If You Only Knew
Page 23
I look at him for a second. “You blew a fuse. That’s probably why my light won’t go on.”
“Ah. Fascinating.”
“Where’s the fuse box?”
“What’s a fuse box?”
“Are you serious? How did you get this job?”
“I already told you. Good looks and charm.”
“I can’t wait to meet the charm part. Come on, I’ll show you what a fuse box is, pretty boy. Take me to your cellar. Do you know where that is?”
We go out my front door, through the gate, where I earn another snarl from Loki. “That dog is really good-looking and charming,” I say.
“He’s old. Be respectful. The cellar’s through here.” He lets me into his apartment, into a tiny foyer, which opens into a large living room. There’s an upright piano topped with piles of paper and music books. It’s too dark to see anything else.
“This way,” he says, pointing toward the small, sleek kitchen. He opens the cellar door, and we go down. It occurs to me that I’m going into a dark place with a stranger, and even as I think the thought, I know this guy is no threat to me at all.
“You’re surprisingly quiet,” Leo says, clicking on a light.
“I’m assessing the odds of you murdering me down here.”
“And?”
“I hereby deem you harmless.”
“How emasculating,” he says. “What are you looking for again?”
“This, my son. Behold the fuse box,” I say, pointing to the gray box on the wall. I flip open the panel and, sure enough, a switch is over to the right instead of the left. I push it back. “Modern technology. Show me your toaster.”
His toaster is plugged into the same outlet as the coffeepot, which is on the same circuit as the microwave. “Just move the toaster in over there and you should be fine,” I tell him. “This is an old house. You might get an electrician in here to update the amperage.”
“Did you learn all this in wedding school?”
He’s tall. The kitchen light makes his hair gleam with copper, and the line of his jaw is sharp and strong.
“The eye-fucking, Jane. It has to stop.” But he smiles as he says it.
“So you teach down here?” I ask, stepping back. Since he made himself at home upstairs, I do the same, flipping on a light and wandering through the living room. A gray couch and red chair complement the red-and-blue Oriental rug. There’s a bookcase filled with tomes about the great composers. A bust of Beethoven glares at me next to a photo of a lake surrounded by pine trees.
The place is very, very neat and, aside from Beethoven, oddly devoid of personality, which isn’t what I’d expect from Leo, not that I know him well, obviously. But still. I’d expect sloppy and welcoming, not sterile and...well, sterile. It looks like a model home, aside from the sheet music.
“So you just teach piano, or do you play anywhere?” I ask.
“I just teach. Sometimes I compose a score for something.”
“Like a movie?”
He smiles. “No, nothing that complicated. Audio books, mostly.”
“Neat. Did you go to school for music?”
“Yep. Juilliard.”
“Really? Wow, Leo. Very impressive. Why don’t you perform anywhere? You must be great.”
“In the world of concert pianists, I’m probably a B minus.”
“In the world of humans, I bet you’re great.”
“What do you know? You listen to country music.” Another smile.
“How narrow-minded of you. Taylor Swift is a musical genius.”
“Stevie Wonder is a musical genius, Jane. Taylor Swift is a woman still bemoaning what happened to her in high school.”
“It’s Jenny. My name is Jenny. So you do listen to Taylor Swift.”
“I don’t. But I don’t live in a cave, either.”
“No, this is a very nice place. Very tidy.” I reach out to touch a key on the piano. “Can you play me something?”
“Sure,” he says. He leans over the keys and taps out a few notes. “And that was ‘Lightly Row.’ Any more requests?”
“How about ‘Paparazzi’ by Lady Gaga?”
“Get out,” he says, leaning against the piano. There’s that smile again. He slides his hands into his pockets. “Thanks for fixing my toaster.”
“I didn’t touch your toaster.”
“Well, you can touch my toaster anytime you want, Jenny Tate.”
So. He does know my name. And he’s flirting. And he’s tall and lanky and his face is really fun to look at, all angular planes and wide smile and lovely crinkles around his eyes.
His smile drops.
“Don’t get any ideas, missy,” he says.
“Like what?” I ask.
“Like, ‘Hey, my husband married someone else and has a new baby and I’m still single but there’s an incredibly hot guy who lives downstairs, so why not?’ I’m for recreation only.”
“I’m not thinking those things, but bravo on your excellent self-esteem.”
He goes to the foyer, opens the door and waits for me to follow, which I do. “You’re thinking all those things. It’s written all over your face.”
