Mister and Missus By E L James - 14

They walk hand in hand along the coastal path and stop by an old ruin.

“What is this place?” Alessia asks.

“It’s an abandoned tin mine.”

Alessia and Maxim lean against the chimney stack, staring out at a choppy sea that’s crested with white surf as the chill wind whistles between them. “It is so beautiful here,” she says. “It is wild. It reminds me of my home.”

Except I’m happier here. I feel… safe.

That’s because I am with Mister Maxim.

“I love this place, too. It’s where I grew up.”

“In the house where we are staying?”

He looks away. “No. My brother built that quite recently.” Maxim’s mouth turns down, and he seems lost.

“You have a brother?”

“I did,” he whispers. “He died.” He digs his hands deep into his coat pockets and stares out at the sea, his face bleak, carved like stone.

“I am sorry,” she says, and from his pained, raw expression she suspects that his brother’s death is a recent event.

Reaching out, she places a hand on his arm. “You miss him,” she says.

“Yes,” Maxim whispers, turning his face toward her. “I do. I loved him.”

She is surprised by his candor. “Do you have other family?”

“A sister. Maryanne.” His fond smile is brief. “And then there’s my mother.” His tone becomes dismissive.

“Your father?”

“My father died when I was sixteen.”

“Oh. I am sorry. Your sister and mother, do they live here?”

“They used to. They visit sometimes,” he says. “Maryanne works and lives in London. She’s a doctor.” He flashes her a proud smile.

“Ua.” Alessia is impressed. “And your mother?”

“She’s mostly in New York.” His answer is curt. He doesn’t want to discuss his mother.

And she doesn’t want to discuss her father.

“There are mines near Kukës,” she says to change the subject, and she gazes up at the gray-stoned chimney stack. It’s like the chimney on the road to Kosovo.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“What do they mine?”

“ Krom. I don’t know the word.”

“Chromium?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know the English.”

“I think I’d better invest in an English-Albanian dictionary,” Maxim mutters. “Come on, let’s walk into the village. We can have lunch.”

“Village?” Alessia has seen no sign of any dwellings on their walk.

“Trevethick. It’s a small village just over the hill. Popular with tourists.”

Alessia falls into step beside him.

“The photographs in your apartment, are they from here?” she asks.

“The landscapes. Yes. Yes, they are.” Maxim beams. “You’re observant,” he adds, and from his raised brows Alessia can tell he’s impressed. She gives him a shy smile, and he takes her gloved hand.

They emerge from the path onto a lane too narrow to have sidewalks. The hedgerows on either side are high but cut back from the road. The brambles and bare-twigged bushes are orderly and trimmed, and here and there they are covered in clumps of snow. They walk down and around a sweeping corner, and the village of Trevethick appears at the bottom of the lane. The stone and whitewashed houses are like nothing Alessia’s seen before. They look small and old, but charming nonetheless. The place is quaint—pristine—with no trash anywhere. Where she comes from, there is garbage and construction debris in the streets, and most of the buildings are built from concrete.

At the waterfront two stone quays stretch out to embrace the harbor where three large fishing boats are moored. Around the waterfront are a few shops—a couple of boutiques, a convenience store, a small art gallery—and two pubs. One called The Watering Hole, the other, The Two-Headed Eagle. A sign hangs outside, bearing a shield Alessia recognizes. “Look!” She points at the emblem. “Your tattoo.”

Maxim winks at her. “You hungry?”

“Yes,” she replies. “That was a long walk.”

“Good day, milord.” An elderly man in a black scarf, a green waxed coat, and a flat cap is leaving The Two-Headed Eagle. He is followed by a shaggy dog of indeterminate breed wearing a red coat with the name BORIS embroidered in gold across the back.

“Father Trewin.” Maxim shakes his hand.

“How are you bearing up, young man?” He pats Maxim on the arm.

“Good, thank you.”

“I’m pleased to hear it. And who is this fine young lady?”

“Father Trewin, our vicar, may I introduce Alessia Demachi, my… friend, visiting from overseas.”

“Good afternoon, my dear.” Trewin holds out his hand.

“Good afternoon,” she says, shaking his hand, surprised and pleased that he would address her directly.

“And how are you enjoying Cornwall?”

