He laughed. “I was in the audience.”
She took a step backward. This was too freaky. “Are you stalking me?”
He paused and draped the towel around his shoulders, dropping his arms to his sides in a non-threatening stance. “Am I frightening you again? Dawn, you really don’t have anything to worry about from me. I was there because my band was nominated for Best New Artist.”
His band? Well, with all those tattoos and the leather cuff on his right wrist, he did look the part. “Did you win?”
“Nope. Some rapper won—Jizzy Wizzy Def Jam Grill Face.” He made a fake gang sign and grinned wide to show off his grill—a set of straight, white teeth. “Or something like that.”
She laughed, her defenses dropping again. “Wow, small world. What a bizarre coincidence to meet like this.”
“I don’t believe in coincidences,” he said.
His intensity caused her heart to falter and butterflies to flitter through her stomach. “What do you believe in, Kellen?”
His dark brown gaze held hers for several poignant seconds. “Destiny.”
The charge in the air between them had nothing to do with the electrical storm raging outside. She covered her pounding heart with her fist, wondering why she felt suddenly awake. She’d tossed open a window for air so she didn’t fall asleep as she prepared for another unproductive all-nighter. When that hadn’t perked her up enough to get the music flowing, she’d stepped out on the deck. Then she’d seen Kellen looking all wet and wild, and there was no way she’d be nodding off over the keys for the rest of the night. In his presence, she felt that she could run marathons and wrestle sharks. And maybe write a song.
“Can I hear your composition?” he asked. “Well, what you have written so far.”
She glanced at the baby grand piano in the family room to her right. Sheets of score paper littered the floor and the piano bench. Unfortunately, most of the paper was blank or had only a few music notes scattered across the top few staffs. Crumpled wads of paper overflowed from her wastepaper basket. False start after false start. It frustrated her that music didn’t come easily to her these days. Before her Grammy, piano compositions poured from her like the rain gushing from the angry clouds outside the window. Now? Writing music was like trying to wring water from a dry sponge.
She was so afraid to fail that it suffocated her.
“I…” She licked her lips, suddenly nervous. It was one thing for a complete novice to want to hear her unpublished work and a completely different animal that a Grammy-nominated musician wanted to hear it. It was true that as soon as she created a piece of music, it was copyrighted by law, but ownership was hard to prove.
“Let’s have a cup of coffee first,” she said. “I need a little break.”
His features tightened with disappointment, but he nodded.
“Decaf?” she asked and turned toward the kitchen, which was beyond the large family room. The house’s open floor plan made it easy for the piano to mock her if she let it sit silent too long. Maybe that’s why she spent so much time walking the beaches. “It’s pretty late for caffeine.”
“I probably won’t sleep tonight anyway,” he said.
“Is that why you were standing out on the beach when the storm hit? Insomnia?”
“Something like that,” he said.
She wondered if he was being mysterious on purpose or if it came naturally to him. She opened a cabinet and pulled out a canister of coffee. “If I’m up all night on a caffeine high, you have to stay and keep me company.”
He shoulders sagged with relief. “I can do that.”
“And since you’re a musician, maybe you can help me with my writer’s block.”
He smiled, and the temperature in the room must have increased twenty degrees because even though she kept the thermostat at a cool seventy-two, Dawn was suddenly sweltering.
“I’d be happy to help,” he said in that low, smooth voice that did distracting things to her girly bits. “Or try to. Were you B.O.I?”
“B-O-I?”
“Born on Island? I guess not, if you don’t know the meaning.”
She shook her head. “Just renting for the summer. I came here to get away from the chaos of the city and to seek inspiration.” Or hide. She was totally trying to hide from impending failure. Unfortunately, it had followed her to Galveston.
“You find inspiration on the shore?”
“The voice of the sea speaks to the soul,” she said, trying not to be obvious about checking out his flexing biceps as he dried his face and she filled the coffee carafe in the sink. “Chopin said that.” When he didn’t respond, she added, “The wildly talented nineteenth-century Polish composer and pianist.”
“Yes, I know who Chopin is. I might be a metal guitarist, but that doesn’t mean I don’t respect the classics.”
A metal guitarist? She and Kellen were about as far apart on the musical spectrum as possible. There was no way in hell he’d be able to help her with her writer’s block. She wrote classical compositions, not wailing noise. “Oh,” she said. “Well, I’m a huge fan. Of Chopin’s. His nocturnes.” She shuddered in bliss at the thought of his stirring piano pieces.
Kellen chuckled. “So you’re not impressed by my fiddling with guitar strings, I take it?”
“I’m sure I’d be very impressed, but I do sort of have a thing for the piano.”
Once Dawn had the coffee percolating, she turned toward Kellen. He looked incredibly uncomfortable in those sopping wet jeans.
“You should get out of those clothes,” she said.
A crooked grin graced his handsome features. “Are you coming on to me, Miss O’Reilly? It is Miss O’Reilly, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it’s Miss O’Reilly, but no, I wasn’t coming on to you.” Though she probably should have been. “You just look wet. I can find you something to wear.”
His gaze settled on the flowing white skirt of her loose dress, and he chuckled. “I suppose the jokes I make about wearing skirts have finally caught up with me.”
“You wear skirts?” It went against the laws of nature for a man as unquestionably virile as Kellen Jamison to wear a skirt. A kilt was an entirely different matter, of course. She could see him in a kilt. She had Scottish blood in her heritage but Kellen appeared to be of Native American ancestry, and she’d much rather see him in a pair of buckskin breeches. Or skintight leather. Leather would work.
