Paradise Hops by Liz Crowe Page B

kitchen. He left her alone for nearly fifteen minutes, then wandered in and filled a glass with water for himself. She stared down at the countertop as she spoke. “I don’t want to play. Ever again. Who told you anyway, I mean,” she stopped and sipped, knowing the answer. This man and her father were as thick as thieves. Fury blinded her. What the hell was he thinking, forcing this on her? The fucking nerve of him.
    “Doesn’t matter. I think you need it. It’s one more thing you did well, I understand, and enjoyed. It made you happy, once. So I—”
    “My happiness is not your responsibility.” She snapped, immediately sorry for the utter ludicrousness of that statement. “Sorry.” She muttered into her glass and the silence spun between them, unaddressed. He finished his water, rinsed the glass and put it in the dishwasher. Lori watched his little dance of neat-and-tidy, aggravation and emotion clogging her throat. Lori, don’t be a bitch. This guy is special. He bought you a damn piano.
    “I’m going for a run.” He stated without looking at her. “I say we go out for dinner.”
    She didn’t speak, but he didn’t seem to require an answer. When she heard the front door close, sans the satisfaction of a nice hard slam, she winced as if he had thrown something. She sidled into the large room again, eyeing the beautiful piano from afar, then up close, running her hand across its smooth, shiny lid. She propped it up and admired the precision underneath, the rows of strings, hammers.
    Feeling like a kid about to get busted for messing with something forbidden, she took a seat on the leather bench, adjusted it and put her palms on the closed lid. A tear hit the brown wood and shimmered, mocking her. The thing must have cost at least ten thousand dollars. Then she saw the word “Steinway.” Scratch that, thirty thousand. And he’d arranged to have it delivered in a day, without giving away a single clue.
    I do not deserve him. I just don’t.
    She placed her forehead against the wood, put her feet on the pedals and pressed, feeling the large instrument shift as she adjusted sound. Finally, hands shaking and fear clogging her brain, she uncovered the keys.
    No.
    Back in the kitchen in heartbeat, sipping another glass of wine, she stood in the doorway, watching the piano as if the damn thing had the capacity to leap across the room and attack her. Get a grip, Lori . Her fingers curled in, already sensing the delicate ivory. Her brain was slipping into the zone where she used to go as a girl, after her mother died and all she had of her was the piano they’d played together.
    She set the glass down, marched over and sat. Arching her fingers over the keys, she found that, even after three years of not playing, her hands instinctively were in proper position. She’d made her father get rid of the piano in his house during the crazy months after coming home from the hospital. Her hysteria at that point spurred him to do anything she wanted just to keep her on an even keel. Images tumbled in on her, sensations, pain, terror, more pain, screaming—her own voice begging as Thad hurt every inch of her that he could. But she’d recovered. She’d even learned to enjoy her body again, thanks to Garrett. Why can’t that be the case with playing the piano?
     

     
     
    Garrett slowed to a jog, then a walk, then stopped. He stood, hands on his waist, letting the cloud of anger clear in favor of endorphins and clarity. That fucking monster of a piano had cost him a fortune and part of him still believed it was worth every penny. He took a breath and made his way up the hill to his driveway, anticipation and dread growing with every step closer to the house.
    He’d worked his entire life since he had turned sixteen and could drive, trying to instill order on everything that he could. And now, he’d made it. Two degrees, money in the bank, his own house, and the job he’d always wanted. The fact that he’d fallen