“It is lovely here.”

Trewin gives her a benign smile and turns to Maxim. “I suppose it’s too much to hope that we’ll see you at Sunday service tomorrow?”

“We’ll see, Father.”

“We lead by example, my son. Remember that.”

“I know. I know.” Maxim sounds resigned.

“Brisk day!” Father Trewin exclaims, moving on from that subject.

“Indeed.”

Trewin whistles to Boris, who has sat patiently waiting for their pleasantries to cease. “In case you’ve forgotten, service starts at ten sharp.” He gives them both a nod and heads on up the lane.

“Vicar is the priest, yes?” Alessia asks as Maxim opens the door to the pub and ushers her into the warmth.

“Yes. Are you religious?” he asks, surprising her.

“N—”

“Good afternoon, milord,” says a large man with red hair and a complexion to match, interrupting their conversation. He stands behind an impressive bar that is hung with decorative jugs and pint glasses. There’s a burning log fire at one end of the pub and several wooden high-backed benches on either side of a line of tables, most of which are occupied by men and women who could be locals or tourists, Alessia doesn’t know. From the ceil ing hang fishermen’s ropes, nets, and tackle. The atmosphere is warm and friendly. There’s even a young couple kissing at the back. Embarrassed, Alessia looks away and sticks close to Mister Maxim.

“Hi, Jago,” I say to the barman. “Table for two for lunch?”

“Megan will sort you out.” Jago points to the far corner.

“Megan?”

Shit.

“Yeah, she’s working here now.”

Fuck.

I give Alessia a sideways glance and she looks puzzled. “Are you sure you’re hungry?”

“Yes,” Alessia replies.

“Doom Bar?” Jago asks, staring with overt appreciation at Alessia.

“Yes, please.” I try not to glare at him.

“And for the lady?” Jago’s voice softens, his eyes still on Alessia.

“What would you like to drink?” I ask.

She peels off her hat, releasing her hair. Her cheeks are flushed from the cold. “The beer I had yesterday?” she says. With her loose, dark curls falling almost to her waist, her shining eyes, and her radiant smile, she is an exotic beauty. I’m beguiled. Totally and utterly beguiled. I can’t blame Jago for staring. “Half a pale ale for the lady,” I say without looking at him.

“What is it?” Alessia asks as she begins to unzip Maryanne’s quilted Barbour jacket. And I know I’ve been gawking at her. I shake my head, and she gives me a shy smile.

“Hello, Maxim. Or should I say ‘milord’ now?”

Shit.

I turn around, and Megan is standing in front of me, her expression as dark as her clothes. “Table for two?” she says with a saccharine tone and a smile to match.

“Please. And how are you?”

“Fine,” she snaps, and my heart sinks, my father’s voice ringing in my head.

Don’t fuck the local girls, boy.

I stand aside for Alessia to precede me, and we follow in Megan’s dour wake. She leads us to a table in the corner by a window that overlooks the quays. It’s the best table in the establishment. So that’s something.

“This okay for you?” I ask Alessia, deliberately ignoring Megan.

“Yes. It is good,” Alessia responds, with a confused look at a moody Megan. I hold out her chair, and she sits. Jago arrives with our drinks, and Megan saunters off, presumably to fetch menus… or a cricket bat.

“Cheers.” I hold up my pint.

“Cheers,” Alessia replies. After a sip she says, “I do not think Megan is happy with you.”

“No, I don’t think so either.” I shrug, brushing off the subject. I really don’t want to discuss Megan with Alessia. “Anyway, you were saying about religion?”

She eyes me dubiously, as if pondering the Megan Situation, and then she continues, “The Communists banned religion in my country.”

“You mentioned that in the car yesterday.”

“Yes.”

“But you wear a gold cross.”

“Menus,” Megan interrupts us, and hands us both a laminated card. “I’ll be back to take your order in a minute.” She turns abruptly and heads for the bar.

I ignore her. “You were saying?”

Alessia watches Megan’s exit through suspicious eyes but says nothing about her. She continues, “It was my grandmother’s. She was Catholic. She used to pray in secret.” Alessia fondles her gold cross.

“So there’s no religion in your country?”

“There is now. Since we became a republic when the Communists fell, but in Albania we don’t make so much of it.”

