for being Johnny-on-the-spot,” she said, walking toward the piano. “This piano’s beautiful in a weird way.”
Dez leaned the plywood against a support column and joined her next to the stage. “It was a gift.”
Eleanor ran a hand over the shiny silver top. “Some gift.”
His gaze shuttered as he stepped onto the platform. “Yeah.”
He lifted the lid and ran his fingers over the keys, his hands masterful, playing a light run of exceptional beauty. How ironic to see such exquisiteness in the chaos of destruction.
Something shivery skipped up her spine, and the moment felt prophetic, as if there was always the possibility of beauty in the midst of ruin, a truth held tightly in a city crumbling away.
The click of the lid jarred Eleanor from her musings, from her appreciation of the man before her.
“We better get back. It’s late,” he said, his voice sounding faraway, as if he, too, felt something in the moment.
She glanced at the Timex on her wrist. 11:56 p.m. “Morning’s one blink away.”
Looking up she caught his gaze and her stomach trembled at the raw desire she saw in his eyes. This time she didn’t have to imagine the invitation. The moment crackled with electricity, making her lean toward him rather than take the steps toward the door. For a moment, she wanted something she shouldn’t with a man who was so far away from her normal kind of guy he was completely off the charts.
His gaze slid to her lips.
Instinctively, she caught her bottom lip between her teeth.
“Y’all coming?” The voice at the door grumped. Cranky Mr. Hibbett.
Eleanor blinked the intense moment away. “Uh, sorry. I’d never seen a Fazioli before.” She pointed to the piano as the older man, whose fuzzy eyebrows knitted together, waved a hand at her and headed toward the leaning plywood.
“Bah. Stare at pianos later. We’ve got work to do.”
Dez leaped off the stage and grabbed the opposite end of the boards, helping Mr. Hibbett maneuver them out the club door.
Eleanor stood there like a fool, watching.
What was wrong with her?
She scratched her head, jerked the ugly scrunchy from the ponytail and scraped a hand through her hair, wishing she didn’t feel so inept, so awkward, so...old.
Dez Batiste was too young for her. Too hip. Too cool. If she wanted to get back into the dating pool, it would be better to don a conservative tankini and slowly descend the steps into the water. Not bling it out in a string bikini and do a swan dive off the high dive into deep waters.
’Cause that’s what Dez Batiste was.
Deep waters in a string bikini.
She needed a nice sedate man who sipped Scotch and talked about the stock market. With gray around his temples and an enviable golf handicap. A guy who wore Dockers and Ralph Lauren. Her type of guy.
Right?
Right.
So Dez could haunt her fantasies, but he wouldn’t be part of her reality. Because he was a young, hot musician and she was a middle-aged mom and antiques dealer.
God. How boring was that?
Sounded as if she’d given up.
Dez popped his head back inside. “You coming?”
She wished.
“Oh. Sorry. Flashback of Katrina,” she said, hurrying toward the door.
Actually, she hadn’t been thinking about Hurricane Katrina, and the way her store had once stood with gaping black windows, the debris from the looting scattered around the sidewalk. She hadn’t been thinking of the empty display case holding the moniker for her store, but Dez didn’t have to know her little moment wasn’t about the past. And he damned sure didn’t need to know she wanted to rip off his clothes and have her wicked way with him.
“I understand,” he said with a reassuring nod. “Not easy to be reminded of a time when we all felt helpless, but we’re not helpless any longer. Let’s get the windows covered, give the police a report and then move forward. Everything here can be restored easily.”
“Right.”
As she passed him, he reached out and patted her shoulder. As though she was his maiden aunt.
Exactly.
She’d totally imagined the thing they had had a few minutes ago. One-sided desire felt by a woman who’d been sidelined too long.
“You okay?” he asked, his eyes kind, searching hers.
“Yeah, I know this vandalism is easily fixed, but—”
“Can we get on with this without all that touchy-feely crap? I want to see the back of my eyelids in the next century,” Mr. Hibbett complained.
Eleanor retwisted her hair into a ponytail. “Lead the way.”
After spending the next forty-five minutes boarding up the broken windows,