“You know, Leo, in the day and a half we’ve known each other, I don’t remember pinning you to the ground and forcing myself on you—”
“Ah. Fascinating.”
“Where’s the fuse box?”
“What’s a fuse box?”
“Are you serious? How did you get this job?”
“I already told you. Good looks and charm.”
“I can’t wait to meet the charm part. Come on, I’ll show you what a fuse box is, pretty boy. Take me to your cellar. Do you know where that is?”
We go out my front door, through the gate, where I earn another snarl from Loki. “That dog is really good-looking and charming,” I say.
“He’s old. Be respectful. The cellar’s through here.” He lets me into his apartment, into a tiny foyer, which opens into a large living room. There’s an upright piano topped with piles of paper and music books. It’s too dark to see anything else.
“This way,” he says, pointing toward the small, sleek kitchen. He opens the cellar door, and we go down. It occurs to me that I’m going into a dark place with a stranger, and even as I think the thought, I know this guy is no threat to me at all.
“You’re surprisingly quiet,” Leo says, clicking on a light.
“I’m assessing the odds of you murdering me down here.”
“And?”
“I hereby deem you harmless.”
“How emasculating,” he says. “What are you looking for again?”
“This, my son. Behold the fuse box,” I say, pointing to the gray box on the wall. I flip open the panel and, sure enough, a switch is over to the right instead of the left. I push it back. “Modern technology. Show me your toaster.”
His toaster is plugged into the same outlet as the coffeepot, which is on the same circuit as the microwave. “Just move the toaster in over there and you should be fine,” I tell him. “This is an old house. You might get an electrician in here to update the amperage.”
“Did you learn all this in wedding school?”
He’s tall. The kitchen light makes his hair gleam with copper, and the line of his jaw is sharp and strong.
“The eye-fucking, Jane. It has to stop.” But he smiles as he says it.
“So you teach down here?” I ask, stepping back. Since he made himself at home upstairs, I do the same, flipping on a light and wandering through the living room. A gray couch and red chair complement the red-and-blue Oriental rug. There’s a bookcase filled with tomes about the great composers. A bust of Beethoven glares at me next to a photo of a lake surrounded by pine trees.
The place is very, very neat and, aside from Beethoven, oddly devoid of personality, which isn’t what I’d expect from Leo, not that I know him well, obviously. But still. I’d expect sloppy and welcoming, not sterile and...well, sterile. It looks like a model home, aside from the sheet music.
“So you just teach piano, or do you play anywhere?” I ask.
“I just teach. Sometimes I compose a score for something.”
“Like a movie?”
He smiles. “No, nothing that complicated. Audio books, mostly.”
“Neat. Did you go to school for music?”
“Yep. Juilliard.”
“Really? Wow, Leo. Very impressive. Why don’t you perform anywhere? You must be great.”
“In the world of concert pianists, I’m probably a B minus.”
“In the world of humans, I bet you’re great.”
“What do you know? You listen to country music.” Another smile.
“How narrow-minded of you. Taylor Swift is a musical genius.”
“Stevie Wonder is a musical genius, Jane. Taylor Swift is a woman still bemoaning what happened to her in high school.”
“It’s Jenny. My name is Jenny. So you do listen to Taylor Swift.”
“I don’t. But I don’t live in a cave, either.”
“No, this is a very nice place. Very tidy.” I reach out to touch a key on the piano. “Can you play me something?”
“Sure,” he says. He leans over the keys and taps out a few notes. “And that was ‘Lightly Row.’ Any more requests?”
“How about ‘Paparazzi’ by Lady Gaga?”
“Get out,” he says, leaning against the piano. There’s that smile again. He slides his hands into his pockets. “Thanks for fixing my toaster.”
“I didn’t touch your toaster.”
“Well, you can touch my toaster anytime you want, Jenny Tate.”
So. He does know my name. And he’s flirting. And he’s tall and lanky and his face is really fun to look at, all angular planes and wide smile and lovely crinkles around his eyes.
His smile drops.
“Don’t get any ideas, missy,” he says.
“Like what?” I ask.
“Like, ‘Hey, my husband married someone else and has a new baby and I’m still single but there’s an incredibly hot guy who lives downstairs, so why not?’ I’m for recreation only.”
“I’m not thinking those things, but bravo on your excellent self-esteem.”
He goes to the foyer, opens the door and waits for me to follow, which I do. “You’re thinking all those things. It’s written all over your face.”
“You know, Leo, in the day and a half we’ve known each other, I don’t remember pinning you to the ground and forcing myself on you—”
