“I don’t understand. Why is this painting so important that it can’t wait a single day?”

He shakes his head and stares at the paintings on the wall. I’m about to say I quit, but there is a helplessness in the way he regards them. Then, his eyes zero in on mine like a focal lens.

“Because I told you, Elisa. In a painting, you can always belong to me.”

Oxygen stops in my airways. Always. If “always” is what he wants, I cannot give it to him. But there is something else about his answer that terrifies me just as much.

“Do you like the image better than the real girl?” The question fires from my lips of its own volition. My stomach clenches violently at the thought—more violently than I imagined. I look at the breakfast tray, the twenty-nine remaining days fueling me to run, last night compelling me to stay. Overnight something changed for me. Something subtle, yet bold. Now, I don’t want to be just a portrait.

A small intake of breath interrupts my mental dirge. My eyes fly up to his. There is no trace of fury there. The tectonic plates shift and still and shift again, as though something is burning at the core. He cups my face, his long fingers reaching into my hair.

“Call Mr. Solis. The painting is off today.” His voice is soft.

I nod, my insides churning. “Are you sending me home?”

He smiles but there is a sadness in the corner of his mouth. “No, Elisa, I am not.”

It’s terrifying that these small words should be so cathartic. “Thank you,” I say, wrapping my arms around his neck and kissing him on the mouth.

For the first time since I tasted him, his kiss is hesitant. He blows cool air on my lips and then sets them aflame again with his slow tongue. I knot my fingers in his hair to pull him closer. Suddenly, his kiss changes. His lips stop moving and press hard against mine as though he is breathing my air. Then he releases me. His eyes are primal. For a brief instant, I have the compulsion to grip him tighter lest he disappear.

He stands and pinches my chin. “Why don’t you finish your breakfast and get dressed? I have some calls to make.”

“Okay,” I say, breathless whether from the softness of his voice or the desolation of the kiss, I don’t know.

He strides out of the bedroom, closing the door behind him. The instant the door clicks, I peel the Baci and shove it in my mouth, ritual be damned. As the familiar taste melts on my tongue, I read the note.

Love hurts the most when it knows the least. By Anonymous.

I shake my head. Sometimes, I think these things are bewitched to read the minds of bloody idiots like me who believe this codswallop as Reagan would call it. I set the note on the nightstand, drink my water and cranberry juice and escape into the restroom for my morning needs.

Then, since I’m here and not really sure what to do next, I snoop. The polished cabinets are organized with military precision. Toothpaste. Dental floss. A comb. An old-fashioned shaving brush and razor. His cologne. I stare at it in disbelief. It’s a simple, clear bottle with A. H. embossed on it. Bloody hell, he has his own cologne! I sniff it, and shiver. Yes, that’s him.

As exploring goes, this was uneventful. I pick up his comb to sort out my hair but when I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I do a double-take. The woman gaping back is new. Eyes brighter—amethyst instead of violet, cheeks flushed, lips darker and swollen. I touch them gently. They throb a little under my fingertips. I smile. I have sex injuries. Brilliant!

I leave the restroom and get dressed, putting on my own knickers. On impulse, I leave my dad’s watch in Aiden’s dresser. Then I dig my flip phone from my purse and ring Javier and Reagan. Neither picks up, Javier probably working and Reagan probably hungover at the Lucia. I leave a message for both, suddenly missing their homey, predictable voices. Then I tiptoe into Aiden’s closet to investigate a beautiful, hand-carved wooden box resting on a tall armoire in the far back. But I’ve barely crossed the threshold when a melody I have known all my life reaches me. “Für Elise.”

I sprint out of the bedroom and down the hall. When I reach the threshold of the living room, I stop, causing the lights to flicker constantly. But I’m too spellbound to move.

Aiden is playing on the piano. Two bluebirds swoop outside the glass wall, probably envious of his music. He smiles when he sees me. The desolation of the kiss has disappeared. He looks at me while his hands fly over the ivory without missing a note.

I start walking to him, slightly resentful of the palatial room that separates us. His eyes never leave me as “Für Elise” picks up its rapid ascent. How extraordinary! I’ve never seen a pianist not look at the ivory once. The song ends as I reach him, but he starts again without pause.

“Hi,” I say.

“Hi.”

“You play beautifully.”

“It must be the muse.”

I smile, watching his skilled fingers, marveling at their versatile talent from pinching nipples to playing piano at concert level.

“How do you do it so well without looking?”

He shrugs. “I just do.”

I stare at the autonomous hands that seem to have sight of their own. He smiles. “Do you play, Elisa?”

“Not like this.”

He leans back, indicating for me to sit on his lap. His right hand joins the keys again as I slide in.

“Play with me,” he whispers in my ear.

I place my fingers on the ivory, close to his, and start playing. He buries his nose in my neck and inhales. I miss the C major. He chuckles and presses his lips to my throat. Another missed C. His lips travel to my earlobe and nibble on it. I give up on playing altogether and focus on breathing.

“They say Elise was a woman that broke Beethoven’s heart,” he says in my ear. “He proposed to her but she chose a nobleman instead.”

I turn to look at him. “Another theory is that she was his student who learned everything from him until her untimely death.” I kiss his cheek, trying to fathom his mood.

“I like the first theory better.” He kisses me, his lips and tongue moving in precise synchrony with the piano. The harmony is so overwhelming that for once, the heat doesn’t rise from my belly but from my eyes, as though tears are welling there. He finishes the song and wraps his arms around me.

“My apologies for earlier,” he says quietly. I freeze. “I promise to control my…thoughts better today.”

“Thoughts? I thought it was reactions. Can anyone really control thought?”

“For your sake, I hope so.” He chuckles. Then before I can interrogate, he continues. “Now, let’s start this over. What would you like to do today?”

I file his thought-control issues for future study. “Let’s go out somewhere.”

He stills and tenses. “Where?”

I’m lost for an instant in his reaction. Is it resistance to going out generally? Or a specific place? I know where I really want to go. I want to go to his Alone Place, but I can’t invite myself there just because I did the same for him.

“There must be a place you like in Portland, Oregon.”

“Oh no, this was your idea.”

“All right, one of my favorite writers is speaking at Powell’s City of Books. We can go watch him and then roam about? They have something there I’d like to show you.”

He smiles but his shoulders don’t relax. “Who is the writer?”

“Nigel Fleming. He’s a scientist, actually. My dad and I relied on his Chemistry of Conscience for the article we wrote together.”

He watches me, his eyes calculating. “Elisa, what if I could arrange for him to give us the talk in private? Would you like that? That way we don’t have to deal with crowds and lines.”

I gasp. Private talk by Nigel Fleming? Bloody hell! There is no chemist I know who wouldn’t raise a beaker to that.

“You can do that?” I say, my voice thick with awe.