“Oh, I thought religion was everything in the Balkans?”

“Not in Albania. We are a… what is the word? Secular state. Religion is very personal. You know, just between a person and their God. At home we are Catholics. Most people in my town are Muslim. But we do not give it much thought,” she responds with a quizzical look at me. “And you?”

“Me? Well, I suppose I’m Church of England. But I’m not religious at all.” Father Trewin’s words come back to me.

We lead by example, my son.

Bloody hell.

Maybe I should go to church tomorrow. Kit always managed to go at least one or two Sundays a month when he was down here.

Me, not so much.

That’s another damn duty I have to fulfill.

“Are the English like you?” Alessia asks, pulling me back into the conversation.

“With regard to religion? Some are. Some aren’t. The UK is multicultural.”

“This I know.” She smiles. “When I traveled on the train in London, there were so many different languages spoken.”

“Do you like it? London?”

“It is noisy and crowded and very expensive. But it is exciting. I had never been to a big city before.”

“Not even Tirana?” Thanks to my expensive education, I know the capital of Albania.

“No. I have never traveled. I had never seen the sea until you brought me here.” Her glance out the window is wistful, but it gives me an opportunity to study her profile: long lashes, pert nose, pouting lips. I shift in my seat, my blood thickening.

Steady.

Megan appears with her pinched, angry face and scraped-back hair, and my problem subsides.

Boy, she is still bitter. It was one summer seven years ago. One fucking summer.

“Are you ready to order?” she asks, glaring at me. “Catch of the day is cod.” She makes it sound like an insult.

Alessia frowns and glances quickly at the menu.

“I’ll have the fish pie, please.” And, irritated, I cock my head, daring Megan to say anything.

“For me also,” says Alessia.

“Two fish pies. Any wine?”

“I’m fine with the beer. Alessia?”

Megan turns to the lovely Alessia Demachi. “For you?” she snaps.

“The beer is good for me, too.”

“Thank you, Megan,” I grunt in warning, and she shoots me a look.

She’ll probably spit in my food—or, worse, in Alessia’s.

“Shit,” I murmur under my breath as I watch her march back to the kitchen.

Alessia studies my reaction.

“That goes back several years,” I say, and tug at my sweater collar, embarrassed.

“What does?”

“Megan and I.”

“Oh,” Alessia says, her tone flat.

“She’s ancient history. Tell me about your family. Do you have any siblings?” I ask, desperately trying to move on.

“No,” she says abruptly, and it’s obvious she’s still considering Megan and me.

“Parents?”

“I have a mother and a father. Like all people.” She raises a beautiful, arched eyebrow.

Oh. The delectable Demachi has teeth.

“And what are they like?” I ask, stifling my amusement.

“My mother is… brave.” Her voice becomes soft and wistful.

“Brave?”

“Yes.” Her expression turns somber, and she glances out the window once more.

Okay. This subject is definitely off-limits.

“And your father?”

She shakes her head and shrugs. “He is an Albanian man.”

“And that means?”

“Well, my father is old-fashioned, and I do not… how do you say? We do not see eye for eye.” Her face falls a little, and her troubled expression tells me this, too, is off-limits.

“Eye to eye,” I correct her. “Tell me about Albania, then.”

Her face brightens. “What do you want to know?” She looks up at me through those long dark lashes, and my groin tightens again.

“Everything,” I whisper.

I watch and listen to her, enthralled. She is passionate and eloquent, painting a vivid picture of her country and her home. She tells me Albania is a special place where family is at the center of everything. It’s an ancient country, influenced over the centuries by several cultures with differing ideologies. She explains that it’s both Western and Eastern-facing, but more and more her country looks to Europe for inspiration. She’s proud of her hometown. Kukës is a small place in the north near the border with Kosovo, and she enthuses about its spectacular lakes, rivers, and gorges, but most of all the mountains that surround it. She comes alive talking about the landscape, and it’s clear this is what she misses about her homeland.

“And that is why I like it here,” she says. “From what I have seen, the landscape in Cornwall is also beautiful.”

We are interrupted by Megan and fish pie. Megan plunks the plates down on the table and leaves without a word. Her face is sour, but the fish pie is warming and delicious, and there’s no sign that anyone spat in it.