She took a step backward. This was too freaky. “Are you stalking me?”
He paused and draped the towel around his shoulders, dropping his arms to his sides in a non-threatening stance. “Am I frightening you again? Dawn, you really don’t have anything to worry about from me. I was there because my band was nominated for Best New Artist.”
His band? Well, with all those tattoos and the leather cuff on his right wrist, he did look the part. “Did you win?”
“Nope. Some rapper won—Jizzy Wizzy Def Jam Grill Face.” He made a fake gang sign and grinned wide to show off his grill—a set of straight, white teeth. “Or something like that.”
She laughed, her defenses dropping again. “Wow, small world. What a bizarre coincidence to meet like this.”
“I don’t believe in coincidences,” he said.
His intensity caused her heart to falter and butterflies to flitter through her stomach. “What do you believe in, Kellen?”
His dark brown gaze held hers for several poignant seconds. “Destiny.”
The charge in the air between them had nothing to do with the electrical storm raging outside. She covered her pounding heart with her fist, wondering why she felt suddenly awake. She’d tossed open a window for air so she didn’t fall asleep as she prepared for another unproductive all-nighter. When that hadn’t perked her up enough to get the music flowing, she’d stepped out on the deck. Then she’d seen Kellen looking all wet and wild, and there was no way she’d be nodding off over the keys for the rest of the night. In his presence, she felt that she could run marathons and wrestle sharks. And maybe write a song.
“Can I hear your composition?” he asked. “Well, what you have written so far.”
She glanced at the baby grand piano in the family room to her right. Sheets of score paper littered the floor and the piano bench. Unfortunately, most of the paper was blank or had only a few music notes scattered across the top few staffs. Crumpled wads of paper overflowed from her wastepaper basket. False start after false start. It frustrated her that music didn’t come easily to her these days. Before her Grammy, piano compositions poured from her like the rain gushing from the angry clouds outside the window. Now? Writing music was like trying to wring water from a dry sponge.
She was so afraid to fail that it suffocated her.
“I…” She licked her lips, suddenly nervous. It was one thing for a complete novice to want to hear her unpublished work and a completely different animal that a Grammy-nominated musician wanted to hear it. It was true that as soon as she created a piece of music, it was copyrighted by law, but ownership was hard to prove.
“Let’s have a cup of coffee first,” she said. “I need a little break.”
His features tightened with disappointment, but he nodded.
“Decaf?” she asked and turned toward the kitchen, which was beyond the large family room. The house’s open floor plan made it easy for the piano to mock her if she let it sit silent too long. Maybe that’s why she spent so much time walking the beaches. “It’s pretty late for caffeine.”
“I probably won’t sleep tonight anyway,” he said.
“Is that why you were standing out on the beach when the storm hit? Insomnia?”
“Something like that,” he said.
She wondered if he was being mysterious on purpose or if it came naturally to him. She opened a cabinet and pulled out a canister of coffee. “If I’m up all night on a caffeine high, you have to stay and keep me company.”
He shoulders sagged with relief. “I can do that.”
“And since you’re a musician, maybe you can help me with my writer’s block.”
He smiled, and the temperature in the room must have increased twenty degrees because even though she kept the thermostat at a cool seventy-two, Dawn was suddenly sweltering.
“I’d be happy to help,” he said in that low, smooth voice that did distracting things to her girly bits. “Or try to. Were you B.O.I?”
“B-O-I?”
“Born on Island? I guess not, if you don’t know the meaning.”
She shook her head. “Just renting for the summer. I came here to get away from the chaos of the city and to seek inspiration.” Or hide. She was totally trying to hide from impending failure. Unfortunately, it had followed her to Galveston.
“You find inspiration on the shore?”
“The voice of the sea speaks to the soul,” she said, trying not to be obvious about checking out his flexing biceps as he dried his face and she filled the coffee carafe in the sink. “Chopin said that.” When he didn’t respond, she added, “The wildly talented nineteenth-century Polish composer and pianist.”
“Yes, I know who Chopin is. I might be a metal guitarist, but that doesn’t mean I don’t respect the classics.”
A metal guitarist? She and Kellen were about as far apart on the musical spectrum as possible. There was no way in hell he’d be able to help her with her writer’s block. She wrote classical compositions, not wailing noise. “Oh,” she said. “Well, I’m a huge fan. Of Chopin’s. His nocturnes.” She shuddered in bliss at the thought of his stirring piano pieces.
Kellen chuckled. “So you’re not impressed by my fiddling with guitar strings, I take it?”
“I’m sure I’d be very impressed, but I do sort of have a thing for the piano.”
Once Dawn had the coffee percolating, she turned toward Kellen. He looked incredibly uncomfortable in those sopping wet jeans.
“You should get out of those clothes,” she said.
A crooked grin graced his handsome features. “Are you coming on to me, Miss O’Reilly? It is Miss O’Reilly, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it’s Miss O’Reilly, but no, I wasn’t coming on to you.” Though she probably should have been. “You just look wet. I can find you something to wear.”
His gaze settled on the flowing white skirt of her loose dress, and he chuckled. “I suppose the jokes I make about wearing skirts have finally caught up with me.”
“You wear skirts?” It went against the laws of nature for a man as unquestionably virile as Kellen Jamison to wear a skirt. A kilt was an entirely different matter, of course. She could see him in a kilt. She had Scottish blood in her heritage but Kellen appeared to be of Native American ancestry, and she’d much rather see him in a pair of buckskin breeches. Or skintight leather. Leather would work.
