chair, her head resting on her arm as she listened to Troy turn storyteller about their school days, sharing a tale about Elliot Starc since the race-car driver had left earlier.
Not much longer and Malcolm would have Celia all to himself. Finally, they would be alone, aside from his manager. Logan knew how to make himself scarce, though, probably keeping busy working the next angle for his client. Malcolm felt like a jerk for wishing they would all hit the road now.
Part of his impatience could have something to do with what great buddies Celia and Rowan had become. More than once today, they’d sat in a corner, their heads tucked close in conversation. The good doc had even brought her a bag of pastries to make sure she ate enough.
Hell, yes, Malcolm was jealous. The guy had pastries, and Malcolm didn’t even have a hint of a plan for what to do next as far as Celia was concerned. His other plans had backfired—kissing for the press, singing “Playing for Keeps.” So he did what he did best. He lost himself in music, while staring at Celia’s beautiful face. He hitched his guitar more securely on his knee and plucked strings softly while Troy continued his story.
“My senior year—” Troy twirled his fedora on one finger as he talked “—Elliot was new to the school and wanted to impress us, so he hot-wired one of the laundry trucks and smuggled us all out for the night. We snuck into a strip club.”
Hillary snagged her husband’s spinning hat from his finger. “Strip club? Seriously? This is the story you choose to tell?”
Jayne laughed softly, snuggling into the crook of her husband’s arm. “Someone’s sleeping alone tonight.”
Troy spread his hands wide. “Let me finish. We quickly figured out the club wasn’t anything like we’d seen in the movies. The women looked … weary. A couple of the guys wanted to stay but most of us left and went to a pancake house that stayed open all night.”
Malcolm remembered the night well. He’d opted to stay in the truck, in a crummy mood because it was Celia’s birthday and he resented like hell that he remembered. He’d been aching for her.
Not much had changed.
Hillary dropped her husband’s hat onto her head. “I’m not sure I believe you.”
Troy kissed his wife’s head. “I would never lie to you, babe.”
Hillary rolled her eyes. “I’m assuming Elliot went with them to the pancake house since otherwise how would you have gotten the truck started?”
Conrad raised his hand. “Me, too, for the record. I did not stay at the strip club, just so we’re clear. I had pancakes with blueberry syrup, extra bacon on the side. Waitresses fully clothed.”
Jayne thunked him in the stomach. “Enough already.”
Their ease with each other reminded Malcolm of what he and Celia once had—and lost.
Celia hugged a throw pillow. “Why did Elliot end up at the school?” She glanced at Malcolm. “Is that okay to ask?”
“It’s in his public bio, so it’s no secret.” Malcolm sat in the wingback chair beside her—before Rowan could claim the seat—and continued to strum the guitar idly, playing improvised riffs and breathing in the pralinesweet scent of her. “His Wikipedia page states that Elliot was sent to the school for stealing cars. In reality, he took his stepfather’s caddy out for a spin and smashed it into a guardrail.”
The calm seeped from Celia’s face. “Seems like a rather extreme punishment for a joyride.”
Malcolm slowed his song, searching for a way to steer the conversation in another direction so she would smile again.
Troy answered, “Multiple joyrides. Multiple wrecks. His stepfather was beating the crap out of him. He wanted to get caught or die. Either way, he was out of his house.”
Celia leaned forward. “Why wasn’t his stepfather stopped and prosecuted?”
“Connections, a family member on the police force. Lots of warnings, but nothing happened.”
Her lips went tight, and she shook her head. “His mother should have protected him.”
“Damn straight,” Troy agreed. “But I’m sliding off my path here. Let’s get back to more entertaining brotherhood tales, like the time a few of us were stuck staying at school over Christmas break. So we broke into Salvatore’s office, spread dirt on the floor and tossed quick-grow grass seed. He had a lawn when he returned. He knew we did it, but the look on his face was priceless….”
Malcolm started strumming again, adding his own impromptu score to Troy’s tales, but his brain was still stuck on the moment Celia asked why Elliot’s mother hadn’t protected him. Her reaction was so swift, so instinctive he couldn’t avoid the image blaring in his brain. An image of Celia as the mother of his child, fiercely doing everything in her power to protect their baby. He’d been so frustrated—hell, angry—for so long over losing the chance to see his kid that he hadn’t fully appreciated how much she’d been hurt.
And damn it all, that touched him deep in his gut in a way that had nothing to do with sex. Right now, he had less of a clue about what to do with this woman than he had eighteen years ago.
The next night, after Malcolm’s concert in the Netherlands, Celia put together a late-night snack in their suite. Foraging through the mini-fridge, she found bottles of juice, water and soda, along with four kinds of cheese. She snagged the Gouda and Frisian clove to go with the crackers and grapes on the counter.
Yes, she was full of nervous energy since Malcolm’s friends had all gone home. Now she was finally alone with him. How strange that she’d resented their presence at first and now she felt antsy without the buffer they’d provided. Malcolm’s manager had stood backstage with her at the concert tonight in Amsterdam. But Logan had his own room here on another floor.
Not that Malcolm had pressured her since they’d checked into the posh hotel. In fact, since her panic attack during the Seine River tour, he’d backed off. On the one hand, she’d wanted him to quit tempting her, but on the other it hurt to think he was turned off by her anxiety.
They had a two-bedroom suite with a connecting sitting room. He was showering, the lights having been particularly powerful—and hot—tonight at yet another sold-out show.
As she heard the shower in the next room stop, she arranged the food on a glazed pottery tray to keep her hands busy and her thoughts occupied with something other than wondering how different the adult, naked Malcolm looked. And what he thought of the “adult” her. She smoothed her hands down her little black dress, lacy, with a scalloped hem that ended just above the knee. Should she rush and change?
She shook off vanity as quickly as she kicked off her heels and loosened her topknot. Lifting the tray with food and a pot of tea, she angled around the bar, past the baby grand piano and into the living area.
Overall the room was brighter, lighter than the other places they’d stayed, the Dutch decor closer to her personal style. On her way past, she dipped her head to sniff the blue floral pitcher full of tulips. She placed the tray on top of the coffee table and curled up on the sofa with her tea. She’d made a pot with lemon and honey to soothe Malcolm’s throat after three straight nights of concerts. He had to be feeling the effects.
The door to his