“What does your father do?” I ask cautiously.

“He has a garage.”

“Does he sell petrol?”

“No. He fixes cars. Tires. Mechanical things.”

“And your mother?”

“She is at home.”

I want to ask Alessia why she left Albania, but I know it will remind her of her harrowing journey to the UK.

“And what did you do in Kukës?”

“Well, I was studying, but my university closed, and so sometimes I work in a school with the little children. And sometimes I play the piano…” Her voice tails off, and I don’t know if it’s because she’s feeling nostalgic or if it’s for another reason. “Tell me about your work.” It’s clear she wants to change the subject, and because I don’t want to tell her what I do yet, I fill her in on my DJing career.

“And I’ve done a couple of summers in San Antonio in Ibiza. Now, that’s a real party place.”

“This is why you have so many records?”

“Yes,” I answer.

“And what is your favorite music?”

“All music. I don’t have a favorite genre. What about you? How old were you when you started playing?”

“I was four.”

Wow. Early.

“Did you study music? I mean, music theory?”

“No.”

That’s even more impressive.

It’s gratifying to see Alessia eat. Her cheeks are rosy, her eyes aglow, and I suspect that after two beers she’s a little tipsy.

“Would you like anything else?” I ask.

She shakes her head.

“Let’s go.”

It’s Jago who brings over our bill. I suspect Megan has refused or she’s on a break. I settle up and take Alessia’s hand as we leave the pub.

“I just want to make a quick detour to the shop,” I say.

“Okay.” Alessia’s lopsided smile makes me grin.

The shops in Trevethick are owned by the estate and leased to the locals. They do good business from Easter right through to the New Year. The only one that’s actually useful is the general store. We’re miles from the nearest big town, and it carries a huge range of items. A dulcet bell rings as we enter.

“If there’s anything you need, let me know,” I tell Alessia, who is looking at the magazine display, swaying slightly. I head to the counter.

“Can I help you?” asks the sales assistant, a tall young woman I don’t recognize.

“Do you stock night-lights? For kids?”

She leaves the counter and searches the shelves in a nearby aisle. “These are the only night-lights we have.” She holds up a box with a small plastic dragon inside.

“I’ll take one.”

“It’ll need batteries,” the assistant informs me.

“I’ll take batteries, too.”

She takes the package and returns to the counter, where I spy condoms.

Well, I might get lucky.

I glance around at Alessia, who is leafing through one of the magazines.

“I’ll have a packet of condoms, too.”

The young woman blushes, and I’m glad I don’t know her.

“Which would you prefer?” she asks.

“Those.” I point to my brand of choice. Hastily she puts the packet into a plastic bag with the night-light.

Once I’ve paid, I join Alessia at the front of the shop, where she’s now checking out the small display of lipsticks.

“Is there anything you want?” I ask.

“No. Thank you.”

Her refusal doesn’t surprise me. I’ve never seen her wear makeup.

“Shall we go?”

She takes my hand, and we walk back to the lane.

“What is that place?” Alessia points at a distant chimney only partly visible as we walk up the lane toward the old mine. I know it, of course; it stands atop of the west wing of the great house that is Tresyllian Hall. My ancestral home.

Bugger.

“That place? It belongs to the Earl of Trevethick.”

“Oh.” Her brow creases for a moment, and we continue on in silence while I wage an inner war with myself.

Tell her you’re the fucking Earl of Trevethick.

No.

Why not?

I will. Not yet.

Why not?

I want her to know me first.

Know you?

Spend time with me.

“Can we go down to the beach again?” Alessia’s eyes are alight with excitement once more.

“Of course.”

Alessia is entranced by the sea. She runs with the same uninhibited joy into the shallow surf. The Wellingtons keep her feet dry from the crashing waves.

She is… effervescent.

Mister Maxim has given her the sea.

Overcome with giddy delight, she closes her eyes, stretches out her arms, and breathes in the chilly, salted air. She can’t remember ever feeling this… full. For the first time in a long time, she’s enjoying a small slice of happiness. She has a keen sense of connection to the cold, wild landscape that somehow reminds her of her homeland.

She feels like she belongs.

She is complete.

Turning around, she regards Maxim as he stands on the shoreline with his hands deep in his coat pockets, watching her. The wind ripples his hair, the traces of gold glinting in the sun. His eyes are full of mirth and shine a burning emerald green.

