made it impossible for him to hide, but he could sometimes blend in. It was his best—only—option.
He was halfway to the front door when his gaze landed on the grand piano tucked into the far corner of the room. Sun streamed through the bank of windows to cast its rays near but not on the gleaming lacquer finish. Dust motes floated past the polished surface, as if they didn’t dare land on the imposing instrument.
He slowed then stopped, pulse racing with want and refusal. His fingers curled in then flexed on their own, automatically stretching in preparation to play. He could lose himself behind the keys, fill the house with a shifting sonata or quick waltz.
Ten years wasn’t long enough for his muscle memory to forget the fifteen years of training that’d been piled into him before he’d abandoned the instrument.
The guitar was safer. Easier to handle—mentally.
He jerked his gaze to the four guitars hanging on the wall half hidden behind the piano. Patricia had turned her nose up the time she’d walked in on him playing, so he hadn’t picked one up in over four months. He’d need new strings—right?
He ran his thumb over the faded calluses on his fingertips. Maybe it was time to add another guitar to his collection. Something to commemorate playing again. That sounded good.
And when he got back, he’d play every damn guitar until the exhaustion allowed him to sleep.
Chapter Two
Jacqui Polson wiped the dust cloth over the counter, head bobbing to the music coming from the store speakers. A couple of guys were picking out chords on the floor guitars in the back, their random twangs pinging over the piped-in notes in a rhythm that came through as normal to her.
Six years of working at Falcon Music store had tuned her brain to either ignore the haphazard jumble of sound or to home in on a specific instrument and follow only it. Or maybe that ability came from her twenty-plus years of music training. Either way, she silently ticked off each note coming from the acoustic guitar—D, C#, F—the mental exercise happening automatically.
Bells jingled as the front door swung open, a girl and her mother entering. Jacqui tucked the dust cloth under the counter and headed around to greet the new customers.
“Can I help you find anything?” She didn’t recognize them and sizing up the age of the child—middle school—she’d bet money on the girl needing an instrument for a band class.
The mother offered a relieved smile. “We need to rent a clarinet if you still have any. Hailey made a late election into band.”
“Mom.” The girl’s eyes had gone wide, indignation spouting in her raised voice. “Ew. I don’t want to use a clarinet someone else has put their mouth on.”
“We thoroughly sanitize and clean every rental instrument,” Jacqui jumped in, used to hearing that concern. “That’s included with our quality guarantee. But we also have a trial purchase program that may interest you.” She breezed into the spiel like the professional salesperson she was.
Forty-five minutes later, the pair left, new clarinet in hand, both mother and daughter happy. Jacqui tucked the try-and-buy contract into the appropriate folder in the file cabinet before making a pass through the store to check on the guy who’d been eyeing up the discounted amps.
The afternoon progressed with a continued trickle of customers until the store became blessedly empty around dinnertime. Jacqui sent Max off for his break, muted the music playing through the store then headed to her baby. She had no hope of ever owning the Steinway grand piano, but it’d been on the sales floor for the last year and had since become her favorite.
She flexed her fingers, the itch tingling through them in anticipation as she slid onto the bench. One last glance at the front door conveniently positioned within her line of sight confirmed no one was approaching the store.
Notes plucked out beneath her fingers, the keys flowing in rhythm with the scales she ran as a quick warm-up. The keyboard was her preferred instrument with contemporary music her forte, but a grand piano of this quality almost required a classical piece. Could she get in a full sonata before a customer came in?
Not likely.
She slipped into the third movement of the Beethoven sonata without pausing, the notes coming to her from years of muscle memory. Around six minutes in length, she might have a shot of finishing it before someone came in. She’d mastered “The Tempest” as part of her