Page 87 of Meet Me After Life

He huffs a breath and pinches the bridge of his nose. ‘If you must know.’ Oh, look. He’s flustered. Is that a blush? I grin. ‘I was playing.’

The way he says it… ‘With yourself?’

He blusters, ‘The piano, you ghoul!’

Oh. That’s not nearly as exciting. Crunch.

‘Will you play for me?’

‘I thought we just established that I wouldn’t.’

‘That’s not what I got out of that conversation,’ I say, licking my fingers. Walker looks like he wants to break something. Instead, he gets up and walks around the room with his hands in his pockets.

Good idea, buddy. Take a lap.

‘You’re a terrible listener,’ he says, flicking through his stack of records.

‘Yes – luckily you’re very good at repeating yourself. Besides—’ Crunch. ‘This is my dream. Can’t I just make you?’

‘Do you have no qualms breaching free will?’

I shrug. ‘A few, but not enough to care.’ He’s put on a record. Not jazz. Not quite. Something strange and lovely. I don’t know what you’d call it. ‘Play to this,’ I say, nodding.

He makes no move towards the instrument.

‘Don’t be afraid to share your talent.’

‘I’ll share mine when you share yours.’

It’s a dare. A bet. I’ll take that action. But I’m not playing by his rules.

I roll my eyes and make a display of myself stretching.

Walker’s standing with arms crossed over his chest. Damn, those arms.

Ahem. He interrupts my ogling. Right.

I clear my throat as if I’m about to recite some of my poetry and then do the opposite.

I magic the bowl away, crack my salty fingers, and trade my crate for the piano seat. Time to spite a ghost.

I can feel the cool of the piano beneath my finger. I’m a bee’s dick from touching ivory when his hand claps around my wrist like a manacle.

‘Get your grubby little mitts off my keys.’ He’s not quite seething, but close to it.

I bite my lip. I give him my profile. Fine. He doesn’t want my hands touching his precious piano, I’ll do him one better. I stand. Slowly. He’s skittish when we’re in close proximity. No sudden movements on my end. I turn and face him front on. He’s leaning again. Or more specifically, leaning over me. One hand on my wrist, the other on the hood of the piano. Domineering like. I’m not scared.

There’s a light in my eyes. I know, because I can see it reflected in his.

‘Don’t be a brat.’

‘Don’t tell me what to do.’

I’m only playing. Walker’s looking at me like this is war. Very serious, while I’m trying very hard not to laugh.

I stick my butt out threateningly; my arse cheeks are t-minus five seconds from landing.

Five. His eyes are racing back and forth between mine, pupils blown wide.