8. Kieran

Chapter 8

Kieran

I can’t believe my eyes. Or my ears. Or anything really about what’s happening as Dr. Stirling settles gracefully in the seat directly in front of mine at the LA Phil. The man with her looks like white toast with strawberry jam smeared on his cheeks. It takes him three tries to hold down the retractable seat long enough to actually plant his ass on it.

My brother bumps my shoulder. “Isn’t that?—”

“Shut up,” I hiss at the same time Gail whacks his arm from the other side.

Toasty is sweating and babbling about the architect of the concert hall while Stirling smiles at him. She needs to stop smiling or he’s going to have a coronary. I actually feel a bit bad for the guy.

“That’s fascinating, Alan,” she says warmly.

Jesus . Is there a more tedious name than Alan ?

Toasty grins like she offered him a blow job. His gaze flickers down to her breasts and he gets even redder. The skin around Stirling’s eyes tightens. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep in a cackle.

“Do you know her?” whispers the woman next to me. I think her name is Claudia. Maybe Flavia. She’s a petite, pretty blond. Exactly my type.

I lean over so I can keep my voice low, regretting the move when I get a nose-full of flowery perfume. “No, but she looks familiar. Is she an actress or something? Should we ask for an autograph?”

Claudia-Flavia giggles. “No. She’s some celebrity sex therapist. Buzzfeed did an article about her and it kinda blew up.”

“Sex therapy, huh?” I grin, and she blushes like I knew she would.

I’m relieved when the musicians file across the stage and take their seats, then the first chair violinist. As the orchestra begins warming up, I close my eyes to listen. A prickling sensation overtakes me at the familiar, harmonious chaos. My eyes stay closed as the conductor’s entrance garners more applause.

Alistair whispers to me, “You okay?”

I nod, murmuring back, “Just miss her.”

“Same.”

Our mother loved classical music with a passion. Baroque, Renaissance, Opera, it didn’t matter and changed by the day. She played it so much—all the damn time, really— that Alistair and I hated it as teens. Little shits that we were, we’d crank heavy metal in our room to drown out the record player that sat outside the kitchen.

Now the music is a barbed comfort. For five years, we’ve come here every month to feel close to her. Even though most days she doesn’t remember her love of music. Or even her love of us.

Shubert’s Symphony No. 6 in C major unfolds, carrying me back to a rainy afternoon in our flat. Mam in the kitchen, the smell of a roast floating out. Dad dozing on the couch with a book open on his chest. Alistair and I running around attempting to murder each other as silently as possible.

The music swells and ebbs around the memory. I float on the surface of it, out of place and time.

A kick to my shin jerks me from my stupor. My eyes fly open to find everyone standing and applauding. I join them quickly and put my hands together. The vestiges of dreaminess cling to me as my gaze drifts to the back of Stirling’s head. A wisp of hair curls against her bare neck, the rest drawn up in a loose bun. I have the sudden, ridiculous urge to rip out the clip and watch her hair spill like a waterfall.

The applause tapers off, voices rising and bodies shuffling toward the lobby for intermission. Stirling’s date—I’ve already forgotten his name—says something about using the restroom. When Stirling nods, he just stands there like an ape.

She finally says, “I’ll stay here, thanks,” and he beats a retreat. She sighs and sits back down .

Alistair and Gail have also disappeared. Clavia presses close to me, her fake breasts against my arm. “Do you want to grab a quick drink, Kieran?” she asks, her voice unpleasantly loud.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Stirling’s spine stiffen to a plank.

“Go on ahead,” I tell her, pulling out my phone. “I have to answer a few emails.”

“On a Saturday night?” she whines.

I grin. “No rest for the wicked.”

Wrongly interpreting the words as foreshadowing, Clavia blushes and titters, then finally leaves. I sit down and scoot to the edge of the seat, leaning forward until I’m close enough to Stirling to count the individual hairs in that little wisp and the tiny gold links in her necklace.

“Psst.”

Her head falls forward a moment—in resignation, most like—before she straightens and turns around. “Hello, Mr. Hayes.”

Goddamn.

Surprise punches me, like my brain deleted how beautiful she is so it could appreciate her again for the first time. Or maybe it’s the fact my wall of defensive denial crumbled at the end of our session Wednesday.

As aggravating as it is to admit, I’m attracted to her. Very, very attracted.

Bronze eye shadow makes her eyes look like pools of gold, and the subtle, rosy tint on her lips somehow packs a bigger punch than red lipstick. A few loose tendrils of hair frame her face. The snug, long-sleeved green dress doesn’t show nearly as much skin as I imagined from Toasty’s drooling; on the other hand, I can’t blame the man. This woman would make a burlap sack sexy. At the base of her throat sits a tiny gold pendant of a bird, vibrating above a fluttering pulse.

I clear my throat. “I was a jackass on Wednesday. I’m sorry.”

The coolness in her eyes shifts to wariness. “Is that so?”

