I don’t even realize how much time has slipped by when I am done putting out all the PR fires until I look up to find that Ransom is nowhere in sight. I swallow down the knot of disappointment when I realize that he’s left. I’m not sure why it bothers me—I’ve hardly paid him any attention. And it’s not like I can’t get a ride home.
I’m directing a few partygoers to the swag table to grab a few freebies when I hear the faint, melodic sounds of piano coaxing me from the pounding rhythm of Top 40s pop anthems blaring from speakers around the room. I follow the sound, sniffing it out like a hound in search of sustenance, and find that it’s generating from a smaller space reserved for special events. Tentatively, I push open the door, and my gaze eagerly discovers Ransom sitting at a Steinway, his eyes closed as he regurgitates his soul through black and white keys. He doesn’t look to me when I enter and shut the door behind me, but I know he feels my presence. A slight smile falls on his lips as he continues to play without falter. I know this tune—it’s one of my favorites that Tucker plays at home on his record player. And even though Ransom isn’t singing the words, I can feel the beauty of those lyrics as if they were etched on my heart.
Ransom finally opens his eyes when I sit down beside him on the bench, and his smile stretches wider. I can’t help myself. I smile too.
“I didn’t peg you for a Stevie Wonder fan,” I say as he restarts “Ribbon in the Sky.”
“My parents were . . . deeply religious when I was growing up. He was one of the few secular musicians they allowed in their home.”
I nod, soaking it all in. Ransom Reed is telling me personal information about himself. He’s opening a wound to let me in. Why?
“I learned every one of his songs. This one was one of my favorites.”
He begins to hum, the sounds feral and intimate, like the way he sings seductively on stage in front of thousands of fans, grinding his hips to the beat of an equally suggestive Ransom tune. Or the way he moans when he thrusts deeper, until he’s completely embedded in me, the tip of him stroking the sweet spot that causes me to clench around him.
Heat explodes in a swirl of red and pink and coral on my cheeks that I know he can see even under the dim lighting. Yet, he just continues to play, every skillful finger pressing the keys perfectly to produce magic. His fingers were one of the first things I noticed up close about him. They’re long and slender—perfect pianist fingers. They were created to make love. To fuck. To create.
I don’t realize I’ve closed my eyes until I hear him singing beside me, causing me to wake from my dream. It’s just the first line of the first verse. But it’s enough to have me panting with the need for him to trace those lyrics with his tongue all over my body. I have to get out of here. I have to get away from him. If I don’t, I’m not sure what I will do. And I’m even more unsure whether he would stop me.
Ransom reads my frantic expression like sheet music and smiles. He slides those long, magical fingers from the keys and places his hands in his lap, turning to me with wonder resting on his brow. I stare back, my lips parted and my breath shallow. I stare and I wait and I beg.
“Heidi.” My name is like an elixir on his tongue, potent and sweet. Too strong to swallow all at once, but intoxicating enough to crave it inside him. I move in a fraction closer, wanting to taste it. Wanting to smell my scent on his mouth.
A hiss filters between his teeth, and Ransom abruptly turns back to the black and ivory keys. A frown shadows his smile for just the barest of moments, but it’s long enough to break the spell.
“Come on,” he rasps in the voice reserved for the secrets he sings in the dark. “Time to go.”
Chapter Twelve
We weave through streets as slick and black as oil, bypassing partygoers and club-hoppers and late-night diners. Ransom doesn’t speak as he drives, but he leaves the music up. I close my eyes and lay my head back against the butter soft leather, and replay our last moments, our last words, our last touch.
What have I done?
What am I still doing?
We pull up to my building, and Ransom is already out of the driver’s side door before I can collect myself enough to search for the handle. He opens it and steps aside, offering me a hand to aid my shaky efforts. Still, he says nothing. Even his fingers—those long, dazzling fingers—seem cold.
Maybe I was wrong about him. Maybe he is a gentleman, in his own unconventional way. But he isn’t Tucker. And furthermore, Tucker isn’t him.
“Thank you,” I murmur, feeling self-conscious. I hug myself and shiver despite the warm, late spring temperatures.
He nods in response. That’s it. That’s all he has for me, reminding me that I am not entitled to more. I shouldn’t crave more.
I turn to the door of my building, when he turns my limbs to stone with just a single whispered word.
“Heidi.” His mouth cradles that word—cradles me—like a razorblade under his tongue. So careful, yet so dangerous.
I turn around despite the lead in my six-inch heels, but I don’t respond.
“If you wanted me . . . If you were . . .”
That’s all I need.
I nod, and bid him good night, and leave Ransom standing at the curb. It’s not until I approach the elevator that I hear the roar of 8-cyclinders drift away into the night.
My condo is dark and empty when I enter, but I’m not surprised. However, I am shocked by a beautiful spread situated on the kitchen table. I pick up the white notecard and recognize that messy doctor’s scrawl that I’ve learned to decipher over the years. I smile as I read the haphazard lines and loops, and realize that, no, Tucker isn’t Ransom, and he never will be. And I’ve never been more grateful for that.
Bunny,
It’s going to be a long night, baby. But hopefully this makes up for it.
I love you.
Tuck
I set the note aside and see that he’s arranged to have a bottle of my favorite Cab, truffles and chocolate chip cookies from Jacques Torres, Laura Mercier bath milk, and the softest, silkiest pajama set from La Perla.
He’s thought of everything, and must’ve planned all this hours ago. He knew he wouldn’t be able to make it tonight, and he still wanted me to feel special. He still wanted me to feel loved and cherished, despite what I’ve done. Despite what I wanted to do tonight.
Guilt seizes my chest, and I clutch my throat. Alone and in the dark, I choke on the shame and let it roll down my face, stealing my mascara with it. I suck in a few breaths to compose myself and quickly swipe away the tears, before grabbing the basket of goodies and taking them to our room. That’s enough humanity for one night.
Gorging myself on wine and chocolate, I take the most luxurious bath known to man. Luckily, Tucker, being the kind, considerate man that he is, even thought to uncork the bottle for me and include a glass. I soak until the water runs cold and I’m all out of cookies. And after I get out and swath myself in ribbons of pale pink silk, I polish off another glass of red too.
Although I shoot Tucker a text to thank him and wish him good night, I’m not tired enough to sleep. Wine and sugar spike my bloodstream like adrenaline, and I feel more wired than before my bath. I grab the remote and flip through the channels to find that one of my favorite movies has just come on, and I settle in with another glass of wine and what’s left of the truffles. My ass may pay for this tomorrow, but I’m too distracted to care.