Page 29 of Unbreakable Bonds (The Boston Romance #2)

ALISHA

I draw closer to the piano, my fingers hovering over its pristine surface.

A silver frame catches my eye, perched atop the sleek black finish.

My heart catches as I study the photograph—a young boy, maybe six or seven, missing one of his front teeth as he grins at the camera.

Even then, Cole had that enigmatic smile that could light up a room.

He's wearing a t-shirt with text that makes my throat tight: Life is like a piano. What you get out of it depends on how you play it.

The man sitting beside him must be his father. Tall, with shortish blond hair and a slimmer build, clean-shaven but with those same intense eyes. Samantha's right—her eye color is identical to her grandfather's, a fraction lighter than Cole's, but carrying that same magnetic intensity.

I sink onto the piano bench, still holding the photo, unable to look at Cole. The weight of this moment, of his trust in letting me see this, makes my voice barely a whisper. "This beats the sex room I had in mind."

His slight snort cuts the tension for a second, but the air quickly grows heavy again. "Whose piano is this?"

"Mine." The word comes out as barely a mumble.

"Yours?" I let that sink in before another question forms. "So you... still play?"

"I used to." The raw discomfort in his voice makes me swallow hard.

"You don't love it anymore?"

He runs his hand through his hair repeatedly, a gesture so filled with anxiety it makes my chest ache.

Then he moves toward me, taking a seat beside me on the bench.

The moment he sits, he captures one of my hands, intertwining our fingers.

His palm is sweaty against mine, and my heart pounds as I wonder which question to ask first.

I place the photo back carefully and turn to face the tormented man beside me. Starting with what I hope are easier questions, I ask softly, "How old were you when you started playing?"

He stares at the photo, tugging at his open shirt as his breathing becomes irregular. After swallowing hard and tightening his grip on my hand, he speaks. "I was five. And from day one, it was clear—I had the same gift."

"Your parents must have been proud."

His lips curve slightly. "Yeah, they were.

Especially my father. He was a master player, performing at concert halls around the world.

This similarity made our already powerful bond stronger.

" His voice softens with memory. "From that day on, we played every day. And he taught me everything. Until..."

He gets that haunted look again and swallows. "What happened?" I whisper.

"Disaster struck. My father slipped and fell during a bike ride and broke his right wrist in three places. He endured two operations but ended up with severe nerve damage—making it impossible for him to play longer than a few minutes."

I squeeze his hand. "God, that must have been a nightmare."

Cole nods. "It changed everything. Particularly the relationship I had with my parents.

Since my father wasn't able to perform anymore, he started writing piano parts, and they focused their full attention on my music career.

" His jaw tightens. "Being so young, I didn't mind and spent every second I was free playing.

I won competitions, and my mom and dad were happy.

They smiled when I played. But in my teens, it felt like all they cared about and saw was Cole, the gifted musician. Not Cole, their son."

My lip trembles at his heart-wrenching words. To think your parents only love you for your talent must be devastating. My fingers trace soothing patterns over the back of his hand. "Is that why you stopped playing?"

A muscle in his jaw twitches. "I quit because I don't deserve to play ever again."

"What? I don't understand."

His voice drops to a whisper, rough with pain. "I killed my father, Alex."

After a shocked gasp escapes me, I manage to ask, "W-what do you mean?"

His eyes leave the photo, and he releases my hand, placing his elbows on his knees as he leans forward. When he speaks, he's staring into space, lost in memories I can't see.

"As I grew older, I became sick and tired of the way they controlled my life.

I still loved to play, but I detested how my relationship with my father had changed.

The only thing we talked about in the Walker house was the piano, and I wanted a break from it all.

The arguments between my parents and me increased. "

He draws a shaky breath. "Then one day, the director from the Boston Symphony Hall asked my father to arrange and write a brand-new classical piece.

They wanted me to perform it during their big, yearly music event.

I told my mother I didn't want to do it, but she said straight away I had to. We argued back and forth until..."

I watch his face, my heart aching as he struggles to continue. When I touch his hand, he speaks again, his voice cracking.

"My mom declared how she and my father believed I was responsible for his bike accident all those years ago. If I hadn't thrown a tantrum about wanting to go on a bike ride, the accident never would have happened. So, feeling responsible, I continued playing."

Nausea rises in my throat. How could a mother lay that guilt on her son?

"My father spent months arranging the piece, and when the day came, I was a ball of nerves.

As we waited in a backstage room, my father was excited and kept rambling about what this night could mean for my career.

I told them honestly that after this performance, I wanted a timeout from playing.

We ended up in another heated discussion, and my mother broke it off when it was time for my father to give his speech. "

A muscle in Cole's jaw twitches, and he brushes his hands over his face, like he's trying to wipe away the memories.

"The moment my father got on stage, I told my mother I was going to the restroom. She nodded, and I walked out. But instead of going to the toilet, I kept going until I breathed in the fresh night air."

Cole lowers his gaze to his feet, shame radiating from every line of his body.

My chest aches. That must have been so hard for a seventeen-year-old boy.

"Where did you go?"

