Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 75243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
“In my own way,” he counters as a grin ghosts his mouth. “But, alas, the only instrument I can play is a guitar, and that’s poorly at best.”
A fleeting image of him strumming my guitar while he gently sings to me wafts through my imagination.
I chase that away with my next tentative question. “Is your wife more musically inclined than you? Did Stevie inherit that from her?”
His eyes drift over my face. He swallows hard before his lips part ever so slightly as if the words he wants to say are perched there waiting for him to release them.
I’ve seen that before when a man has felt cornered.
I save him because it’s time for me to close up shop and his hesitation is all the answer I need. “I’m only asking because I inherited my love of music from my mom, so I wondered if it was the same for Stevie. The store closes at eight, so I hate to push you out, but…”
I follow that with soft laughter that sounds as unnatural as it feels.
“My late wife sang Stevie to sleep every night,” he pauses before he goes on, “I like to think that my daughter’s love of music was born in those moments.”
Chapter Eleven
Berk
I have no fucking idea why those words spilled out of me, but they did.
The expression on Astrid’s face is one I’ve become accustomed to seeing whenever I mention Layna’s death.
It’s come up in business and with friends I haven’t seen in years, but I’ve never told a woman I barely know that my wife passed away.
None of the three women I’ve had one-night stands with since Layna’s funeral had any idea I’m a widower.
All they knew was that I was looking for a good time and nothing else.
“I’m so sorry,” Astrid says softly. “Truly, Berk. I’m sorry.”
I can tell that the words are spoken with sincerity.
They’re not empty as they often are when a new business associate asks me if my wife and I are free for dinner or when I run into an old acquaintance on the sidewalk that isn’t aware that Layna died.
“Thank you,” I utter because I’ve never quite figured out what to say in response to someone offering condolences.
I wait for Astrid to follow it up with the expected questions about when and how it happened, but that doesn’t come.
Instead, she studies me carefully. Her green eyes drift over my face before settling on something behind me.
“Have you ever listened to anything by Lulu Jenkins?”
I’m slightly taken aback by the sudden shift, but I go along for the ride. “I haven’t. Who is she?”
“A jazz singer from Liverpool.” A smile plays on her lips before she takes off toward the front of the store. “I found a copy of her debut album this morning in a box of records I bought. I think you might like it. I’ll put on one of my favorite songs, and you can give it a listen.”
I watch as she slips an album out from the middle of a stack perched next to a turntable.
She removes the record that’s been playing since I walked into the store. Carefully, she replaces it with another before the soft sounds of horns, and a soulful voice fills the air.
Astrid’s hips circle in small movements as she turns back to face me.
“It’s beautiful, right?” Her hands jump to the center of her chest. “I’ve always felt that song in here.”
Her eyelids flutter shut as she starts to sing along to the lyrics.
Jesus. This woman is breathtaking in every sense of the word.
My breath stutters somewhere between my lungs and my lips as I stand in place, listening to her croon along to the song.
“It’s beautiful,” I repeat her words, but mine aren’t related to the music. Mine are all about the vision in front of me.
Her eyes open a touch. “The entire album is like this. It’s warm and soothing. There are parts that are sensual and one song….well, when I listen to it, I can feel it in my soul.”
I take measured steps toward her. “You’re an incredible singer, Astrid.”
She doesn’t shy away from the compliment or try to talk me down. Her shoulders push back, and her chin lifts. “Thank you.”
I step even closer. “Have you always been a singer?”
One of her hands drifts between her breasts to her stomach. “It’s part of me. It’s always been.”
I catch a glimpse of a small tattoo on her left wrist. It looks like a bird.
I tear my gaze from that and glance at her hips. She’s still swaying to the music. Her movements are slow but torturous to witness.
All I can picture is her moving like that beneath me.
“I already own this album, so this one is yours if you want it.” A smile slides over her full lips. “You can listen to it and then tell me what you think.”