Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 88501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 443(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 443(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
His crying had slowed, and he was clinging to me, his face pressed into my chest. “Maybe,” he mumbled.
“Will you play something you wrote, just for me? No one else will hear it.”
“No!” Simon tried to push away, but I refused to release him. He lifted those wounded eyes to me. “Your opinion matters most of everyone. If you don’t like it, I think it would kill me. I’d never want to play again.”
“I struggle to believe I wouldn’t like something you’d written. We have very similar tastes in music. The reason I know anything about classical music is because of you. And if I were insane enough to not like something you wrote, would you let me help you fix it?”
As I spoke, the panic receded from his eyes, and he relaxed so that he was no longer attempting to escape my grasp.
“Now, I want you to pack up your violin and your sheet music. Put your shoes on. I’ll pack your bag. You’re coming home with me.”
“What?” Simon gasped.
“You’re going to live with me while you write this concerto for the CSO.”
“But-but you’re trying to get rid of me.”
I sighed. “We’re putting our problem on hold for now. You’re destroying your health over this concerto. You’ve tried it your way in this place,” I said, the word twisting in my mouth. “There’s been no progress made. I think you’ll get more work done in a warm, beautiful home where you feel comfortable. Stay with me for a week. If you don’t feel like it’s helping you write, you can return here. I won’t fight you.”
Simon roughly wiped the tears from his face and blinked at me as if he couldn’t quite believe what I was saying. Yes, it was probably inviting so much fucking trouble, but Simon’s well-being meant more to me than my own sanity. If he were living with me, I would know he was getting three good meals a day and sleep. Not to mention, if he started pushing himself too hard, I could intervene.
“Go pack your shit. You have two minutes.” I released Simon and marched into the bedroom that held his clothes. I didn’t bother picking up the suitcase I saw on the floor. Proper packing would take too long. There was a laundry basket against the wall that looked as if it held his undergarments and some T-shirts. I grabbed a giant stack of clothes hanging in the closet and draped them over the basket.
As I left the bedroom with the basket gripped in both hands, I found Simon slowly gathering up the papers scattered around the room. “One minute,” I barked as I continued through to the front door.
“You’re crazy! It hasn’t been a full minute yet!” he shouted at my back, but I ignored him as I walked to my car. After shoving the basket into the rear seat of my sedan, I pulled out my phone and shot a quick text to my housekeeper, Hilda, that Simon would be living in the house for the next week. She rarely had to do much to keep up with me, but adding a second person would impact her schedule. She’d also have the chance to update Mrs. Cantrip, who had joined my staff as the chef only a couple of months ago. At least she could make sure that he ate something other than cheese.
When I returned to the house, Simon sat on the mattress, pulling on a pair of sneakers, a scowl on his face. However, his violin case was closed, and a stack of sheet music was resting on it. I crossed the living room and picked up both as Simon yelped.
“No! I’ll carry it!” He reached for the sheet music, but I held it out of his reach above my head.
“Simon, I can’t read musical notes. It’s fine. Put your coat on.”
As soon as he slipped on his long black wool coat and wrapped my scarf around his neck, I handed the sheet music to him, which he pressed to his chest inside his coat.
We paused long enough for him to grab his wallet, keys, and phone. Only after we were on the road heading to my house did Simon speak to me again.
“Why are you doing this? Your parents are gone. I’m not your boyfriend—fake or otherwise. And I’ve told you I don’t need you taking care of me out of pity or obligation because I’m Sawyer’s little brother.”
“This has nothing to do with Sawyer,” I replied, more sharply than I’d intended. My hands tightened on the steering wheel, and I forced myself to take a deep, cleansing breath before I continued. “I know you don’t want to be my friend, but that’s how I see you. I would do the same damn thing if you were Rome or Sebastian.”