Play Mine (Brooklyn Dawn #3) - Cari Quinn Page 0,84

was my favorite. Her gaze skipped over the drum kit in the corner situated in front of the brown-bricked wall to the few electric guitars hung up on the opposite one. Bookcases and funky seating were gathered in groupings around low tables, one of which held an old record player with a stack of vinyl records. She wandered there first and picked through the pile, smiling faintly.

“Fleetwood Mac. The Killers. Earth, Wind and Fire. George Strait. Chaka Khan. Metallica.” She aimed a weak smile at me over her shoulder. “You have eclectic taste.”

“Musician’s curse.” I shoved my hands in my pockets, already tensing.

Soon, she’d see it.

She moved on to sit at the vintage upright piano beneath the lithograph print on the wall of a redhead with crazy curls wrapped around her pair of can headphones. She was laughing as she grooved to whatever music she was listening to.

The woman exuded pure vibrance. Absolute joy at getting lost in a song. She embodied beauty and mastery and even defiance, taking her pleasure simply because she could.

“That’s me,” Teagan breathed, her fingers faltering on the keys as she did a double-take. When I didn’t speak, she turned on the bench. “Isn’t it? Look at all her freckles.”

I nodded.

Gathering my nerve, I went to my song notebook on the leather sofa and flipped to a page I’d sketched last winter. It was a rough drawing. My skill was definitely based in rhythm, not design. But watching her in the studio one day while we’d been cutting a new single, I’d had to grab a pencil to try to capture her. She was happiness in motion. Energy and life, jumping right off the page.

I crossed the room and sat next to her on the bench before handing it over. She studied it, and then looked at me without speaking, her eyes brimming again.

I thumbed away one of her tears. “I know it’s bad, but try not to cry. I’m embarrassed enough.”

She sniffled out a laugh and ran her fingertips over my crude pencil drawing as if it was a priceless work of art.

“I commissioned that.” I jerked my chin toward the wall print. “I know what’s beyond my skill set.”

Silently, she set aside the notebook. She rested her head on my shoulder as she started to play, the effortless glide of her fingers entrancing as they moved over the keys.

I didn’t know what song it was at first. Then I started to grin.

The song she’d chosen was “You’ve Got a Friend,” by Carole King.

When she finished, I added a little flourish of a few notes at the end—entirely wrong ones that made her laugh and straddle my lap to kiss me. She wove her hands into my hair and pressed her knees into my hips while one kiss rolled into the next.

I couldn’t get enough of her. Luckily, the feeling seemed to be mutual.

She was my touchstone. How could I not want to marry her?

“Do you think this was the kind of friendship Carole was talking about in the song?” she asked between kisses.

“I’m not sure, but if not, she missed out.”

She slid her arms around my neck and gave me a full Teagan-watt smile. “Pretty certain everyone’s missing out. But I’m not sharing. You’re all mine.”

“Same. I’ve gotta say I’m glad you didn’t pick The Golden Girls theme song. My mom watches that show on streaming.”

“Oh. Hmm.” She pretended to consider. “We’re kind of like them, just with dick.”

All I could do was laugh.

Eighteen

“What a colossal waste of an hour.” Ricki sighed from where she was seated opposite me at our table in the swanky restaurant Priscilla had chosen. “My stomach is about to rip itself apart, and all we’ve had are some fancy breadsticks, salads, and tea. That’s not food. If she was going to ghost, she could’ve at least given us a heads up so we could’ve ordered.”

Across from her, I gripped my elbows and stared across the gilt-edged blue and white room full of high-backed Queen Anne’s style booths and ornate tables with hand-carved chairs. Framed art adorned the walls and the floor appeared to be marble. A grandiose chandelier glittered overhead, refracting light off the cut crystal glasses on the tables.

Priscilla had certainly gone for class. And she’d decided not to show, just as I’d suspected she would once I agreed to let Ricki tag along

“It’s about me,” I said in a low voice. “I don’t know if I’m just an example or to prove a point or… God,