He shrugs. "I sat on a bench in front of a small diner across the street, gazing at the symphony hall, imagining my parents' reaction when they would find out I wasn't performing."

I can almost see him there, young and desperate for freedom, not knowing his world was about to shatter.

"But then the piercing sound of a siren traveling through the air got my attention.

It grew stronger. The colors of the alarm lights lit up the evening sky, and the moment it stopped in front of the symphony hall, I jumped up and started walking.

As I reached the ambulance, two paramedics stepped out and rushed inside, talking in medical terms. Uneasiness crept up inside me as I followed them through the crowded hallways.

People were staring and mumbling, but I couldn't make out what they were saying. "

"Suddenly, the director showed up, yelling at the paramedics to hurry as he guided them through the corridors. The moment we entered the stage of the concert hall, I froze." Cole grabs my hand and intertwines our fingers. After staring at our joined hands for a moment, he continues.

"My father was lying on his back on the floor—face greyish, eyes closed.

An unknown man was doing chest compressions on him.

The man stopped as the two paramedics took over.

As they ripped open his shirt and hooked him onto the AED machine, a shirt button rolled across the stage.

" His jaw clenches while his thumb draws circles over the back of my hand.

"My mother screamed and cried as she watched how they did their job.

His chest lifted with every shock they gave him, but he didn't respond.

I stared at the monitor of the AED, praying for those well-known spikes—but nothing happened. "

Cole closes his eyes, lost in the memory.

"After the paramedics exchanged a look of understanding, one paramedic rose and walked over to my mother, while the other one kept continuing CPR and chest compressions.

My mother's eyes never left my father as the man explained the situation to her.

With tears streaming, she nodded. Right after, a soul-crushing scream escaped her lips when the paramedic stopped working on him.

It echoed through the hall, and the sound still enters my dreams from time to time.

The moment they turned off the AED, she collapsed next to him.

She caressed his face and placed kisses on his forehead while a never-ending river of pain streamed down her face as she mumbled loving words to him. "

Tears spill from my eyes, my chest burning with sadness and grief for the seventeen-year-old Cole and this grown man beside me.

"The director of the symphony hall walked over to me, put a hand on my shoulder, and told me how sorry he was.

I simply looked at him and asked him, dumbfounded, what happened.

He explained how my father told the audience about the piece he composed for me.

When he called out for me to come on stage, and I didn't show up, people started whispering.

Someone from backstage informed him about my disappearance.

He apologized to the crowd and walked offstage.

But before he reached the end, he collapsed. "

His grip on my hand tightens. "The last thing I told my father was that I wanted to quit. So, I'm holding myself to that. I don't deserve to touch this ever again," he says, brushing his free hand over the shiny black piano.

If a heart could break from compassion, mine would burst into a million pieces right now. Realizing how he's blaming himself for his father's death makes me want to scream. The guilt he's carrying is tremendous.

Suddenly, he stands up and stumbles out. But when he's midway through his bedroom he stops, staring at the floor. I follow, and when I'm in front of him, I take both his hands and intertwine our fingers.

"There is a tear in my heart, and I'm unable to fix it. It's like a part of me is missing. It died with him," he whispers.

His chin lifts, and the bitter smile on his lips breaks my heart. "Do you know stress causes most heart attacks? If I hadn't been so selfish that night, he might still be alive today."

He doesn't cry, but I bet he's been crying inside for years. I untangle my hands and take his face in my palms. As I brush my thumbs over his cheeks, I whisper while opening my arms, "Come here."

He leans in, and when he wraps his arms tightly around me, a tear escapes my eyes, thinking of how this broken giant of a man has punished himself for something that isn't his fault.

Silently, I pray to the universe. Please, guide me to help heal this beautiful man.

"Will you stay with me tonight, Alex?" he whispers against my hair.

When I nod, he takes my hand and guides me to his bed.

After I lie down, he follows, and my heart shatters when he places his head on my stomach and snakes his arm around my waist. He lets out a deep sigh when I roam my fingers through his hair while caressing his neck and shoulders with my other hand.

I keep stroking, memorizing the weight of his head against me, the warmth of his breath through my shirt, the way his muscles gradually relax under my touch.

After a while, his breathing becomes even and deep—he's asleep.

I wiggle to change my position, but he tightens the grip around my waist, making it impossible to move.

A small smile tugs at my lips despite the heaviness in my heart. Guess we're staying in this position. And that's more than fine with me. I'll hold him as long as he needs, guard his sleep against the ghosts that haunt him.

Looking down at this powerful man curled against me like a child seeking comfort, I realize something that terrifies me more than any stalker ever could: I'm falling for Cole Walker.

Not just the successful businessman, not just the protective father, but all of him—including the broken pieces he's kept hidden for so long.

What am I going to do?

But I already know the answer. I'm going to help him heal, even if it means risking my own heart in the process. Because some things—some people—are worth the risk.

I press a gentle kiss to his hair, breathing in his familiar scent, and settle in for the night. Tomorrow will bring its own challenges, but for now, this is enough. This quiet moment of trust, of vulnerability, of connection.

This is everything.