell her that when I built this house, it wasn’t just for me. A bad idea on several levels, not the least being she’s not mentally or emotionally ready to hear it.

Her wandering gaze returns to me. “This place is amazing, by the way. The design, the flow, the window placements—everything. I love that it feels spacious, but it’s not giant, if that makes sense.”

“It does, yes. And thank you. I’m proud of it.”

“Did you and your dad really tear down the old house and build this by yourselves?”

Grinning, I shake my head. “My dad loves spreading that rumor, but no. I partnered with an architect for the design, then worked with a general contractor and subcontractors for the actual demo and remodel. I wasn’t about to let my dad touch electric or plumbing, no matter how confident he was in his YouTube education. ”

She laughs. “So you didn’t hammer in every nail?”

“Only a few thousand of them. But I did lay all the flooring and tile and installed most of the drywall.” Far too pleased by the impressed look on her face, I smirk. “I don’t know why you’re surprised. According to you, I have skilled fingers.”

I love that she doesn’t hide her blush.

“Stop it.”

I feign innocence with raised brows. “Stop what?”

Evangeline rolls her eyes and stands, taking her coffee with her into the living room. “Let’s go, Mr. Fancy Fingers. Time to tackle the hard stuff.”

At my laugh, she throws a disapproving look over her shoulder .

“What did you expect? I know I’ve changed a lot, but some things never will. Especially around you.”

Adorably flustered, she sits on the couch facing the water and pulls a nearby blanket over her legs. When I approach her, she points to the other couch.

“For my vagina’s peace of mind, you’re sitting over there.”

I veer around the coffee table and sit. “If you’re trying to make me stop thinking about sex, it’s not working.”

She hides a smile behind her mug. “Given the conversation we’re about to have, it would be pointless to try.”

“I’ll show you something not pointless.”

She groans. “Horrible. Really horrible.”

Smirking, I toss my legs onto the coffee table and cross my ankles. To my satisfaction, her gaze drops to my groin—namely, the tent in my sweats.

“Yep, still hard over here.”

Her eyes flash up. “Since we’re all about honesty these days, why did you never let me give you a blowjob when we were together? Was it because you thought I’d suck at it?”

My lips twitch and she glowers.

“I wasn’t trying to be punny. ”

I sigh, allowing the gravity of her question to settle inside me. “There isn’t a simple answer.”

“Then give me the complicated one.”

Despite literal years of wanting to have this conversation with her, now that the door is open, I can’t decide where to start. There’s too much I want to say all at once.

When the curiosity in Evangeline’s eyes shifts to apprehension, I give up and pick a random thought.

“Do you remember the day I sat in on the music lesson with one of your students?”

“Yes.” Her blush conveys that she remembers what happened after the lesson. How she was so turned on she forgot where she was and almost went down on me in the classroom.

“I had every intention of letting you… you know, later that night. But then we had dinner with the guys.”

As the words pass my lips, a wave of anxiety crashes over me. My throat closes. Imaginary fire ants march down my arms.

“Shit,” I mumble. “Give me a sec.” Closing my eyes, I focus on my breath.

“If you don’t want to talk about this…”

“No. I’m okay.” I force myself to look at her—at the woman I hurt. “I do need to back up a bit, though. Or a lot. I’d like to explain from the beginning.”

She nods hesitantly. “Okay. ”

Dropping my feet to the floor, I rub my face roughly. Just do it. Tell her. I take one more deep breath, then prop my elbows on my thighs and begin.

“I learned really young that being around you was like taking medicine for my anxiety. From thirteen on, I lived for the weekends. Making music with you was the only time I felt relief.”

“Really?” she whispers.

I nod. “I know now it was because I felt safe to be myself around you, but back then…” I shake my head.

“I think I was fifteen when I wanted to kiss you for the first time. By seventeen, I fantasized about you constantly. I didn’t know how to handle it, so I made all these rules for myself.

For us. But at the same time, I was doing weird shit like deleting texts from boys on your phone. ”

Her jaw drops. “That was you?”