delicious licks of his tongue. Just that easily he makes it clear where he stands, and that’s with me. He catches my fingers with his fingers and guides me toward my living room.
More than a little curious about what he wants to show me in my own apartment, I follow quite willingly, and we sit down on the couch in front of an iPad. There is a bottle of wine and two glasses. “I wasn’t sure if you’d be up to the wine, but you’re off the pain meds, and I think it might be recommended.”
Unease ripples through me. “What does that mean?”
“It means I’m going to take you on a walk down memory lane and I’m not sure how it will affect you.” He fills my glass and then his. “It’s nothing bad. I promise. Try the wine. It’s another blend I favor.”
“How did you get your wine to my apartment?”
He wiggles a brow. “Magic.”
“You paid Steven to make it happen.”
He grins, a charming grin. “I did.” He motions to my glass. “Try it.”
Because he has money and power, and I’m reminded of the men who visited my father before he disappeared. Men in suits and driving fancy cars. Shoving aside the past, I’m now eager for the wine, and I sip from my glass, a sweet spice touching my tongue. “It’s interesting. Good. Drier than the last bottle.”
“It is. This is a French wine, which tends to be drier, at least to my palate.”
“Did you buy it in France?” I ask, curious about his travels and wondering how he will adjust to life here, not on the road. I wonder actually if his life here will last.
“I did,” he confirms. “I need to restock during my next visit. You could help me by going with me in December.”
My mind is suddenly back in his vault, back in that moment when I found that file. When I found Gio’s photos in the drawer. I set my glass down and stand up. He follows and links our hands. “Aria—”
“We can’t just pretend you don’t know who I am. We can’t just pretend you didn’t know before we ever started. We can’t pretend that none of this happened.”
“No,” he agrees, his hands settling on my shoulders. “No, baby, we can’t. We’re not. That was never my intent. Sit back down and hear me out. Please.”
“Well,” I say. “Since you said please.”
He laughs, a masculine rumble I feel all the way to my toes. “Yes, I did,” he says. “I’m learning.” He sobers. “I’m learning a lot about myself through you, baby.”
“I don’t understand what that means.”
“I don’t either, but you’ll know when I do. Sit?”
I nod and sit down. He follows, maneuvering the wine out of the way to place the iPad in front of me. “Watch. Just watch.”
I nod, nervous again. He immediately hits play on a video and I’m suddenly doing just as he instructed, and what I’m watching is a young Kace August, so very young—a teenager, I believe—play his violin. The song is “Toccata and Fugue in D minor” by Johann Sebastian Bach, one of my favorites, a fast, complicated piece he masters in a way few can. This was one of his earlier versions that I remember well. The melody hums through me, his skills on full display. I hit pause. “My God, Kace. Even then you were brilliant. How old were you?”
“Seventeen. And anything I did right that day wasn’t about me. This video isn’t about me. Keep watching, baby.” He hits play.
All the more curious now, my gaze shifts back to the video, and once again, I am lost in his performance, when suddenly the footage shifts and expands. I’m now staring at my father, standing in front of Kace, directing him with fierce sways of his hands. I gasp and cover my mouth, tears springing to my eyes. There’s another shift of the camera and a little girl runs forward and wraps her arms around my father, successfully ending his dramatic direction. That little girl is me. Kace stops playing, laughing a youthful but robust laugh, and I run to him then and wrap my arms around him as well. That day explodes into my mind, crystal clear.
Kace told the truth. We had met before. I can’t believe I don’t remember, but he wasn’t the star he is now and that was a traumatic year for me. All I remember is coming here, crying every night.
I punch the pause button and turn