Never Got Over You -Whitney G. Page 0,32

smiled. “I can also promise you that I’ve never trespassed on an estate.”

“My security guard didn’t tell you that I underestimated how busy I was?”

“No. He told me that your mother was ‘acting like a bitch’ and he gave me twenty-five minutes to trespass behind his back or get the hell off the property.”

I made a mental note to thank Bernie, and pulled James into the room. “I would’ve called you, but she um, took my phone.”

“Are you sure you’re twenty years old?” He joked.

“I’m only sixteen, actually,” I said. “I lied to you. I’m still a minor.”

“Then this is officially the end of us.”

We both laughed, and he pulled me into his arms—giving me a deep and dirty kiss that made me forget my every thought, my every worry.

Steadying me, he slowly pulled away. He walked over to the black Steinway piano that stood on a platform at the center of the room.

“You know how to play the piano?” he asked.

“Yeah, I used to play it more than the cello, but...” My voice trailed off, the painful truth still lingered all these years later.

“But what?”

“Whenever I competed, I only placed second or third, so my mom took it a sign that I wasn’t meant to play it professionally.” I shrugged. “She cancelled all my lessons and told me to stop playing it so often, since second and third place don’t count.”

“Hmmm.” He tapped one of the keys. “Can I hear you play?”

“Right now?”

He nodded.

“Sure, just don’t expect perfection.” I took a seat on the bench and curved my hands above the keys. I played the start of Hungarian Dance No. 5 from memory, trying hard not to miss a note. As I was reaching the end of the first stanza, James took a seat next to me and began playing the complementing bass notes.

He sped up the tempo, forcing me to follow his lead. His fingers moved against the keys with ease, his playing so far superior to mine, that I almost thought he was professional.

We played the last stanza in perfect harmony, our fingers hitting the final key at the same time.

“You’re better than a lot of the people I used to play with when I was younger.” He smiled. “I’m impressed.”

“Me, too...” I crossed my arms. Why did you stop?”

“Because winning first place every time gets boring.” He pulled the case over the keys. “Couldn’t afford to keep paying for it either.” He let out a breath. “You don’t have to stay in this estate,” he said. “You can leave and do whatever the hell you want with your life. You know that, right?”

“Easier said than done.” I shook my head. “Nobody just walks away from this type of life. Most of my decisions were made for me long before I was out of the womb.”

“Everyone is capable of making their own choices, Kate.” He tilted my chin up with his fingertips. “Everyone.”

I wanted to tell him that I wished that was true, that I agreed, but I couldn’t. I was living proof that it wasn’t always the case.

I glanced at his wrist and caught sight of a watch I’d seen some of the top men in Edgewood wear. It was a custom diamond and wood piece, its face was sapphire blue and the letters, S.G. H. were engraved in its face.

“Did one of your clients gift you that watch?” I stared at it. “It’s stunning.”

“Something like that.” He unclasped it and slipped it into his pocket. “What do you really want to do with your life?”

“Travel,” I said. “Travel and work for some huge company that’ll pay me to write up all the magazine ads and commercials for whatever product they’re trying to sell. And whenever I become the best there is, I want to do all the marketing work in my dream house, with its huge wraparound porch and white swing.”

“How very specific.” He laughed. You want a real job with a boss?”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing. I was expecting you to say that you wanted to travel and live off your inheritance for the rest of your life. Wasn’t expecting you to want to work.”

“Well, I do,” I said. “Then again, if I ever do get the chance to, I’m sure I’ll have to change my last name, so my mother won’t be embarrassed about her oldest daughter earning her own money.” I envisioned the ugly, disappointed look my mother would have if that happened—the number of “emergency stress massages” she would have to book,