I nod gravely. “I meant to call you today to apologize, but between all the healthy meals and exercise, I didn’t get a chance.”

I’m rewarded with the barest of close-lipped smiles. I scoot even closer, almost falling off my seat. The need to see her eyetooth is fierce.

“So—”

Stirling’s gaze snaps to my right, and she smiles broadly. For someone else. “Gail!”

My sister-in-law shoves past Alistair and commandeers his seat, chattering a mile a minute to a grinning Stirling. I push backward until my spine hits the chair and glance at my brother, who stares at the women like he’s never seen female friends reunite before.

Flowery perfume and a whiff of Chardonnay invade my nose as Clavia returns. She asks me a question that I have to ask her to repeat, and I immediately forget the exchange after. It’s almost a relief when Toasty finally returns from the bathroom—probably after nervous shits—and Gail and Stirling wrap up their conversation.

Intermission ends and the orchestra begins Beethoven’s Symphony No. 7. Even though it’s one of Mam’s favorites, I struggle to immerse myself in the music. Stirling’s fault. I’m distracted by her neck, obsessively imagining what my hand would look like wrapped around the smooth, pale column.

When the final applause of the night tapers off, I tap Gail’s shoulder. “Take Flavia home, will you?”

She blinks, wide-eyed. “Um, sure. Okay.”

An annoyed voice chirps, “It’s Claudia . ”

Alistair and I share a wince before I turn around. “Sorry, pet. It’s been a long week. I’ll reach out another time.”

Unable to help myself, I glance one last time at Stirling, blinking when I see she and Toasty are already gone. I scan the aisle but don’t see her. My bones start to burn with urgency—our conversation wasn’t finished.

Claudia makes an insulted noise as I brush past her, hurrying down the row and throwing out “sorry” left and right as I jostle people. I’m usually more cognizant of my size, but I need out . The human flow thickens at the back of the hall, and I have to resist the urge to shove through.

When I make it into the lobby, Sven and Dylan appear to either side of me. Gabe is likely on his way to fetch the car. A few people call my name as I cross to the exit doors. I ignore them, not slowing, and push outside.

I spot her standing alone at the curb. My legs eat the distance in seconds .

“Stirling.”

She spins on a heel, surprise flashing in her eyes before they flicker around me. Her throat moves as she swallows. “You shouldn’t be seen with me.”

My brows shoot up. “Who fuckin’ says?”

She rolls her eyes, the gesture so at odds with her usual poise I have to bite my lip to stop a grin.

“Where’s Toasty?” I ask.

She frowns. “Toasty?”

The grin sneaks free. “The white bread you’re with.”

Her head bows, and I think she mutters, “For fuck’s sake,” before sighing. “Mr. Hayes?—”

“You should call me Kieran or Kier in public if you’re worried about people thinking you’re my therapist. Though I guarantee that’s not what they’re wondering seeing us together.”

Her eyes widen a bit and veer to Sven. I have no idea what she sees on his face, but to my everlasting shock, a stain of peachy-pink spreads across her cheekbones. The sight is astounding. Revelatory. I’m a worthless sinner witnessing a miracle.

Like a fool, I say, “You’re blushing,” and it sounds like I’ve told her she’s spontaneously grown a third arm.

She takes an abrupt step backward. “Enjoy the rest of your evening, Mr.—”

“Kieran.”

She scowls. “—Hayes. ”

A car pulls up to the curb behind her. I see Toasty sweating in the driver’s seat. Stirling sees him, too.

“Go easy on him, Doc. He looks breakable.”

As the words come out, I grimace. Idiot. I could slap myself. But as I open my mouth to apologize, she shocks the hell out me by laughing. It sounds like fucking bells.

Eyes sparkling, she shrugs. “Win some, lose some.”

My burst of laughter is loud and startles us both. Stirling stares at me, lips parted, then seems to remember where she is and who’s waiting for her.

She starts to turn, then glances back. “Wednesday at seven?”

My nod is swift. “Sounds good.”

She clears her throat. “Okay. See you then.”

“Kieran,” I whisper.

She shakes her head, too amused to be irritated, and walks toward the car. I tuck my hands in my pockets and watch the sway of her hips. Because I’ve clearly lost all sense.

Behind me, Sven rumbles, “Open her door.”

I jerk into motion, overtaking Stirling before she reaches the car. As I pull open the passenger door, my hand falls to her lower back in a move so natural I don’t realize I’ve touched her until she jerks forward. My fingers tingle; I curl them against my palm.

“Thank you,” she says in a stilted voice, slipping into the seat.

Once she’s settled, I lean down to make eye contact with Toasty. “Gentlemen open doors for ladies. ”

He pales.

“Drive safe, yeah?”

He nods, throat convulsing.

“Enough, Kieran,” murmurs Stirling.

My gaze snaps to hers, my giant grin triggering another roll of her eyes. I relinquish my hold on the door and she pulls it closed. They drive away.

I’m giving Sven a raise.