He is breathtaking.

And her heart is full. Full to the brim.

She loves him.

Yes. She loves him.

She is giddy. Excited. And in love. This is what it should feel like. Joyful. Filling. Free. The realization surges through her like the bracing Cornish wind that whips her hair across her face.

She is in love with Mister Maxim.

All her unarticulated feelings bubble to the surface, and her face erupts into a megawatt smile. His answering smile is dazzling, and for a moment she dares to hope.

Perhaps one day he will feel the same way, too?

She dances over to him and in an unguarded moment launches herself at him, flinging her arms around his neck.

“Thank you for bringing me here,” she exclaims, breathless.

He grins down at her as he holds her close. “It’s my pleasure,” he says.

“It will be!” she quips, and laughs as his eyes widen and his mouth drops open.

She wants him. All of him.

She whirls out of his arms and back into the shallows.

Good God, she’s tipsy, maybe even a little drunk. And beautiful. I’m infatuated.

Suddenly she slips and falls as a wave crashes over her.

Shit.

Panicked, I race to help. She tries to scramble to her feet and slips again, but when I reach her, she’s laughing. And soaked. I help her up. “I think that’s enough swimming for one day,” I mutter. “It’s freezing. Let’s get you home.” And I take her hand. Alessia gives me a crooked grin and trails after me across the sand toward the path back to the house. Pausing every few steps, she seems reluctant to leave the beach, but she’s still giggling and appears happy enough. I don’t want her catching a chill.

Back in the warmth of the Hideout, I pull her into my arms. “Your giggling is irresistible.” I kiss her quickly, and slip off her soaking coat. Her jeans are sodden, but thankfully the rest of her clothes underneath seem dry. I rub her arms briskly to warm her. “You should go and change.”

“Okay.” Alessia grins and heads toward the stairs. Taking her coat—well, Maryanne’s coat—I hang it up in the hallway over the radiator, where it will dry. I remove my boots and socks, which are also wet, then head into the guest cloakroom.

When I come out, she’s disappeared and I assume she’s gone upstairs to find a dry pair of jeans. I sit down on one of the kitchen barstools and call Danny to arrange supper.

Next I call Tom Alexander.

“Trevethick. How the devil are you?”

“Good, thanks. Anything to report from Brentford?”

“No. It’s all quiet on the western front. How’s Cornwall?”

“Cold.”

“You know, old boy, I’ve been thinking. This is an awful lot of trouble to go to for your daily. She’s a pretty girl and all that, but I hope she’s worth it.”

“She is.”

“I’ve never known you to be a sucker for a damsel in distress.”

“She’s not a dam—”

“I hope you’ve sealed the deal.”

“Tom, that’s none of your fucking business.”

“Okay. Okay. I’ll take that as a no.” He laughs.

“Tom,” I warn.

“Yes. Yes. Trevethick. Keep your bloody hair on. It’s all good here. That’s all you need to know.”

“Thank you. Keep me updated.”

“Will do. Farewell.” He hangs up.

I stare down at the phone.

Fucker.

I email Oliver.

To: Oliver Macmillan

Date: 2 February 2019

From: Maxim Trevelyan

Re: Whereabouts

Oliver

I’m in Cornwall attending to a private matter and staying at the Hideout. I’m not sure how long I’m going to be here.

Tom Alexander will be invoicing me for his services via his security company, payment for which should come out of my personal allowances.

If you need to reach me, email is better, as phone reception down here, as you know, is spotty.

Thanks.

MT

Then I text Caroline.

In Cornwall. Will be here a while.

Hope all well with you. Mx

She texts back immediately.

Do you want me to come down?

No. Things to do.

Thanks for the offer.

Are you avoiding me?

Don’t be silly.

I don’t believe you.

I’ll call you at the Hall.

I’m not at the Hall.

Where are you, then?

And what the fuck are you doing

down there?

Caro. Leave it.

I’ll call next week.

What are you up to?

I’m intrigued and I miss you.

I have to see the

Stepsow again this

evening. Cxxxx

Good luck. Mx

How the fuck am I going to explain to Caroline what’s happening down here? I run my hands through my hair, hoping to find inspiration. Nothing comes to me, so I go looking for Alessia. She isn’t in either of the upstairs bedrooms.

“Alessia!” I call as I come back into the main living area, but she doesn’t reply. I dash down to the lower floor and quickly check the three ground-level guest bedrooms, the games and cinema room.

No Alessia.

Fuck.

I try to quell my rising panic and run back upstairs and through to the spa to see if she’s in the Jacuzzi or the sauna.

No sign.

Where the fuck is she?

I check the scullery.

And there she is, sitting bare-legged on the floor, reading a book while the tumble dryer rumbles away.

“Here you are.” I conceal my exasperation, feeling ridiculous for my concern. She stares up at me with warm brown eyes as I sink down onto the floor beside her.

“What are you doing?” I’m breathless as I lean against the wall. She draws her knees up and stretches her white top over them, concealing her legs. She rests her chin on her knees, her face an endearing shade of embarrassed pink.

“I’m reading, and I am waiting for my jeans to dry.”

“I can see that. Why didn’t you change?”

“Change?”

“Into another pair.”

She blushes a deeper shade of pink. “I do not have another pair.” Her tone is hushed and tinged with shame.

Bloody hell.

And I recall the two pathetic plastic bags that I packed into the boot of my car. They held everything she owns.

Closing my eyes, I lean my head back against the wall, feeling utterly stupid.

She has nothing.

Not even clothes. Or socks.

Shit.

Checking my watch, I realize it’s too late to go shopping. And I’ve had two pints, so I can’t—I don’t drink and drive. “It’s late now. Tomorrow I’ll take you to Padstow, and we can get you some new clothes.”

“I cannot afford new clothes. My jeans will be dry soon.”

Without acknowledging her comment, I glance down at her book. “What are you reading?”

“I found this on the bookshelves.” She holds up Jamaica Inn by Daphne du Maurier.

“Do you like it? It’s set in Cornwall.”

“I’ve just started it.”

“From what I remember, I enjoyed it. Look, I’m sure I have something you can wear.” I rise and hold out my hand. Clutching the book, she’s a little wobbly as she stands, and the hem of her top is wet.

Shit. She’ll catch a cold.

I try not to look at her long, naked legs. I try not to imagine them wrapped around my waist. I fail.

And she’s wearing the Pink Panties.

Torture.

My need is a slow, dull ache.

I’ll have to shower. Again.

“Come on.” My voice is thick with desire, but fortunately she doesn’t seem to notice. We head upstairs, and she ducks into the guest room while I explore the walk-in wardrobe to see what other clothes Danny has brought to the house.

Alessia appears by the door a few moments later wearing SpongeBob pajama bottoms and an Arsenal FC shirt.

“I have these,” she says with an apologetic and still half-tipsy smile.

I stop rummaging.

Even in ridiculous, faded pajamas and a football shirt, she is stunning. “They’ll do.” I smirk as I imagine slipping those trousers off her hips and down her legs.

“These were Michal’s,” she says.

“I guessed.”

“They were too small for him.”

“They look a little big for you. We’ll get you some clothes tomorrow.”

She opens her mouth to protest, but I raise my finger to her lips. “Hush.” Her lips are soft to my touch.

I want this woman.

She pouts and forms a kiss against my skin, and her eyes stray to my mouth and darken. My breath catches in my throat. “Please don’t look at me like that,” I whisper, taking my finger off her lips.

“Like… what?” Her voice is barely audible.

“You know. Like you want me.”

She flushes and stares down at her feet.

“I am sorry,” she whispers.

Shit. I’ve upset her. “Alessia.” I close the space between us so I’m almost touching her. The enchanting scent of lavender and roses mixed with the salty air of the sea invades and intoxicates my senses. I stroke her cheek, and she leans her lovely face into my palm.

“I do want you,” she murmurs, raising alluring eyes to mine. “But I don’t know what to do.”

I brush her bottom lip with my thumb. “I think you’ve had too much to drink, beautiful.”

She blinks, and her eyes cloud with a look I don’t understand. And with a lift of her chin she turns and walks out of the room.

What the hell?

“Alessia!” I call, and follow her, but she ignores me and descends the stairs.

I sigh and sit down on the top step and rub my face. I’m confused. I am trying—really fucking trying—to be noble here.

I snort at the irony.

I know the look she was giving me.

Hell. I’ve seen it often enough.

A fuck-me, fuck-me-now look.

Isn’t that why I brought her here?

But she’s tipsy, and she has no one, and she has nothing. Nothing at all.

She has me.

Hook. Line. And sinker.

If I fuck her, I’ll be taking advantage.

Simple.

So I can’t.

But I’ve offended her.

Shit.

The mournful strains of the piano suddenly fill the house. It’s a melancholic Bach Prelude in E-flat Minor. I know it well because I studied it for my grade four or five music examination as a teen. She plays exquisitely, teasing out all the emotion and revealing the depths of the piece. Her skill is phenomenal. And she’s articulating everything she feels through the music. She’s pissed off. At me.

Bloody hell.

Maybe I should take her up on her offer—fuck her and take her back to London. But even as the thought enters my head, I know I can’t do that.

I have to find somewhere for her to live.

I rub my face again.

She could live with me.

What? No.

I’ve never lived with anyone.

Would it be so bad?

The truth is, I don’t want any harm coming to Alessia Demachi. I want to protect her.

I sigh.

What’s happening to me?

Alessia pours her confusion into the Bach prelude she’s playing. She wants to forget everything. His look. His doubt. His rejection. The music slowly moves through her and out into the room, filling it with the somber colors of regret. And as she plays, she surrenders herself to the melody and forgets. Everything.

When the final notes die, she opens her eyes, and Mister Maxim is standing by the kitchen counter, watching her.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” she responds.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. That’s twice today.”

“You are very contrary,” Alessia says, trying to voice her confusion. As an afterthought she adds, “Is it my clothes?”

“What?”

“That you do not like.” After all, he’s insisted he wants to buy her new clothes. She stands, and in an uncharacteristic, brave moment she gives him a quick twirl. She hopes she will make him smile.

Walking toward her, he eyes her football shirt and her cartoon pj’s and rubs his chin as if considering her hypothesis. “I love that you’re dressed like a thirteen-year-old boy.” His tone is dry, but amused, too.

Alessia giggles. Loudly. Infectiously. And he laughs with her.

“That’s better,” he whispers. He grasps her chin and kisses her. “You are a very desirable woman, Alessia, whatever you’re wearing. Don’t let me or anyone else make you feel otherwise. You’re also very, very talented. Play something else. For me. Please.”

“Okay,” she says, mollified by his kind words, and she sits down at the piano once more. She gives him a quick, knowing smile and starts to play.

It’s my song.

The song I finished after I met her.

She knows it. By heart. And she plays it a damned sight better than I do. I started this song when Kit was alive… and now I hear my own sorrow and regret in the harmonies that fill the room. Grief hits me like a tidal wave, crashing over me. Drowning me. A knot forms in my throat, and I try to contain my emotion, but it expands, constricting my ability to breathe. I watch her, spellbound but aching as the music punctures my heart and touches the yawning void that is Kit’s absence. Her eyes are closed. She’s concentrating and losing herself in the sad, solemn melody.

I’ve tried to ignore my grief. But it’s there. It’s been there since the day he died. I told Alessia that I loved him. I did. I really did love him. My big brother.

But I never told him.

Not once.

And now I miss him more than he’ll ever know.

Kit.

Why?

Tears burn behind my eyes as I lean against the wall, trying to fight my anguish and loss. I cover my face with my hands.

I hear her gasp, and she stops. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. I shake my head, unable to speak or look at her. Hearing the scrape of the stool, I know that she’s stepped away from the piano. Then I feel her near me, and she touches my arm. It’s a compassionate gesture. And it’s my undoing.

“That reminded me of my brother.” I squeeze the words past the lump in my throat. “We buried him here, three weeks ago.”

“Oh, no.” She sounds crestfallen, and she wraps her arms around me, surprising me, and whispers, “I am so sorry.”

I bury my face in her hair and inhale her soothing scent. And I cannot stop the tears sliding down my face.

Shit.

She’s unmanned me.

I didn’t cry at the hospital. I didn’t cry at the funeral. I haven’t cried since my father died when I was sixteen years old. Yet here. Now. With her I let go. And I sob in her arms.